was no one in the family to take such a risk
except her twin brother Jock, her father, Robin Campbell, the
Shepherd of Glen Easig, and True Tammas, the dog, for the Twins'
mother had "slippit awa'" when they were only ten years old,
leaving Jean to take a woman's care of her father and brother and
the little gray house on the brae.

On this May morning Jean woke up at five o'clock and peeped out
of the closet bed in which she slept to take a look at the day.
The sun had already risen over the rocky crest of gray old Ben
Vane, the mountain back of the house, and was pouring a stream of
golden sunlight through the eastern windows of the kitchen. The
kettle was singing over the fire in the open fireplace, a pan of
skimmed milk for the calf was warming by the hearth, and her
father was just going out, with the pail on his arm, to milk the
cow. She looked across the room at the bed in the corner by the
fireplace to see if Jock were still asleep. All she could see of
him was a shock of sandy hair, two eyes tight shut, and a
freckled nose half buried in the bed-clothes.

"Wake up, you lazy laddie," she called out to him, "or when I get
my clothes on I'll waken you with a wet cloth! Here's the sun
looking in at the windows to shame you, and Father already gone
to the milking."

Jock opened one sleepy blue eye.

"Leave us alone, now, Jeanie," he wheedled. "I was just having a
sonsie wee bit of a dream. Let me finish, and syne I'll tell you
all about it."

"Indeed, and you'll do nothing of the kind" retorted Jean, with
spirit. "Up with you, mannie, or I'll be dressed before you, and
I ken very well you'd not like to be beaten by a lassie, and her
your own sister, too."

Jock cuddled down farther into the blankets without answering, and
Jean began putting on her clothes. It seemed but a moment before she
slid to the floor, rolled her sleeves high above a pair of sturdy
elbows, and went to finish her toilet at the basin. There she washed
her face and combed her hair, while Jock, cautiously opening one eye
again, observed her from his safe retreat. He watched her part her
hair, wet it, plaster it severely back from her brow, and tie it
firmly in place with a piece of black ribbon. Jock could read Jean's
face like print, and in this stern toilet he foresaw a day of
unrelenting house-cleaning.

"Aye," he said to himself bitterly, "she's putting on her
Saturday face. There's trouble brewing, I doubt! It'll be Jock
this and