Poor and rude enough, it had yet to-day its cheerful air.

High voices called, flaxen-haired children pottered about, a mill-wheel creaked at the foot of the hill, iron clanged in the smithy a little higher, the drovers' rough laughter burst from the tavern midway, and at the height the kirk was seeing a wedding.

The air had a tang of cooled wine, the sky was blue.
Ian and Alexander, coming over the hill, reached the kirk in time to see emerge the married pair with their kin and friends.

The two stood with a rabble of children and boys beneath the yew-trees by the gate.
The yellow-haired bride in her finery, the yellow-haired groom in his, the dressed and festive following, stepped from the kirkyard to some waiting carts and horses.

The most mounted and took place, the procession put itself into motion with clatter and laughter.