Marcella stared at her aunt in dead silence.  She did not in the least resent this way of disposing of her.  She was used to it—­she would have disposed of herself in just the same high-handed fashion if it had occurred to her.  But she was stricken silent with inarticulate joy at the prospect of going away—­especially of going across the sea just as far as possible without getting over the edge of the world.

“But do you think he’ll have me?” she said tremulously when she could speak again.

“He’ll need to,” said her aunt calmly.

“Anyway, if he doesn’t someone else will,” said Marcella casually.  To her hitherto the world had meant Lashnagar, Pitleathy and Carlossie.  She had never been as far as Edinburgh.  She had lived in a world of friends—­a world that knew her, barefoot and hungry as she was, for the last of the Lashcairns, a world that had open doors for her everywhere.  And Aunt Janet knew about as much of life outside the wall that held her own smouldering personality as Marcella knew.

It was only years afterwards that Marcella wondered where her aunt got the money to buy her the clothes that came from Edinburgh—­not many of them, but things severely plain and severely expensive.  She knew that the man from Christy’s came again—­she knew that two great oak chests, one from the landing and one from her mother’s room, went away.  Later she missed the old weapons that used to be in the armoury at the old grey house and that had lain in her father’s bedroom where he could see them ever since they came to the farm—­great-swords and dirks and battle-axes—­that had rung out a clear message of defiance on many a battlefield.  But she did not associate their going with her own until she was out in mid-ocean, and then she felt sickened to think what it must have cost Aunt Janet to part from them.

In the midst of her preparations Jean told her one day that she was going away soon.

“Going away?” she cried.  “Then what will Aunt Janet do?  Why, Jean, I never thought you’d leave her,” she added reproachfully.

“Ye’re leavin’ her yersel’,” said Jean grimly.  “But I’m not gaun of ma ain accoont.  The mistress hersel’ was tellun me she’ll not be needin’ me ony mair.”

“Well! but what’s she going to do, then?” said Marcella, arrested in her careful tidying of her father’s old books on the shelves.  “I’m going straight away to ask her.”

But her aunt simply told her that it was no concern of hers, but that she was going to live very quietly now.

“But who’ll look after you?  Who’ll do the work?  What will you live on?”

“I am not accustomed to being cross-questioned,” said Aunt Janet in a definite way that forbade questions.  But Marcella lay awake worrying very late during her last few nights at the farm, picturing her aunt all alone, without Jean, without her, without even the beasts, for a butcher from Carlossie had come and slaughtered the last old tottery cow, Hoodie.