“John,” he said kindly, “you are a wise man, and I aye thought so.  It takes a Christian to lead passion by the bridle.  A Turk is a placid gentleman, John, but he cannot do it.”

“Ou, ay! doubtless!  There is talk o’ the Turk and the Pope, but it is my neighbors that trouble me the maist, minister.  Good-night to ye all.  If ye vote to-night you can e’en count my vote wi’ Dr. Morrison’s; it will be as sensible and warld-like as any o’ the lave.”

With this parting reflection he went out.  It had begun to snow, and the still, white solitude made him ashamed of his temper.  He looked up at the quiet heavens above him, then at the quiet street before him, and muttered with a spice of satisfaction, “Speaking comes by nature, and silence by understanding.  I am thankfu’ now I let Deacon Strang hae the last word.  I’m saying naught against Strang; he may gie good counsel, but they’ll be fools that tak it.”

“Uncle!”

“Hout, Davie!  Whatna for are you here?”

“It began to snow, and I thought you would be the better of your cloak and umbrella.  You seem vexed, uncle.”

“Vexed?  Ay.  The minister is the maist contrary o’ mortals.  He kens naething about church government, and he treats gude siller as if it wasna worth the counting; but he’s a gude man, and a great man, Davie, and folk canna serve the altar and be money-changers too.  I ought to keep that i’ mind.  It’s Deacon Strang, and no the minister.”

“Well, uncle, you must just thole it; you know what the New Testament says?”

“Ay, ay; I ken it says if a man be struck on one cheek, he must turn the other; but, Davie, let me tell you that the man who gets the first blow generally deserves the second.  It is gude Christian law no to permit the first stroke.  That is my interpretation o’ the matter.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Young folk don’t think o’ everything.”

There was something in the tone of this last remark which seemed to fit best into silence, and David Callendar had a particular reason for not further irritating his uncle.  The two men without any other remark reached the large, handsome house in Blytheswood Square which was their home.  Its warmth and comfort had an immediate effect on the deacon.  He looked pleasantly at the blazing fire and the table on the hearthrug, with its basket of oaten cakes, its pitcher of cream, and its whiskey-bottle and toddy glasses.  The little brass kettle was simmering before the fire, his slippers were invitingly warm, his loose coat lying over the back of his soft, ample chair, and just as he had put them on, and sank down with a sigh of content, a bright old lady entered with a spicy dish of kippered salmon.

“I thought I wad bring ye a bit relish wi’ your toddy, deacon.  Talking is hungry wark.  I think a man might find easier pleasuring than going to a kirk session through a snowstorm.”

“A man might, Jenny.  They’d suit women-folk wonderfu’; there’s plenty o’ talk and little wark.”