"Ay, ay, but we maun keep up the body sae lang as we're here,
Tammas."

"Weel, puttin' it that way, a'm not sayin' but yir richt," yielding
unwillingly to the force of circumstance.

"We're here the day and there the morn, Tammas. She wes a fine
wumman--Mistress Stirton--a weel-livin' wumman; this 'ill be a
blend, a'm thinkin'."

"She slippit aff sudden in the end; a'm judgin' it's frae the
Muirtown grocer; but a body canna discreeminate on a day like this."

Before the glasses are empty all idea of drinking is dissipated, and
one has a vague impression that he is at church.

It was George Howe's funeral that broke the custom and closed the
"service." When I came into the garden where the neighbours were
gathered, the "wricht" was removing his tray, and not a glass had
been touched. Then I knew that Drumtochty had a sense of the fitness
of things, and was stirred to its depths.

"Ye saw the wricht carry in his tray," said Drumsheugh, as we went
home from the kirkyard. "Weel, yon's the last sicht o't ye 'ill get,
or a'm no Drumsheugh. I've nae objection ma'sel to a nee'bur tastin'
at a funeral, a' the mair if he's come frae the upper end o' the
pairish, and ye ken I dinna hold wi' thae teetotal fouk. A'm ower
auld in the horn to change noo. But there's times and seasons, as
the gude Buik says, and it wud hae been an awfu' like business tae