_theirs_. Pitying with an eternal pity, but not exposing, not rebuking.
My father would have considered he was "taking a liberty" if he had
confronted the sinner with his sin. Doubtless he carried this too far.
But don't suppose for a moment that the "weak brethren" thought he was
conniving at their weakness. Not they--they saw the delicacy of his
conduct. You don't think, do you, that these poor souls are incapable of
appreciating _delicacy_? God only knows how far down into their depths
of misery and degradation the sweetness of that delicacy descends. It
haunts the drunkard's dreams, and breathes a breath of purity into the
bosom of the abandoned. That is the power of a noble innocence, a
_respect_ for our fellow creatures--glib phrases, but how little
understood and acted on! With my father it was quite natural.... He was
a hot hater, though, I can tell you. He hated hypocrisy, he hated lying,
and he hated presumption and pretentiousness. He loved sincerity, truth,
and modesty. It seemed as if he felt sure that, with these virtues, the
others could not fail to be present. Was he far wrong? Yet how many
people would have thought him stern!

One dear old cousin of his comes to my mind. We called him U.T., that is
Uncle Tom. He was not our uncle--we never had one--but the uncle of our
predecessors at Kirk Braddan. And almost every Sunday evening he spent
at the Vicarage--poor old thing! He was quite silent. One thing, though,
he would say, as "regglar as clockwork." My mother occasionally
apologised for the evening being so exclusively musical (we were great
singers). Whenever she did so, the reply was prompt from U.T.: "I'm
passionately fond of music." This, to us children, was highly ludicrous.
Indeed, my mother was amused--she had no Manx blood in her--but my
father accepted U.T.'s assurance with the utmost confidence. His
chivalrous nature, more deeply tinged than hers with Celtic tenderness,
or the very finest kind of Celtic make-believe (_Anglicè_--humbug; oh