Jamie’s cynicism slipped off in the enthusiasm of this reminiscence, and he expressed the feeling of Drumtochty.  No one sent for MacLure save in great straits, and the sight of him put courage in sinking hearts.  But this was not by the grace of his appearance, or the advantage of a good bedside manner.  A tall, gaunt, loosely made man, without an ounce of superfluous flesh on his body, his face burned a dark brick colour by constant exposure to the weather, red hair and beard turning gray, honest blue eyes that look you ever in the face, huge hands with wrist-bones like the shank of a ham, and a voice that hurled his salutations across two fields, he suggested the moor rather than the drawing-room.  But what a clever hand it was in an operation—­as delicate as a woman’s! and what a kindly voice it was in the humble room where the shepherd’s wife was weeping by her man’s bedside!  He was “ill pitten thegither” to begin with, but many of his physical defects were the penalties of his work, and endeared him to the Glen.  That ugly scar, that cut into his right eyebrow and gave him such a sinister expression, was got one night Jess slipped on the ice and laid him insensible eight miles from home.  His limp marked the big snowstorm in the fifties, when his horse missed the road in Glen Urtach, and they rolled together in a drift.  MacLure escaped with a broken leg and the fracture of three ribs, but he never walked like other men again.  He could not swing himself into the saddle without making two attempts and holding Jess’s mane.  Neither can you “warstle” through the peat-bogs and snow-drifts for forty winters without a touch of rheumatism.  But they were honourable scars, and for such risks of life men get the Victoria Cross in other fields.  MacLure got nothing but the secret affection of the Glen, which knew that none had ever done one tenth as much for it as this ungainly, twisted, battered figure, and I have seen a Drumtochty face soften at the sight of MacLure limping to his horse.

Mr. Hopps earned the ill-will of the Glen for ever by criticising the doctor’s dress, but indeed it would have filled any townsman with amazement.  Black he wore once a year, on sacrament Sunday, and, if possible, at a funeral; top-coat or water-proof never.  His jacket and waistcoat were rough homespun of Glen Urtach wool, which threw off the wet like a duck’s back, and below he was clad in shepherd’s tartan trousers, which disappeared into unpolished riding-boots.  His shirt was gray flannel, and he was uncertain about a collar, but certain as to a tie,—­which he never had, his beard doing instead,—­and his hat was soft felt of four colours and seven different shapes.  His point of distinction in dress was the trousers, and they were the subject of unending speculation.

“Some threep that he’s worn thae eedentical pair the last twenty year, an’ a mind masel’ him getting’ a tear ahint, when he was crossin’ oor palin’, an the mend’s still veesible.