O' the shearers that I see
No' a body kens me,
Though I kent them a' in Strathairlie;
An' the fisher-wife I pass,
Can she be the braw lass
I kissed at the back o' Strathairlie?
O, the land is fine, fine,
I could buy it a' for mine,
For ma gowd's as the stooks in Strathairlie;
But I fain the lad would be
Wha sailed ower the saut sea
When the dawn rose grey on Strathairlie."

Jean rose from the piano. Jock had got out his books and had begun his
lessons. Mhor and Peter were under the table playing at being cave-men.
Pamela was stitching at her embroidery. Peter Reid sat shading his eyes
from the light with his hand.

Jean knelt down on the rug and held out her hands to the blazing fire.

"It must be sad to be old and rich," she said softly, almost as if she
were speaking to herself. "It is so very certain that we can carry
nothing out of this world.... I read somewhere of a man who, on every
birthday, gave away some of his possessions so that at the end he might
not be cumbered and weighted with them." She looked up and caught the
gaze of Peter Reid fixed on her intently. "It's rather a nice idea,
don't you think, to give away all the superfluous money and lands,
pictures and jewels, everything we have, and stand stripped, as it were,
ready when we get the word to come, to leap into the beyond?"