“Dinna pit yirsel' aboot, sir,” said Posty, in a consoling voice, “or suppose a' wud say a word ootside this room. Na, na, there 's times a 'm the better o' a gless masel', an' it's no possible ye cud trachle through the Greek with-oot a bit tonic; but ye 're safe wi' me,” said Posty, departing at the right moment, and he kept his word. But Cunningham was so scandalised that he let out the conversation, and the Glen was happy for a month over it, for they loved both men, each in his own way. When Jock MacKittrick died suddenly Cunningham expressed his sympathy with Posty, and produced an unexpected impression on that self-contained man. “It was only last evening that I saw you and your brother part in the village; it must be a terrible blow to you.” “Ye saw that?” broke in Posty; “then ye 're the only man in the Glen that kens what a sore heart a'm cairryin' the day. Juist ablow the public hoose, and he gaed up and a' gaed hame; it's a fact. “The fouk are sayin' the day as a' cam alang the Glen, 'Ye 'ill miss Jock, Posty, he slippit aff afore his time.' An' a juist gie them an, 'Ou, aye, it maks a difference,' but they dinna ken ma secret; hooever did ye licht on it? “There's nae use denyin' 't that he said tae me, 'Ye'ill tak yir evenin', Posty,' for Jock aye ca'd me that--he was prood o't bein' in the faimily--an' gin ye ask me what cam ower me that a' sud hae refused him a' canna tell. “'Na, na, Jock,' a' said, 'a 've hed eneuch the day, an' a'm gaein' hame;' he lookit at me, but a' wes dour, an' noo it 's ower late; a'll never taste wi' Jock again.” And Posty's iron manner failed, and for once in his life he was profoundly affected. The last philanthropist who tried his hand on Posty before he died was “the Colonel” as we called him--that fine hearty old warrior who stayed with the Carnegies at the Lodge, and had come to grief over Jamie Soutar at the evangelistic meeting. The Colonel was certain that he could manage Posty, for he was great at what he called “button-holing,” and so he had his second disaster, understanding neither Drumtochty nor Posty. Being full of the simplest guile he joined Posty on the road and spun the most delightful Indian yarns, which were all intended to show what splendid fellows his soldiers were, and how they ruined themselves with drink. Posty gave most patient attention and only, broke silence twice. “Drinkin'--if ye are meanin' intoxication--is waur than a failin', it 's a sin an' no a licht ane. Ye ken whar the drunkards gang tae in the end, but dinna let me interrupt ye.” Later he inquired anxiously where the Colonel's regiment had been recruited, and was much relieved by the answer. “A' wes thinkin' they cudna be oor lads that lat the drink get the upper hand; they sud be able tae tak their drappie cannily an' no mak fuies o' themselves, but a 've heard that a gless or twa o' speerits 'ill turn their heads in the sooth.”