"Dear help me, man!--eat, eat, canna ye!" exclaimed Adair, every now and then, as he marked the listless manner in which the stranger pecked at the food on his plate. "Eat, man, canna ye!" he said, getting absolutely angry at his guest's want of appetite, which he construed into diffidence. "Lord, man, take a richt whang on your plate at once, and dinna be nibblin at it that way, like a mouse at a Du'lap cheese." Saying this, he seized a knife and fork, cut a slice from the cold round, an inch in thickness, and at least six in diameter, and threw it on the stranger's plate with much about the same grace which he exhibited in tossing a truss of hay with a pitchfork. "There, man, tak half-a-dizzen o' cuts like that, and then ye may say ye hae made a bit supper o't." Robert Adair was, in truth, but a rough table attendant, but he was a kind one, and in all he said and did meant well, however uncouthly it might be expressed. Of this the stranger seemed perfectly aware; and, although he could not eat, he appeared fully to appreciate the sincerity of his host's invitations to him to do so. After persevering, therefore, a little longer, as if to please his entertainer, he at length laid down his knife and fork, and declared that he was now satisfied, and could take no more. On his making this decided movement-- "My faith," said his hospitable landlord, "an' ye be na waur to water than to corn, I think I could board ye, an' no be a loser, for a very sma' matter. Rosy, bring butt the bottle." Obedient to the command, Rosy tripped out of the kitchen, and in an instant returned with the desiderated commodity--a dumpy, bluff, opaque bottle, of about a gallon contents--which she placed on the table. Adair seized it by its long neck, and, filling up a brimming bumper, tossed it off to the health of his guest. This done, he filled up another topping glass, and presented it to the stranger, with a strong recommendation on the score of excellence. "Ra-a-l guid stuff, sir," he said, "tak my word for't. Juist a cordial. Noo, dinna trifle wi' your drink as ye did wi' your meat, or I'll no ken what to think o' ye at a'." The stranger, with renewed acknowledgments for the kindness shewn him, took the proffered beverage; but, instead of taking it off as his worthy host had expected, he merely put it to his lips, and replaced it on the table. "Weel, that cowes the gowan!" said Adair. "Ye'll neither hap nor wyn--neither dance nor haud the candle. Try't again, man, try't again. Steek your een hard, gie ae gulp, an' ower wi't." The worthy man, however, pressed in vain. The stranger would not drink; but once more acknowledged the kindness and well-meant hospitality of his entertainer.