It has a flooring of stone now, where there used only to be hard earth, and a broken pane in the window is indifferently stuffed with rags.

But it is the other window I turn to, with a pain at my heart, and pride and fondness too, the square foot of glass where Jess sat in her chair and looked down the brae.
[Illustration: The square foot of glass where Jess sat in her chair and looked down the brae.] Ah, that brae! The history of tragic little Thrums is sunk into it like the stones it swallows in the winter.

We have all found the brae long and steep in the spring of life.

Do you remember how the child you once were sat at the foot of it and wondered if a new world began at the top?
It climbs from a shallow burn, and we used to sit on the brig a long time before venturing to climb.

As boys we ran up the brae.