“A 'ill no deny that a' tak ma mornin', and maybe a forenoon, wi' a drap down at Pitscoourie after ma dinner, and juist a moothfu' at Luckie Macpherson's comin' thro' Netheraird, and a body needs something afore he gaes tae bed, but that's ma ordinar' leemit. “Noo, Jock is juist in an' oot drammin' frae mornin' tae nicht, baith in Drumtochty an' Muirtown, and that's bad for the constitution, tae sae naethin' o' morals. “Forbye that, doctor, if Jock crosses the line, he gets veecious ower politics or the catechism, an' he 'll fecht like a gude ane; but gin a'm juist a wee overcom'--a've never been intoxicat' like thae puir, regairdless, toon waufies--a' sit doon for half-an'-oor hummilled an' reflect on the dispensations o' Providence.” Posty had, in fact, three moods: the positive, when he was a man of few words; the comparative, when he was cheerful and gave himself to the discussion of doctrine; and the superlative, when he had been tasting freely and retired for meditation. As the years passed, and Posty established himself in all hearts, the philanthropy of the Glen came to a focus on his redemption, to Posty's inward delight, and with results still fondly remembered. Cunningham, the Free Church scholar and shyest of men, gave his mind to Posty in the intervals of editing Sophocles, and after planning the campaign for four months, allured that worthy into his study, and began operations with much tact. “Sit down, Posty, sit down, I'm very glad to see you, and... I wanted to thank you for your attention... every one in the Glen must be satisfied with... with your sense of official duty.” “Thank ye, sir,” said Posty, in his dryest voice, anticipating exactly what Cunningham was after, and fixing that unhappy man with a stony stare that brought the perspiration to his forehead. “There is one thing, however, that I wanted to say to you, and, Posty, you will understand that it is a... little difficult to... in fact to mention,” and Cunningham fumbled with some Greek proofs. “What 's yir wull, sir?” inquired Posty, keeping Cunningham under his relentless eye. “Well, it 's simply,” and then Cunningham detected a new flavour in the atmosphere, and concluded that Posty had been given into his hands, “that... there 's a very strong smell of spirits in the room.” “A' noticed that masel', sir, the meenut a' cam in, but a' didna like to say onything aboot it,” and Posty regarded Cunningham with an expression of sympathetic toleration. “You don't mean to say,” and Cunningham was much agitated, “that you think...”