J. J. BELL (continued 3)

“I’ve got it!”

“Good for you,” she said kindly, and refrained from asking him, teasingly, where he thought he was going. “It was lovely at the theatre,” she remarked, stepping forward.

“Dae ye no’ want to hear aboot it?” he asked, disappointed, catching up with her.

“Of course,” she said cheerfully. “Was yer uncle nice?”

“It was ma aunt,” he explained somewhat reluctantly, for he feared she might laugh. But she only nodded understandingly, and, relieved, he plunged into details.

“Ye’ve done fine,” she said when he had finished—for the time being, at anyrate. “I’m afraid it’ll be you that’ll be wantin’ a private secretary when I get that length.”

“Dinna laugh at me,” he murmured reproachfully.

“Dinna be ower serious, Mac,” she returned. “Ye’ll get on a’ the better for bein’ able to tak’ a joke whiles. I’m as pleased as Punch aboot it.”

He was more pleased, if possible. “If it hadna been for you, Christina, I wud never ha’e had the neck to try it,” he said warmly.

“I believe ye!” she said quaintly.

“But it’s the truth—an’ I’ll never forget it.”

“A guid memory’s a gran’ thing! An’ when dae ye start wi’ yer uncle?”

“Monday week.”

“That’s quick work. Ye’ve beat me a’ to sticks. Dinna get swelled heid!”

“Christina, I wish ye wudna——”

“I canna help it. It’s the theatre, I suppose. Oh, I near forgot to tell ye, yer uncle was in when we got hame frae the theatre. I hadna time to speak to him, for I had to run back to the shop. Hadna even time to change ma dress. I think yer uncle whiles gets tired o’ bein’ a rich man an’ livin’ in a swell house. Maybe you’ll feel that way some day.”

He let her run on, now and then glancing wistfully at her pretty, animated face. The happiness, the triumph, he had anticipated were not his. But all the more they were worth working for.

So they came to the place where she lived.

“Come up,” she said easily; “I tell’t auntie I wud maybe bring ye up for supper.”

Doubtless it was the shock of gratification as much as anything that caused him to hang back. She had actually mentioned him to her aunt!

“Will ma uncle be there?” he stammered at last.

“Na, na. Ye’ll see plenty o’ him later on!”

“Maybe yer aunt winna be pleased——”

“Come on, Mac! Ye’re ower shy for this world!” she laughed encouragingly.

They went up together.

Christina had a latch-key, and on opening the door, said:

“Oh, they haven’t come home yet. Out for a walk, I suppose. But they’ll be home in a minute. Come in. There’s a peg for your hat.”

She led the way into a fire-lit room and turned up the gas. Macgregor saw a homely, cosy parlour, something like his grandfather’s at Rothesay, but brighter generally. A round table was trimly laid for supper. In the window a small table supported a typewriter and a pile of printed and manuscript books, the sight of which gave him a sort of sinking feeling.

“Sit down,” she said, indicating an easy-chair. “Auntie and uncle won’t be long.”

He took an ordinary chair, and tried hard to look at his ease.

As she took off her hat at the mirror over the mantelpiece she remarked: “You’ll like uncle at once, and you’ll like auntie before long. She’s still a wee bit prim.”

He noticed that her speech had changed with entering the house, but somehow the “genteel English” did not seem so unnatural now. He supposed he would have to learn to speak it, too, presently.

“But she is the best woman in the world,” Christina continued, patting her hair, “and she’ll be delighted about you going into your uncle’s business. I think it was splendid of you managing your aunt so well.”

Macgregor smiled faintly. “I doobt it was her that managed me,” he said. “But, Christina, I’ll no’ let her be sorry—nor—nor you either.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get on quickly,” she said, gravely, bending to unbutton her long coat.

“I intend to dae that,” he cried, uplifted by her words. “Gi’e me a year or twa, an’ I’ll show ye!”

She slipped out of the coat, and stood for a moment, faintly smiling, in her best frock, a simple thing of pale grey lustre relieved with white, her best black shoes, her best thread stockings, her heavy yellow plait over her left shoulder.

The boy caught his breath.

“Just a minute,” she said, and left the room to put away her coat and hat.

Macgregor half turned in his chair, threw his arms upon the back and pressed his brow to his wrist.

So she found him on her return.

“Sore head, Mac?” she asked gently, recovering from her surprise, and going close to him.

“Let me gang,” he whispered; “I—I’ll never be guid enough.”

The slight sound of a key in the outer door reached the girl’s ears. She gave her eyes an impatient little rub.

She laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Cheer up!” she said, almost roughly, and stooping quickly, she touched her lips to his hair, so lightly, so tenderly, that he was not aware.

Transcriber’s Note

Dialect, inconsistent hyphenation, obsolete words and misspellings were left unchanged.

The following were adjusted:

… unmoved, “an’ [added apostrophe], if …

… “He’s growin’ up, Lizzie.” [added missing close quote]

… it doesna matter.” [deleted close quote] I’ll awa’ hame.”