ately trees
without thinking of the former days, when men fought not for money and
an easy life, but for loyalty and love, and in this place the minister
of Drumtochty received his evil tidings like a brave gentleman who does
not lose heart while honour is left. During his years in the Glen he
had carried himself well, with dignity and charity, in peace and
kindliness, so that now when he is dead and gone--the last of his
family--he still remains to many of us a type of the country clergyman
that is no longer found in Scotland, but is greatly missed. It seemed,
however, to many of us--I have heard both Drumsheugh and Burnbrae say
this, each in his own way--that it needed adversity to bring out the
greatness of the Doctor, just as frost gives the last touch of ripeness
to certain fruits.

"Fower letters the day, Doctor, ane frae Dunleith, ane frae Glasgie,
another frae Edinburgh, and the fourth no clean stampit, so a' can say
naethin' aboot it. Twa circulars an' the _Caledonian_ maks up the hale
hypothic."

Posty buckled and adjusted his bag, and made as though he was going,
but he loitered to give opportunity fur any questions the Doctor might
wish to ask on foreign affairs. For Posty was not merely the carrier
of letters to the Glen, but a scout who was sent down to collect
information regarding the affairs of the outer world. He was an
introduction to and running commentary on the weekly paper. By-and-by,
when the labour of the day was done, and the Glen was full of sweet,
soft light from the sides of Ben Urtach, a farmer would make for his
favourite seat beside the white rose-tree in the garden, and take his
first dip into the _Muirtown Advertiser_. It was a full and satisfying
paper, with its agricultural advertisements, its roups, reported with
an accuracy of detail that condescended on a solitary stirk, its local
intelligence, its facetious anecdotes. Through this familiar country
the good man found his own way at a rate which allowed him to complete
the survey in six days. Foreign telegrams, however, and political
intelligence, as well as the turmoil of the great cities, were strange
to him, and here he greatly valued Posty's laconic hints, who, visiting
the frontier, was supposed to be in communication with those centres.
"Posty says that the Afghans are no makin' muckle o' the war," and
Hillocks would sally forth to enjoy Sir Frederick Roberts' great march,
line by line, afterwards enlarging thereon