The wondrous apple-faced ploughboy in the red-sleeved bed-gown looked thoughtfully at the palms of his horny hands as he reeled off this sentence.  But he had more to say.

“I think Greek and Laitin wull be the best way.  Twunty pounds’ worth—­seven for fees an’ the rest for providin’.  But my mither says she’ll gie me a braxy ham or twa, an’ a crock o’ butter.”

“But what do you know?” asked the minister.  “Have you begun the languages?”

Simeon Gleg wrestled a moment with the M.B. waistcoat, and from the inside of it he extricated two books.

“This,” he said, “is Melvin’s Laitin Exercises, an’ I hae the Rudiments at hame.  I hae been through them twice.  An’ this is the Academy Greek Rudiments.  O man—­I mean, O minister”—­he broke out earnestly, “gin ye wad juist gie the letters a bit rin owre.  I dinna ken hoo to mak’ them soond!”

The minister ran over the Greek letters.

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.

Simeon Gleg stood by, looking up and clasping his hands in ecstasy.

“O Lord,” he said, “help me keep mind o’ it!  It’s just like the kingdom o’ heaven!  Greek an’ Laitin’s the thing!  There’s nae mistak’, Greek and Laitin’s the thing!”

Then on the doorstep he turned, after Betsy had reclad him in his dry clothes and lent him the minister’s third best umbrella.