“Sic kindness as this hes never been kent in the Glen, an' yet we 're nae blude tae you, no mair than onybody in the pairish. Ye 'ill lat me thank ye for ma man an' Geordie an' masel, an' ye 'ill tell me hoo ye ever thocht o' showin' us sic favour.” Marget moved over to Drumsheugh and laid her hand on him in entreaty. He lifted his head and looked her in the face. “Marget!” and then she understood. He saw the red flow all over her face and fade away again, and the tears fill her eyes and run down her cheeks, before she looked at him steadily, and spoke in a low voice that was very sweet. “A' never dreamed o' this, an' a 'm not worthy o' sic luve, whereof I hev hed much fruit an' ye hev only pain.” “Ye're wrang, Marget, for the joy hes gien ower the pain, an' a 've hed the greater gain. Luve roosed me tae wark an' fecht, wha micht hae been a ne'er-dae-weel. Luve savit me frae greed o' siller an' a hard hert. Luve kept me clean in thocht an' deed, for it was ever Marget by nicht an' day. If a'm a man the day, ye did it, though ye micht never hae kent it. It's little a' did for ye, but ye 've dune a'thing for me... Marget.” After a moment he went on: “Twenty year ago a' cudna hae spoken wi' ye safely, nor taken yir man's hand withoot a grudge; but there's nae sin in ma luve this day, and a' wudna be ashamed though yir man heard me say, 'A' luve ye, Marget.'” He took her hand and made as though he would have lifted it to his lips, but as he bent she kissed him on the forehead. “This,” she said, “for yir great and faithfu' luve.” They talked of many things at tea, with joy running over Drumsheugh's heart; and then spoke of Geordie all the way across the moor, on which the moon was shining. They parted at the edge, where Marget could see the lights of home, and Drumsheugh caught the sorrow of her face, for him that had to go back alone to an empty house. “Dinna peety me, Marget; a've hed ma reward, an' a'm mair than content.” On reaching home, he opened the family Bible at a place that was marked, and this was what he read to himself: “They which shall be accounted worthy... neither marry nor are given in marriage... but are as the angels of God in heaven.” PAST REDEMPTION We had called him Posty so long that Jamie Soutar declared our postman had forgotten the sound of his own name, and had once refused a letter addressed to himself. This was merely Jamie's humour, for Posty held his legal designation in jealous remembrance, and used it for the confusion of pride with much effect. When Milton, in whom Pharisaism had reached the point of genius, dealt faithfully with Posty at New Year time on his personal habits, and explained that he could not give him money lest he should waste it in strong drink--offering him instead a small volume of an improving character--Posty fell back on his reserves.