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           Thewifeofafarmer,awomanwhohadlivedforsixtyyears,andbeenknownfornothingbutgoodbutterandagodlyconversation, wastoberootedfromhergraveatmidnightandcarried,deadandnaked,tothatfar-awaycitythatshehadalwayshonouredwithherSunday’sbest; theplacebesideherfamilywastobeemptytillthecrackofdoom;herinnocentandalmostvenerablememberstobeexposedtothatlastcuriosityoftheanatomist. 

           Lateoneafternoonthepairsetforth,wellwrappedincloaksandfurnishedwithaformidablebottle. Itrainedwithoutremission—acold,dense,lashingrain. Nowandagainthereblewapuffofwind,butthesesheetsoffallingwaterkeptitdown. Bottleandall,itwasasadandsilentdriveasfarasPenicuik,wheretheyweretospendtheevening. Theystoppedonce,tohidetheirimplementsinathickbushnotfarfromthechurchyard,andonceagainattheFisher’sTryst,tohaveatoastbeforethekitchenfireandvarytheirnipsofwhiskywithaglassofale. Whentheyreachedtheirjourney’sendthegigwashoused,thehorsewasfedandcomforted,andthetwoyoungdoctorsinaprivateroomsatdowntothebestdinnerandthebestwinethehouseafforded. Thelights,thefire,thebeatingrainuponthewindow,thecold,incongruousworkthatlaybeforethem,addedzesttotheirenjoymentofthemeal. Witheveryglasstheircordialityincreased. SoonMacfarlanehandedalittlepileofgoldtohiscompanion. 

           ‘Acompliment,’hesaid. ‘Betweenfriendstheselittled-daccommodationsoughttoflylikepipe-lights.’