"He's got a sweet'art on the sly, an'-- an'-- an'-- _'is wife's found it out_! Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he! 'Is wife's found it out! That's the trouble! An' she's gone an' writ to the Bishop 'erself! Oh lor'! Never trust a woman wi' cat's eyes! She's writ to the Bishop, an' gone 'ome in a tearin' fit o' the rantin' 'igh-strikes,--an' Mister Arbroath 'e's follerd 'er, an' left us wi' a curate--a 'armless little chap wi' a bad cold in 'is 'ed, an' a powerful red nose--but 'onest an' 'omely like 'is own face.

An' 'e'll take the services till our own vicar comes 'ome, which'll be, please God, this day fort_night_.
But oh lor'!--to think o' that grey-'aired rascal Arbroath with a fav'rite gel on the sly! Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he! We'se be all mortal!" and Twitt shook his head with profound solemnity.

"Ef I was a-goin' to carve a tombstone for that 'oly 'igh Churchman, I'd write on it the old 'ackneyed sayin', 'Man wants but little 'ere below, Nor wants that little long!' Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he!" His round jolly face beamed with merriment, and Angus Reay caught infection from his mirth and laughed heartily.
"Twitt, you're an old rascal!" he exclaimed.

"I really believe you enjoy showing up Mr.Arbroath's little weaknesses!" "Not I--not I, Mister!" protested Twitt, his eyes twinkling.

"I sez, be fair to all men! I sez, if a parson wants to chuck a gel under the chin, let 'im do so by all means, God willin'! But don't let 'im purtend as 'e _couldn't_ chuck 'er under the chin for the hull world! Don't let 'im go round lookin' as if 'e was vinegar gone bad, an' preach at the parish as if we was all mis'able sinners while 'e's the mis'ablest one hisself.
But old Arbroath--damme!" and he gave a sounding slap to his leg in sheer ecstacy.