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.
“Ma name,” he said, eyeing Milton sternly, and giving each syllable its just weight, “is Aircheebald MacKittrick; an' gin ye hae ony complaint against me for neglect o' duty, ye can lodge it wi' the Postmaister-General, speecifyin' parteeclars, sic as late arrival or omittin' tae deliver, an' a'll hae the sateesfaction o' cairryin' yer letter pairt o' the way tae its desteenation.
“A 've ma, public capaucity as an officer of the Crown”—Posty was now master of the situation and grew more awful every moment—“an' there a'm open tae creeticism. In ma private capaucity as a free-born Scot, the Queen hersel' has nae business tae interfere wi' me. Whether a' prefer speerits or limejuice for ma tastin' “—Milton had once deceived Posty with the latter seductive fluid—“whether a' mairry ae wife or three”—Milton's third nuptials were still fresh in the Glen—“is a maitter for a man's ain deceesion.