them all.

VII

THE RIDING OF NINEMILEBURN

Sim bent over the meal ark and plumbed its contents with his fist. Two
feet and more remained: provender--with care--for a month, till he
harvested the waterside corn and ground it at Ashkirk mill. He
straightened his back better pleased; and, as he moved, the fine dust
flew into his throat and set him coughing. He choked back the sound
till his face crimsoned.

But the mischief was done. A woman's voice, thin and weary, came from
the ben-end. The long man tiptoed awkwardly to her side. "Canny,
lass," he crooned. "It's me back frae the hill. There's a mune and a
clear sky, and I'll hae the lave under thack and rape the morn. Syne
I'm for Ninemileburn, and the coo 'ill be i' the byre by Setterday.
Things micht be waur, and we'll warstle through yet. There was mair
tint at Flodden."

The last rays of October daylight that filtered through the straw
lattice showed a woman's head on the pillow. The face was white and
drawn, and the great black eyes--she had been an Oliver out of
Megget--were fixed in the long stare of pain. Her voice had the high
lilt and the deep undertones of the Forest.

"The bairn 'ill be gone ere ye ken, Sim," she said wearily. "He canna
live without milk, and I've nane to gie him. Get the coo back or lose
the son I bore ye. If I were my ordinar' I wad hae't in the byre,
though I had to kindle Ninemileburn ower Wat's heid."

She turned miserably on her pillow and the babe beside her set up a
feeble crying. Sim busied himself with re-lighting the peat fire. He
knew too well that he would never see the milk-cow till he took with
him the price of his debt or gave a bond on harvested crops. He had
had a bad lambing, and the wet summer had soured his shallow lands.
The cess to Branksome was due, and he had had no means to pay it. His
father's cousin of the Ninemileburn was a brawling fellow, who never
lacked beast in byre or corn in bin, and to him he had gone for the
loan. But Wat was a hard man, and demanded surety; so the one cow had
travelled the six moorland miles and would not return till the bond was
cancelled. As well might he try to get water from stone as move Wat by
any tale of a sick wife and dying child.

The peat smoke got into his throat and brought on a fresh fit of
coughing. The wet year had played havoc with his chest and his lean
shoulders shook with the paroxysms. An anxious look at the bed told
him that