he had the chance. The auctioneer drew attention to the line of the back, the shape of the udder and teats, the milk-vein of the animal before him. The calf at her side, he affirmed, was the sweetest thing that had ever come under his hammer. The mother had a record of 640 pounds of butter from 17,610 pounds of milk. He was shocked at the languid bidding.
Truly it was getting late, and many were leaving to catch their trains. Derek felt that it was an auspicious time to bid. After a short struggle between himself and an unseen, husky-voiced competitor, the pair were knocked down to him, and the auctioneer congratulated him on the excellence of his judgment. Mr. Jerrold met him as he was leaving and said he had done something he would never repent. He was delighted that Gretta would be next door where he could watch her progress, for she was one of his favourites.
Windmill remained to get the cow, and as Derek walked briskly home, he felt a new sense of elation and proprietorship in Grimstone.
Mrs. Machin was laying tea-towels on the gooseberry bushes in the kitchen garden, and she turned enquiringly toward him as though to ask how the sale had gone. For some reason he did not wish to tell her of his purchase just then. He passed her and went on to the stream, on whose grassy bank he could see Hugh McKay shearing sheep. Gunn, Newbigging, and Phœbe were looking on, now and then giving a helping hand.
The sheep lay as though dead, her pale tongue lolling, her legs stiff; only her thick, white eyelashes flickered above her yellow eyes as she felt the shears pass over her body.
"Ah, Rosebud," said Hugh, comfortingly, "you're no sae bad as you think you are."
"It's a fine fleece. Ain't it, Mr. Vale?" said Phœbe.
