When they were drinking it, Sam, with a twinkle in his eye, said, "It's strange that we should take our first dram to warm us, and our second to cool us."
"No," replied the Deacon, gravely, "not at all strange; good whisky, sir, is a cure for almost every complaint. It's a sympathetic, comforting friend that fits into all our wants. Yes sir! it fits into all our wants;" and he took a large gulp, and smacked his lips.
The next place of entertainment was at the Cross Roads, three miles farther on. As they came up to it, Sam hurried on and passed the door; but the Deacon, telling him to stop, said, in a voice quavering with emotion, "This house is kept, sir, by a decent woman, Mrs Dowie, who has just lost her husband. It was a sudden call, and my heart bleeds for her. This is not a time to forget the widow and the fatherless. Let us go in, and give her our sympathy." The sympathy was expressed by quaffing two glasses to her very good health.
The only other inn on the way was the well-known house at Inverarden Bridge, near the church and manse.
"Surely," said Sam, as they came up to the inn, "we need not go in here. This house is not kept by a widow."
"This house," said the Deacon, ignoring the gibe, "was used by my honoured father during his journeys for twenty years, and for his son to pass the door would imply disapproval of his conduct. In these radical times, sir, we should not desert the old paths. Besides," he added, rising into a higher tone, "an inn is a public institution, sanctioned by the magistrates, and paying taxes to uphold the Church and State. As loyal subjects of the King, we must support it."
So in they went, and, fortified by what they imbibed, were able to reach Kingswell, an old-fashioned farm-house surrounded by ancient trees.
That evening the Deacon, with his impressive personality, fairly took possession of the house and its inmates. At tea his face, under the influence of buttered toast, scones, savoury ham, and new-laid eggs, literally shone like a lamp, self-feeding and self-adjusting. Then, seated in the farmer's easy chair beside the fire, he directed the conversation to famous preachers, as a subject appropriate for the evening; and when one minister after another was mentioned, he signified his approval of each by saying, "A workman not needing to be ashamed," or, "A polished shaft in the temple." There was, perhaps, a want of variety about these judgments, but they were uttered with such an air of wisdom that they appeared perfectly conclusive. At nine he "took the Books," and conducted family worship in a manner which satisfied everybody. The servant, Kirstie Clash, whispered to Sam, "He's a wonderfu' man that deacon o' yours. He has eneuch o' unction and command o' Scripter to sair a haill Presbytery." And when he retired for the night, after partaking of a liberal tumbler, it was with the air of a man that had left no duty unperformed.
Next day was one of those mild and sunny gleams that sometimes fall on the sterile landscape of winter, like the memory of some youthful pleasure on the face of an old man. The Deacon rose in the morning like a giant refreshed, and with a giant's appetite.
After a breakfast of ham and eggs and cold fowl, he said to his host, Mr Stark, "By the by, you have a new neighbour at Myreside, Mr Potter. I should like to call upon him."