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.

“As regairds the bookie,” and Posty held its cheap covers between his thumb and forefinger, “ye'ill excuse me. Jamie Soutar gied me a lend o' his French Revolution, an' a'm juist warstlin' thro' wi't. A hev 'na muckle time for readin', an' Tammas Carlyle's a stiff body, but his buiks are graund feedin'. Besides”—and now Posty gave the coup de grace—“thae re-leegious bookies hae nae logic for an able-bodied man, an' the laist ane ye gied me was louse in doctrine, juist stinkin' wi' Armeenianism.”

Posty was understood to hold an impregnable position with the head of his department, and it was boasted in the Glen that he had carried the mails from Drumtochty to Pitscourie—thirteen miles—and back, every day, excluding Sabbaths, for eight-and-twenty years. It was also believed that he had only been late twice, when the Scourie burn carried away the bridge, and Posty had to go four miles up stream to find a crossing-place, and the day when he struck his head against a stone, negotiating a drift, and lay insensible for three hours.

At five o'clock to a minute Posty appeared every morning in the village shop, which had accumulated during the night a blended fragrance of tea and sugar, and candles and Mac-dougall's sheep dip, and where Mrs. Robb, our postmistress, received Posty in a negligent undress sanctioned by official business and a spotless widowhood.

“That's frae the shooting lodge tae his Lordship. It 'ill be aboot the white hares;” and Mrs. Robb began to review the letters with unfailing accuracy. “Ye can aye ken Drumsheugh's hand; he's after some siller frae Piggie Walker. Piggie trickit him aince; he 'ill no dae't again. 'Miss Howieson.' Ma word! Jean's no blate tae pit that afore her lassie's name, and her a servant-lass, tho' a 'm no sayin' 'at she disna deserve it, sendin' her mother a post-office order the beginnin' o' ilka month, riglar. 'The Worshipful Chief Bummer of the Sons of Temperance Reform.' Michty, what a title! That's what they ca' that haverin' body frae the sooth Archie Moncur hed up lecturin' laist winter on teetotalism. Ye were terribly affeckit yersel, Posty, a' heard”—to which sally the immovable face gave no sign.

“And here's ane tae auld Maister Yellowlees, o' Kildrummie, askin' him tae the fast a'm jalousin'. Sall, the Free Kirk fouk 'ill no bless their minister for his choice. Div ye mind the diveesions o' his laist sermon here on the sparrows, Posty?”

“'We shall consider at length'”—the voice seemed to proceed from a graven image—“'the natural history of the sparrow; next we shall compare the value of sparrow in ancient and modern times; and lastly, we shall apply the foregoing truth to the spiritual condition of two classes.'”

“That 's it tae a word. It was michty, an' Donald Menzies threipit that he heard the deil lauchin' in the kirk. Weel, that's a', Posty, an' an Advertiser frae Burnbrae tae his son in the Black Watch. He 'ill be hame sune juist covered wi' medals. A' doot there 's been mair snow thro' the nicht. It 'ill be heavy traivellin'.”

The light of the oil-lamp fell on Posty as he buckled his bag, and threw his figure into relief against a background of boxes and barrels.

A tall man even for Drumtochty, standing six feet three in his boots, who, being only a walking skeleton, ought to have weighed some twelve stone, but with the bone and breadth of him turned the scale at fifteen. His hair was a fiery red, and his bare, hard-featured face two shades darker. No one had ever caught a trace of the inner man on Posty's face, save once and for an instant—when he jumped into Kelpie's hole to save a wee lassie. Elspeth Macfadyen said afterwards “his eyes were graund.” He wore the regulation cap on the back of his head, and as no post-office jacket was big enough to meet on Posty's chest, he looped it with string over a knitted waistcoat. One winter he amazed the Glen by appearing in a waterproof cape, which a humanitarian official had provided for country postmen, but returned after a week to his former estate, declaring that such luxuries were unhealthy and certain to undermine the constitution. His watch was the size of a small turnip, and gave the authorised time to the district, although Posty was always denouncing it for a tendency to lose a minute in the course of summer, an irregularity he used to trace back to a thunderstorm in his grandfather's time. His equipment was completed by an oaken stick, which the smith shod afresh every third year, and which Posty would suddenly swing over his head as he went along. It was supposed that at these times he had settled a point of doctrine.

Mrs. Robb started him with a score of letters, and the rest he gathered as he went. The upper Glen had a box with a lock, at the cross roads, and the theory was that each farm had one key and Posty his own. Every key except Posty's had been lost long ago, and the box stood open to the light, but Posty always made a vain attempt to sneck the door, and solemnly dropped the letters through the slit. Some farms had hidie holes in the dyke, which Posty could find in the darkest morning; and Hillocks, through sheer force of custom, deposited his correspondence, as his father had done before him, at the root of an ancient beech. Persons handing Posty letters considered it polite to hint at their contents, and any information about our exiles was considered Posty 's due. He was hardly ever known to make any remark, and a stranger would have said that he did not hear, but it was noticed that he carried the letters to Whinnie Knowe himself during George's illness, and there is no doubt that he was quite excited the day he brought the tidings of Professor Ross's recovery.

He only became really fluent after he had been tasting, for which facilities were provided at five points on his route, and then he gave himself to theology, in which, from a technical point of view, he could hold his own with any man in the Glen except Lachlan Campbell and Jamie Soutar, As he could not always find another theologian when he was in this mood he used to walk the faster as a relief to his feelings, and then rest quietly by the roadside for half an hour, wrapt in meditation. You might have set your watch by his rising when he went on his way like a man whose mind was now at ease.

His face was so unconscious and unsuspicious during these brief retreats that it arrested a well-doing tramp one day and exposed him to misconstruction. It seemed to him, as he explained afterwards to our policeman, that Posty might have fainted, and he felt it his duty to take charge of the mail-bag, which its guardian utilised to fill up the hollow of his back. Very gently did the tramp loosen the strap and extricate the bag. He was rising from his knees when a big red hand gripped his arm, and Posty regarded the tree above his head with profound interest.

“A 'm obleeged tae ye,” a voice began, “for yir thochtfu' attention, an' the care ye took no tae disturb me. Ye 'ill be a resident in the Glen, a 'm coontin', an' wantin' yir letters,” and Posty rose with great deliberation and refastened the strap.

“A' canna mind yir face for the moment, but maybe ye 've veesitin' yir freends. Dinna gang awa till a' find yir letter; it micht hae money in 't, an' it 's plain ye 've needin't.

“Surely ye didna mean tae assault a puir helpless cratur,” continued Posty, picking up his stick and laying hold of the tramp by his rags, “an' rob him o' Her Majesty's mails? Div ye ken that wud be highway robbery wi' aggravations, and, man, ye micht be hanged and quartered.

“Ye wud never misconduct yirsel like that, but some o' yir freends micht, an' a' wud like tae send them a bit message.... Lord's sake, dinna yowl like that, or the neeburs 'ill think a'm hurtin' ye.”

Two hours later the tramp was found behind a hedge anointing his sores with butter, and using language which Posty, as a religious man, would have heard with profound regret.

When this incident came to Doctor Davidson's ears, he took a strong view, and spoke with such frankness and with such a wealth of family illustration, that Posty was much edified and grew eloquent.

“Say awa, doctor, for it's a' true, an' ye 're daein' yir duty as a minister faithfu' an' weel. A'm greatly obleeged tae ye, an' a 'll no forget yir warnin'. Na, na, it 'ill sink.

“Ye'ill no be angry, though, or think me liteegious gin a' pint oot a difference atween me an' ma brither that ye was neeburin' wi' me in the maitter o' tastin'.

“A 'ill no deny that a' tak ma mornin', and maybe a forenoon, wi' a drap down at Pitscoourie after ma dinner, and juist a moothfu' at Luckie Macpherson's comin' thro' Netheraird, and a body needs something afore he gaes tae bed, but that's ma ordinar' leemit.

“Noo, Jock is juist in an' oot drammin' frae mornin' tae nicht, baith in Drumtochty an' Muirtown, and that's bad for the constitution, tae sae naethin' o' morals.

“Forbye that, doctor, if Jock crosses the line, he gets veecious ower politics or the catechism, an' he 'll fecht like a gude ane; but gin a'm juist a wee overcom'—a've never been intoxicat' like thae puir, regairdless, toon waufies—a' sit doon for half-an'-oor hummilled an' reflect on the dispensations o' Providence.”

Posty had, in fact, three moods: the positive, when he was a man of few words; the comparative, when he was cheerful and gave himself to the discussion of doctrine; and the superlative, when he had been tasting freely and retired for meditation.

As the years passed, and Posty established himself in all hearts, the philanthropy of the Glen came to a focus on his redemption, to Posty's inward delight, and with results still fondly remembered.

Cunningham, the Free Church scholar and shyest of men, gave his mind to Posty in the intervals of editing Sophocles, and after planning the campaign for four months, allured that worthy into his study, and began operations with much tact.

“Sit down, Posty, sit down, I'm very glad to see you, and... I wanted to thank you for your attention... every one in the Glen must be satisfied with... with your sense of official duty.”

“Thank ye, sir,” said Posty, in his dryest voice, anticipating exactly what Cunningham was after, and fixing that unhappy man with a stony stare that brought the perspiration to his forehead.

“There is one thing, however, that I wanted to say to you, and, Posty, you will understand that it is a... little difficult to... in fact to mention,” and Cunningham fumbled with some Greek proofs.

“What 's yir wull, sir?” inquired Posty, keeping Cunningham under his relentless eye.

“Well, it 's simply,” and then Cunningham detected a new flavour in the atmosphere, and concluded that Posty had been given into his hands, “that... there 's a very strong smell of spirits in the room.”

“A' noticed that masel', sir, the meenut a' cam in, but a' didna like to say onything aboot it,” and Posty regarded Cunningham with an expression of sympathetic toleration.

“You don't mean to say,” and Cunningham was much agitated, “that you think...”

“Dinna pit yirsel' aboot, sir,” said Posty, in a consoling voice, “or suppose a' wud say a word ootside this room. Na, na, there 's times a 'm the better o' a gless masel', an' it's no possible ye cud trachle through the Greek with-oot a bit tonic; but ye 're safe wi' me,” said Posty, departing at the right moment, and he kept his word. But Cunningham was so scandalised that he let out the conversation, and the Glen was happy for a month over it, for they loved both men, each in his own way.

When Jock MacKittrick died suddenly Cunningham expressed his sympathy with Posty, and produced an unexpected impression on that self-contained man.

“It was only last evening that I saw you and your brother part in the village; it must be a terrible blow to you.”

“Ye saw that?” broke in Posty; “then ye 're the only man in the Glen that kens what a sore heart a'm cairryin' the day. Juist ablow the public hoose, and he gaed up and a' gaed hame; it's a fact.

“The fouk are sayin' the day as a' cam alang the Glen, 'Ye 'ill miss Jock, Posty, he slippit aff afore his time.' An' a juist gie them an, 'Ou, aye, it maks a difference,' but they dinna ken ma secret; hooever did ye licht on it?

“There's nae use denyin' 't that he said tae me, 'Ye'ill tak yir evenin', Posty,' for Jock aye ca'd me that—he was prood o't bein' in the faimily—an' gin ye ask me what cam ower me that a' sud hae refused him a' canna tell.

“'Na, na, Jock,' a' said, 'a 've hed eneuch the day, an' a'm gaein' hame;' he lookit at me, but a' wes dour, an' noo it 's ower late; a'll never taste wi' Jock again.” And Posty's iron manner failed, and for once in his life he was profoundly affected.

The last philanthropist who tried his hand on Posty before he died was “the Colonel” as we called him—that fine hearty old warrior who stayed with the Carnegies at the Lodge, and had come to grief over Jamie Soutar at the evangelistic meeting. The Colonel was certain that he could manage Posty, for he was great at what he called “button-holing,” and so he had his second disaster, understanding neither Drumtochty nor Posty. Being full of the simplest guile he joined Posty on the road and spun the most delightful Indian yarns, which were all intended to show what splendid fellows his soldiers were, and how they ruined themselves with drink. Posty gave most patient attention and only, broke silence twice.

“Drinkin'—if ye are meanin' intoxication—is waur than a failin', it 's a sin an' no a licht ane. Ye ken whar the drunkards gang tae in the end, but dinna let me interrupt ye.”

Later he inquired anxiously where the Colonel's regiment had been recruited, and was much relieved by the answer.

“A' wes thinkin' they cudna be oor lads that lat the drink get the upper hand; they sud be able tae tak their drappie cannily an' no mak fuies o' themselves, but a 've heard that a gless or twa o' speerits 'ill turn their heads in the sooth.”

When the Colonel, considerably damped by these preliminaries, came to close grips, Posty took a stand.

“'Pledge' did ye say, Colonel; na, na, a' dauma hae onything tae dae wi' sic devices, they 're naething else than vows, an' vows are aboleeshed in this dispensation. The Catholics keep them up a'm informed, but a'm a Protestant, an' ma conscience wudna alloo me tae sign.

“But a'm terribly pleased wi' yir stories, sir, an' they gar the time pass fine, an' ye maunna be offended. Gin ye cud meet me the morn at the boonds o' the pairish, a'm willin' tae argie the maitter o' vows up the Glen juist tae shairp-en oor minds.

“As for the bit ribbon,” and Posty held it as if it carried infection, “gin ye hed belanged tae Drumtochty ye wud hae kent nae man cud wear sic a thing. Oor fouk hae an' awfu' sense o' humour; it 's sae deep they canna lauch, but they wud juist look at the man wi' a ribbon on, an' as sure's deith they wudna be weel for the rest o' the day.

“Besides, Colonel, a 'm suspeckin' that there's juist ae preceedent for the ribbon in the Bible, that wes the Pharisees, when they made broad their phylacteries, and a' ne 'er likit thae gentry.”

“Sall gin ilka man began tae pit his virtues on his coat, an' did it honest, it wud be a show at kirk and market. Milton wud hae naethin' but yir ribbon, an' Burnbrae, wha's the best man in the Glen, wudna hae room on his Sabbath coat for his decorations,” and Posty chuckled inwardly to the horror of the Colonel.

Three days afterwards the great tragedy happened, and no one needed again to trouble himself about Posty. It was summer time, with thunder in the air, and heavy black clouds above Glen Urtach. June was the month in which Mrs. Macfadyen scoured her blankets, and as her burn was nearly dry, she transferred her apparatus to the bank of the Tochty, where a pool below the mill gave her a sure supply of water. Elspeth lit a fire beneath the birches on the bank, and boiled the water. She plunged the blankets into a huge tub, and kilting up her coats danced therein powerfully, with many a direction to Elsie, her seven-year-old, to “see ye dinna fa' in, or ye 'll be carried intae the Kelpie's Hole ablow, an' it 'll no be yir mither can bring you oot.”

The sun was still shining brightly on the Glen, when the distant storm burst on Ben Hornish, whose steep sides drain into the Urtach, that ends in the Tochty. Down the Tochty came the first wave, three feet high, bringing on its foaming yeasty waters branches of trees, two young lambs, a stool from some cottage door, a shepherd's plaid, and all kinds of drift from eddies that had been swept clean. Elspeth heard the roar, and lifted her eyes to see Elsie, who had been playing too near the edge, swept away into the pool beneath, that in less than a minute was a seething cauldron of water that whirled round and round against the rocks before it rushed down the bed of the river.

“Ma bairn! ma bairn! God hae mercy upon her!” and Elspeth's cry ran through the bonnie birk wood and rose through the smiling sky to a God that seemed to give no heed.

“Whar is she?” was all Posty asked, tearing off his coat and waistcoat, for he had heard the cry as he was going to the mill, and took the lade at a leap to lose no time.

“Yonder, Posty, but ye...”

He was already in the depths, while the mother hung over the edge of the merciless flood. It seemed an hour—it was not actually a minute—before he appeared, with the blood pouring from a gash on his forehead, and hung for a few seconds on a rock for air.

“Come oot, Posty, ye hae a wife and bairns, an' ye 'll be drooned for Elspeth was a brave-hearted, unselfish woman.

“A'll hae Elsie first,” and down he went again, where the torrent raged against the rocks.

This time he came up at once, with Elsie, a poor little bundle, in his arms.

“Tak' her quick,” he gasped, clinging with one hand to a jagged point.

And Elspeth had no sooner gripped Elsie by her frock than Posty flung up his arms, and was whirled down the river, now running like a mill-race, and Elspeth fancied she saw him turning over and over, for he seemed to be insensible.

Within an hour they found his body down below the Lodge with many wounds on it, besides that gash, and they knew at once that he had been dashed to death against the stones.

They carried him to the Lodge—the Colonel insisted on being a bearer—and for two hours by the clock they did their best for Posty.

“It 's no a drop o' water 'ill droon Posty,” said Jamie Soutar, “and that his ain Tochty, an' as for a clout (blow) on the head, what's that tae a man like Posty! he 'll be on the road the mornin'.” But Jamie spoke with the fierce assurance of a man that fears the worst and is afraid of breaking down.

“The water hes been ower muckle for him aifter a',” our cynic said to Archie Moncur, who had long striven to make a teetotaller of Posty, as they went home together, “tho' he didna give in tae the end.”

“A' doot a' wes a wee hard on him, Jamie”—Archie had the tenderest heart in the Glen and was much loved—“but there wes nae man a' like't better.”

“Yer tongue wes naithin' tae mine, Airchie, when a' yoke't on him, but he bore nae ill will, did Posty, he had an awfu' respeck for ye an' aye spoke o' ye as his freend.”

“Sae a' wes—wha wudna be—he hed a true heart hed Posty, and nae jukery-packery (trickery) aboot him.”

“An' a graund heid tae,” went on Jamie; “there wes naebody in the Glen cud meet him in theology, except maybe Lachlan, and did ye ever hear him say an ill word aboot ony body?”

“Never, Jamie, an' there wes naebody he wesna interested in; the black-edged letters aye burned his fingers—he hated tae deliver them. He wes abody's freend wes Posty,” went on Archie, “an' naebody's enemy.”

“He deed like a man,” concluded Jamie; “there 's juist anither consolation—the lassie 's comin' roond fine.”

When the new Free Kirk minister was settled in Drumtochty, Jamie told him the story on the road one day and put him to the test.

“What think ye, sir, becam' o' Posty on the ither side?” and Jamie fixed his eyes on Carmichael.

The minister's face grew still whiter.

“Did ye ever read what shall be done to any man that hurts one of God's bairns?”

“Fine,” answered Jamie, with relish, “a millstane aboot his neck, an' intae the depths o' the sea.”

“Then, it seems to me that it must be well with Posty, who went into the depths and brought a bairn up at the cost of his life,” and Carmichael added softly, “whose angel doth continually behold the face of the Father.”

“Yir hand, sir,” said Jamie, and when the great heresy trial began at Muirtown, Jamie prophesied Carmichael's triumphant acquittal, declaring him a theologian of the first order.