The eyes of Simeon Gleg were upturned in heartfelt thankfulness. His long arms danced convulsively upon his knees. He shot out his red-knotted fingers till they cracked with delight.
"Man, man, an' that's the soond o' them! It's awsome queer! But, O, it's bonny, bonny! There's nocht like the Greek and the Laitin!"
Now, there were many more brilliant ministers in Scotland than the minister of Blawrinnie, but none kindlier; and in a few minutes he had offered to give Simeon Gleg two nights a week in the dead languages. Simeon quivered with the mighty words of thankfulness that rose to his Adam's apple, but which would not come further. He took the minister's hand.
"Oh, sir," he said, "I canna thank ye! I haena words fittin'! Gin I had the Greek and Laitin, I wad ken what to say till ye—"
"Never mind, Simeon; do not say a word. I understand all about it," replied the minister warmly.
Simeon still lingered undecided. He was now standing in the M.B. waistcoat and the pink bed-gown. The sleeves were more obtrusive than ever. The minister was reminded of his official duties. He said tentatively—
"Ah—would you—perhaps you would like me to give you a word of advice, or—ah—perhaps to engage in prayer?"
These were things usually expected in Blawrinnie.
"Na, na!" cried Simeon eagerly. "No' that! But, O minister, ye micht gie thae letters anither skelp owre—aboot Alfy, Betaw, Gaumaw!"
The minister took the Greek Rudiments again without a smile, and read the alphabet slowly and with unction, as if it were his first chapter on the Sabbath morning—and a full kirk.