J. J. BELL

AUTHOR OF “WEE MACGREGOR,” “JIM,” “OH! CHRISTINA,” ETC.

HODDER & STOUGHTON

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

Copyright, 1913 By George H. Doran Company

TO

J. E. HODDER WILLIAMS

WHO SUGGESTED IT

COURTIN’ CHRISTINA

CHAPTER ONE

Mrs. Robinson conveyed sundry dishes from the oven, also the teapot from the hob, to the table.

“Come awa’,” she said briskly, seating herself. “We’ll no’ wait for Macgreegor.”

“Gi’e him five minutes, Lizzie,” said Mr. Robinson.

“I’m in nae hurry,” remarked Gran’paw Purdie, who had come up from the coast that afternoon.

“I’m awfu’ hungry, Maw,” piped a young voice.

“Whisht, Jimsie,” whispered daughter Jeannie.

Said Mrs. Robinson, a little impatiently: “Come awa’, come awa’, afore everything gets spiled. Macgreegor has nae business to be that late.” She glanced at the clock. “He’s been the same a’ week. Haste ye, John.”

John opened his mouth, but catching his wife’s eye, closed it again without speech.

Excepting Jimsie, they came to the table rather reluctantly.

“Ask a blessin’, fayther,” murmured Lizzie.

“Shut yer eyes,” muttered Jeannie to her little brother, while she restrained his eager paw from reaching a cookie.

Mr. Purdie’s white head shook slightly as he said grace; he had passed his five and seventieth birthday, albeit his spirit was cheerful as of yore; in his case old age seemed to content itself with an occasional mild reminder.

John distributed portions of stewed finnan haddie, Lizzie poured out the tea, while Jeannie methodically prepared a small feast for the impatient Jimsie. Gran’paw Purdie beamed on the four, but referred surreptitiously at brief intervals to his fat silver watch.

* * * * *

It is eight years since last we saw the Robinson family. Naturally we find the greatest changes in the younger members. Jimsie from an infant has become a schoolboy; he is taller, more scholarly, less disposed to mischief, more subdued of nature than was Macgregor at the same age; yet he is the frank, animated young query that his brother was, though, to be sure, he has a sister as well as parents to puzzle with his questions. At thirteen Jeannie is a comely, fair-haired little maid, serious for her years, devoted to Jimsie, very proud of Macgregor, and a blessing to her parents who, strangely enough, rarely praise her; her chief end seems to be to serve those she loves without making any fuss about it.

As for John, he has grown stouter, and to his wife’s dismay a bald spot has appeared on his crown; his laughter comes as readily as ever, and he is just as prone to spoil his children. But by this time Lizzie has become assured that her man’s light-hearted, careless ways do not extend to his work, that his employers have confidence in their foreman, and that while he is not likely to rise higher in his trade, he is still less likely to slip back. She is proud of the three-roomed modern flat in which she and hers dwell, and her sense for orderliness and cleanliness has not lost its keenness. In person she is but little altered: perhaps her features have grown a shade softer.

* * * * *

“Ye see, Maister Purdie,” John was explaining, “Macgreegor’s busy the noo at a job in the west-end, an’ that’s the reason he’s late for his tea.”

“’Deed, ay. It’s a lang road for him to come hame,” said the old man. “An’ is he still likin’ the pentin’ trade?”

“Ay, ay. An’ he’s gettin’ on splendid—jist splendid!”

“It’s time enough to be sayin’ that,” Lizzie interposed. “He’s no’ ony furder on nor a lad o’ his age ought to be. I’m no’ sayin’ he’s daein’ badly, fayther; but there’s nae sense in boastin’ aboot what’s jist or’nar’?—Na, Jimsie! it’s no’ time for jeelly yet. Tak’ what Jeannie gi’es ye, laddie.—Ay, the least said——”

“But his employer’s pleased wi’ him; he tell’t me as much, wife,” said John. “An’ if ye compare Macgreegor wi’ that young scamp, Wullie Thomson——”

“Oh, if ye compare a man wi’ a monkey, I daresay it’s no’ sae bad for the man. But, really, John——”

“Maw, where was the man wi’ the monkey?” enquired Jimsie through bread and butter.

“I’ll tell ye after,” whispered Jeannie, and forthwith set her mind to improvise a story involving a human being and his ancestor.

“It’s easy seen,” said Gran’paw, once more consulting his watch, “that Macgreegor’s workin’ for his wages. Surely he’ll be gettin’ overtime the nicht. I hope his employer’s a kind man.”

“I’ve nae doot aboot that,” Lizzie returned. “He gi’es Macgreegor money for the car when he’s workin’ in the west-end.”

“That’s a proper maister!” cried Mr. Purdie, while John smiled as much as to say, “Ay! he kens Macgreegor’s value!”

“An’ I’m thinkin’,” Lizzie continued, “that Macgreegor walks hame an’ keeps the pennies to buy ceegarettes.”

“What?” exclaimed the old man; “has the laddie commenced the smokin’ a’ready?”

“Oh, naething to speak aboot,” said John, a trifle apologetically. “They commence earlier than they did in your day, I suppose, Maister Purdie. No’ that I wud smoke a ceegarette if I was paid for ’t.”

“He’s far ower young for the smokin’,” observed Lizzie.

“I can smoke,” declared Jimsie indiscreetly. Jeannie pressed his arm.

John guffawed, Gran’paw looked amused until Lizzie demanded: “What’s that ye’re sayin’, Jimsie?”

“But I’m no’ a reg’lar smoker,” mumbled Jimsie, crestfallen.

“Ay,” said John, with a jocular wink at his father-in-law, “ye’re feart ye singe yer whiskers, ma mannie.”

“John,” said Lizzie, “it’s naething to joke aboot.... Jimsie, if ever I catch ye at the smokin’, I’ll stop yer Seturday penny, an’ gi’e ye castor ile instead. D’ye hear?”

“Hoots!” cried Gran’paw, “that’s a terrible severe-like punishment, Lizzie!”

“I wud rayther tak’ ile twicet an’ get ma penny,” quoth Jimsie.

“Hear, hear!” from John.

Lizzie was about to speak when the bell rang.

Jeannie slipped from her chair. “I’ll gang, Maw,” she said, and went out.

“It’s Macgreegor,” remarked John. “Ha’e ye kep’ his haddie hot for him, Lizzie?”

“What for wud I dae that?” retorted Mrs. Robinson in a tone of irony, going over to the oven and extracting a covered dish.

“Haw!” laughed John. “I kent ye had something there!”

“What for did ye ask then?”

She came back to the table as her son entered, a very perceptible odour of his trade about him—an odour which she still secretly disliked though nearly three years had gone since her first whiff of it. “What kep’ ye?” she enquired, pleasantly enough.

It is possible that Macgregor’s dutiful greeting to his grandfather prevented his answering the question. He appeared honestly glad to see the old man; yet compared with his own the latter’s greeting was boisterous. He returned his father’s smile, glanced at his mother who was engaged in filling his cup, winked at his young brother, and took his place at the table, between the two men.

“Ye’ll be wearied,” remarked John.

“No’ extra,” he replied, stretching his tired legs under cover of the table.

“Did ye walk?” his mother asked, passing him his tea.

“Ay.”

“It’ll be three mile,” said John.

Jeannie came from the fire and put a fresh slice of toast on his plate. He nodded his thanks, and she went to her place satisfied and assisted Jimsie who had got into difficulties with a jam sandwich that oozed all round.

“What way did ye no’ tak’ the car, laddie?” enquired Lizzie.

“I’d as sune walk,” he replied, shortly.

“It’s fine to save the siller—eh, Macgreegor?” said Mr. Purdie.

Macgregor reddened.

“It’s something new for Macgreegor to dae that,” Lizzie quietly observed.

“Tits, wumman!” muttered John.

“Wi’ their cheap cars,” put in Mr. Purdie, “Glesga folk are like to loss the use o’ their legs. It’s terrible to see the number o’ young folk that winna walk if they’ve a bawbee in their pooch. I’m gled to see Macgreegor’s no’ yin o’ them.” He patted Macgregor’s shoulder as he might have done ten years ago, and the youth moved impatiently.

“I’m no’ complainin’ o’ Macgreegor walkin’ when he micht tak’ the car,” said Lizzie, “but I wud like to see him puttin’ his savin’s to some guid purpose.”

At these words Macgregor went a dull red, and set down his cup with a clatter.

“Ha’e ye burnt yer mooth?” asked John, with quick sympathy.

“Naw,” was the ungracious reply. “It’s naebody’s business whether I tak’ the car or tramp it. See’s the butter, Jeannie.”

There was a short silence. An outbreak of temper on Macgregor’s part was not of frequent occurrence. Then John turned the conversation to a big fire that had taken place in Glasgow the previous night, and the son finished his meal in silence.

At the earliest possible moment Macgregor left the kitchen. For some reason or other the desire to get away from his elders was paramount. A few minutes later he was in the little room which belonged to him and Jimsie. On the inside of the door was a bolt, screwed there by himself some months ago. He shot it now. With a towel that hung on the door he rubbed his wet face savagely. He had washed his hands in turpentine ere leaving the scene of his work.

He donned a clean collar. As he was fixing his Sunday tie a summons came to the door. He went and opened it, looking cross.

“Weel, what are ye wantin’, Jimsie?”

“Did ye bring ma putty, Macgreegor?”

“Och, I clean forgot.”

Jimsie’s face fell. “Ye promised,” he complained.

Macgregor patted the youngster’s head. “I’ll bring it the morn’s nicht, as sure as death,” he said. “I’m sorry, Jimsie,” he added apologetically.

“See an’ no’ forget again,” said Jimsie, and retired.

Macgregor closed the door and attended to his tie. Then he looked closely at his face in the mirror hanging near the window. He was not a particularly good-looking lad, yet his countenance suggested nothing coarse or mean. His features as features, however, did not concern him now. From his vest pocket he brought a knife, with a blade thinned by stone and polished by leather. He tried its keen edge on his thumb, shook his head, and applied the steel to his boot. Presently he began to scrape his upper lip. It pained him, and he desisted. Not for the first time he wished he had a real razor.

Having put the knife away, he looked at his watch—his grandfather’s prize for “good conduct” of eight years ago—and proceeded hastily to brush his hair. His hair, as his mother had often remarked during his childhood, was “awfu’ ill to lie.” For a moment or two he regarded his garments. He would have changed them had he had time—or was it courage?

Finally he took from his pockets a key and two pennies. He opened a drawer in the old chest, and placed the pennies in a disused tobacco tin, which already contained a few coins. He knew very well the total sum therein, but he reckoned it up once more. One shilling and sevenpence.

Every Saturday he handed his wages to his mother, who returned him sixpence. His present hoard was the result of two weeks’ abstinence from cigarettes and walking instead of taking the car. He knew the job in the west-end would take at least another week, which meant another sixpence, and the coming Saturday would bring a second sixpence. Total in the near future:—two shillings and sevenpence. He smiled uncertainly, and locked up the treasure.

A minute later he slipped quietly into the passage and took his cap from its peg.

The kitchen door opened. “Whaur are ye gaun, Macgreegor?” his mother asked.

“Oot,” he replied briefly, and went. Going down the stairs he felt sorry somehow. Sons often feel sorry somehow, but mothers may never know it.

When Lizzie, hiding her hurt, had shut the kitchen door, Mr. Purdie said softly: “That question an’ that answer, ma dear, are as auld as human natur’.”

* * * * *

As Macgregor turned out of the tenement close he encountered his one-time chum, Willie Thomson. Macgregor might not have admitted it to his parents, but during the last few weeks he had been finding Willie’s company less and less desirable.

Willie now put precisely the same question that Mrs. Robinson had put a minute earlier.

“I’ll maybe see ye later,” was Macgregor’s evasive response, delivered awkwardly. He passed on.

“Ha’e ye a ceegarette on ye?” cried Willie, taking a step after him.

“Na.”

“Ye’re in a queer hurry.”

“I’ll maybe see ye later,” said Macgregor again, increasing his speed in a curious guilty fashion.

Willie made no attempt to overtake him. He, too, had been finding a certain staleness in the old friendship—especially since Macgregor had stopped his purchases of cigarettes. Willie was as often out of employment as in it, but he did not realise that he was in danger of becoming a mere loafer and sponge. Yet he was fond of Macgregor.

Macgregor passed from the quiet street wherein he lived into one of Glasgow’s highways, aglow with electric light, alive with noise out of all proportion to its traffic. He continued to walk swiftly, his alert eyes betraying his eagerness, for the distance of a couple of blocks. Then into another quiet street he turned, and therein his pace became slower and slower, until it failed altogether. Beneath a gas lamp he questioned his watch, his expression betokening considerable anxiety.

It was a fine October night, but chilly—not that he gave any sign of feeling cold. For a space he remained motionless, gazing up the street. Possibly he would have liked a cigarette just then.

As though rousing himself, he moved abruptly and proceeded slowly to the next lamp post, turned about and came back to his first halting-place, where he turned about again. For a long half-hour he continued to stroll between the two posts. Few persons passed him, and he did not appear to notice them. Indeed, it may as well be frankly admitted that he shamefully avoided their glances. When at last he did stop, it was with a sort of jerk.

From one of the closes a girl emerged and came towards him.

CHAPTER TWO

Macgregor’s acquaintance with Jessie Mary was almost as old as himself; yet only within the last three months had he recognised her existence as having aught of importance to do with his own. This recognition had followed swift on the somewhat sudden discovery that Jessie Mary was pretty.

The discovery was made at a picnic, organised by a section of the great drapery store wherein Jessie Mary found employment, Macgregor’s presence at the outing being accounted for by the fact that in a weak moment he had squandered a money gift from his grandparents on the purchase of two tickets for Katie, his first love (so far as we know), and himself. The picnic was a thorough success, but neither Macgregor nor Katie enjoyed it. It was not so much that anything came between them, as that something that had been between them departed—evaporated. There was no quarrel; merely a dulness, a tendency to silence, increasing in dreariness as the bright day wore on. And, at last, in the railway compartment, on the way home, they sat, crushed together by the crowd, Katie dumb with dismay, Macgregor steeped in gloom.

Opposite them sat Jessie Mary and her escort, a young man with sleek hair, a pointed nose, several good teeth, and a small but exquisite black moustache. These two were gay along with the majority of the occupants of the carriage. Perhaps in her simple sixteen-year-old heart Katie began to realise that she was deserted indeed; perhaps Macgregor experienced prickings of shame, not that he had ever given or asked promises. Still, it is to be hoped that he did not remember then any of Katie’s innocent little advances of the past.

Affection ’twixt youth and youth is such a delicate, sensitive thing, full of promise as the pretty egg of a bonny bird, and as easily broken.

Macgregor was caught by the vivacious dark eyes of Jessie Mary, snared by her impudent red mouth, held by the charm of her face, which the country sun had tinted with an unwonted bloom. Alas for the little brown mouse at his side! At briefer and briefer intervals he allowed his gloomy glance to rest on the girl opposite, while he became more and more convinced that the young man with the exquisite moustache was a “bletherin’ idiot.” Gradually he shifted his position to the very edge of the seat, so as to lessen his contact with Katie. And when Jessie Mary, without warning, presented to his attention her foot in its cheap, stylish shoe, saying: “I wish ye wud tie ma lace, Macgreegor,” a strange wild thrill of pride ran through his being, though, to be sure, he went scarlet to the ears and his fingers could scarce perform their office. There were friends of Jessie Mary who declared that Macgregor never would have noticed her at all that day had she not been wearing a white frock with a scarlet belt; but that was grossly unfair to Jessie Mary. The animation and fresh coquetry of eighteen were also hers.

Nigh three months had gone, autumn had come, and here in a dingy side-street the captivated youth had lingered on the bare chance of a glimpse of the same maiden in her every-day attire, his mind tormented by his doubts as to his reception, should she happen to appear.

* * * * *

And now she was approaching him. For the life of him he could neither advance nor retire. Still, such of his wits as had remained faithful informed him that it was “stupid-like” to do nothing at all. Whereupon he drew out his watch and appeared to be profoundly interested in the time. At the supreme moment of encounter his surprise was, it must be confessed, extremely badly managed, and he touched his cap with the utmost diffidence and without a word.

“Hullo!” Jessie Mary remarked carelessly. “Fancy meetin’ you, as the man said to the sassige roll!”

It had been a mutton-pie at their last meeting, Macgregor remembered, trying to laugh. Some comfort might have been his had he known that this flippancy, or its variant, was her form of greeting to all the young men then enjoying her acquaintance. Jessie Mary usually kept a joke going for about three months, and quite successfully, too.

“Did ye no’ expec’ to meet me?” He stumbled over the words.

Jessie Mary laughed lightly, mockingly. “I wasna aware yer best girl lived in this street.”

“It—it’s no’ the first time ye’ve seen me here,” he managed to say.

She laughed again. “Weel, that’s true. I wonder wha the girl is.” He would have told her if he could, poor boy. “But I must hurry,” she went on, “or the shops’ll be shut.”

“Can I no’ gang wi’ ye?” he asked, with a great effort.

“Oh, ye can come as far as Macrorie’s,” she answered graciously, mentioning a provision shop.

Young love is ever grateful for microscopic mercies, and Macgregor’s spirit took courage as he fell into step with her. Jessie Mary was a handsomely built young woman; her shoulder was quite on a level with his. There were times when he would fain have been taller; times, also, when he would fain have been older, for Jessie Mary’s years exceeded his own by two. Nevertheless, he was now thinking of her age without reference to his own. He was, in fact, about to speak of it, when Jessie Mary said:

“I’m to get to the United Ironmongers’ dance on Friday week, after a’. When fayther was at his tea the nicht, he said I could gang.”

She might as well have poured a jug of ice water over him. “Aw, did he?” he murmured feebly.

“Ye should come, Macgreegor,” she continued. “Only three-an’-six for a ticket admittin’ lady an’ gent.”

“Och, I’m no’ heedin’ aboot dancin’,” said Macgregor, knowing full well that his going was out of the question.

“It’ll be a splendid dance. They’ll keep it up till three,” she informed him.

With his heart in his mouth he enquired who was taking her to the dance.

“Oh, I ha’ena decided yet.” She gave her head a becoming little toss. “I’ve several offers. I’ll let them quarrel in the meantime.”

Perhaps it was some consolation to know that she had not decided on any particular escort, and that the rivals were at war with one another. While there is strife there is hope.

“Ay; ye’ll ha’e plenty offers,” he managed to say steadily, and felt rather pleased with himself.

“I’m seriously thinking o’ wearin’ pink,” she told him as they turned into the main street. “It’s maybe a wee thing common, but I’ve been told it suits me.”

Macgregor wondered who had told her, and stifling his jealousy, observed that pink was a bonny colour.... “But—but ye wud look fine in ony auld thing.” Truly he was beginning to get on.

So, at least, Jessie Mary seemed to think. “Nane o’ yer flattery!” she said with a coquettish laugh.

“I wud like fine to see ye at the dance,” he said with a sigh.

“Come—an’ I’ll gi’e ye a couple o’ dances—three, if I can spare them.” Hitherto Jessie Mary had regarded Macgregor as a mere boy, and sometimes as a bit of a nuisance, but she was the sort of young woman who cannot have too many strings to her bow. “I can get ye a ticket,” she added encouragingly.

For an instant it occurred to Macgregor to ask her to let him take her to the dance—he would find the money somehow—but the idea died in its birth. He could not both go to the dance and do that which he had already promised himself to do. Besides, she might laugh at him and refuse.

“It’s nae use speakin’ aboot the dance,” he said regretfully. Then abruptly: “Yer birthday’s on Tuesday week, is’t no’?”

Jessie Mary looked at him. His eyes were on the pavement. “Wha tell’t ye that?”

“I heard ye speakin’ aboot yer birthday to somebody at the picnic.”

“My! ye’ve a memory!”

“But it’s on Tuesday week—the twinty-third? I was wantin’ to be sure.”

“Weel, it’s the twinty-third, sure enough.” She heaved an affected sigh. “Nineteen! I’m gettin’ auld, Macgreegor. Time I was gettin’ a lad! Eh?” She laughed at his confusion of face. “But what for d’ye want to ken aboot ma birthday?” she innocently enquired, becoming graver.

The ingenuousness of the question helped him.

“Aw, I jist wanted to ken, Jessie Mary. Never heed aboot it. I hope ye’ll enjoy the dance—when it comes.” This was quite a long speech for Macgregor to make, but it might have been even longer had they not just then arrived at the provision shop.

“Here we are,” said she cheerfully. She had the decency to ignore the smile of the young man behind the counter—the young man with the sharp nose and exquisite black moustache; nor did she appear to notice another young man on the opposite pavement who was also gazing quite openly at her. “Here we are, an’ here we part—to meet again, I hope,” she added, with a softer glance.

“I’ll wait till ye’ve got yer messages,” said Macgregor, holding his ground.

She gave him her sweetest smile but one. “Na, Macgreegor; it’ll tak’ me a while to get the messages, an’ I’ve ither places to gang afterwards. Maybe I’ll see ye floatin’ aroun’ anither nicht.”

“But I’m no’ in a hurry. I—I wish ye wud let me wait.”

Her very sweetest smile was reserved for the most stubborn cases, and she gave it him now. But her voice though gentle was quite firm. “If ye want to please me, Macgreegor, ye’ll no’ wait the nicht.”

He was conquered. She nodded kindly and entered the doorway.

“Guidbye, Jessie Mary,” he murmured, and turned away.

There were no other customers in the shop. Jessie Mary took a seat at the counter. The young man, stroking his moustache, gave her a good-evening tenderly.

“I’m to get to the dance,” she said, solemnly.

The young man’s hand fell to his side. “Wi’ me?” he cried, very eagerly.

“I ha’ena made up ma mind yet, Peter. I want a pair o’ kippers—the biggest ye’ve got.”

CHAPTER THREE

The outside of the shop had been painted but recently. Above door and window were blazoned in large gilt letters the words:

STATIONERY AND FANCY GOODS.

Just over the doorway was very modestly printed in white the name of the proprietor:

M. Tod.

What the M stood for nobody knew (or cared) unless, perhaps, the person so designated; and it is almost conceivable that she had forgotten, considering that for five and thirty years she had never heard herself addressed save as Miss Tod.

For five and thirty years M. Tod had kept her shop without assistance. For five and thirty years she had lived in the shop and its back room, rarely going out of doors except to church on Sunday mornings. The grocer along the way had a standing order: practically all the necessaries of life, as M. Tod understood them, could be supplied from a grocer’s shop. A time had been when M. Tod saved money; but the last ten years had witnessed a steady shrinking of custom, a dwindling in hopes for a peaceful, comfortable old age, a shrinking and dwindling in M. Tod herself. A day came when a friendly customer and gossip was startled to behold M. Tod suddenly flop to the floor behind the counter.

A doctor, hastily summoned, brought her back to a consciousness of her drab existence and dingy shop. She was soon ready to go on with both as though nothing had happened. The doctor, however, warned her quite frankly that if she did not take proper nourishment, moderate exercise and abundance of fresh air, she would speedily find herself beyond need of these things.

M. Tod did not want to die, and since she never laughed at anything she could not laugh at the doctor. To some of us life is like a cup of bitter physic with a lump of sugar at the bottom, but no spoon to stir it up with; life, therefore, must be sweet—sooner or later.

On the other hand, obedience to the doctor would involve considerable personal expenditure, not to mention the engaging of an assistant. When M. Tod had reckoned up the remnants of her savings and estimated her financial position generally, she incontinently groaned. Nevertheless, she presently proceeded to prepare a two-line advertisement for the Evening Express. She was still in the throes of composition—endeavouring to say in twenty words what she thought in two hundred—when Mr. Baldwin, traveller for a firm of fancy-goods merchants, entered the shop. Acquainted with his kindly manner in the past, she ventured to confide to him her present difficulties.

Mr. Baldwin was not only sympathetic but helpful.

“Why,” said he, “my niece Christina might suit you—in fact, I’m sure she would. She is nearly sixteen, and only yesterday finished a full course of book-keeping. More than that, Miss Tod, she has had experience in the trade. Her aunt before her marriage to—er—myself—had a little business like your own, at the coast. I had thought of getting Christina a situation in the wholesale, but I believe it would be better for her to be here, for a time at least. I know she is keen on a place where she can have her own way—I mean to say, have room to carry out her own ideas.” Mr. Baldwin halted in some confusion, but speedily recovered. “Anyway,” he went on, “give her a trial. Let me send her along to see you this evening.”

M. Tod assented, possibly because she feared to hurt the traveller’s feelings. “Nearly sixteen” and “keen on a place where she can have her own way” did not sound precisely reassuring to the old woman who had no experience of young folk, and who had been her own mistress for so long.

That evening Christina came, saw and, after a little hesitation, conquered her doubts as to the suitability of the situation. “I’ll manage her easy,” she said to herself while attending with the utmost demureness to M. Tod’s recital of the duties required of her assistant—“I’ll manage her easy.”

Within six months she had made good her unuttered words.

* * * * *

It was Saturday afternoon. M. Tod was about to leave the shop for an airing. Time takes back no wrinkles, yet M. Tod seemed younger than a year ago. She had lost the withered, yellowed complexion of those who worship continually in the Temple of Tannin; her movements were freer; her voice no longer fell at the end of every sentence on a note of hopelessness. Though she had grown some months older, she had become years less aged. She glanced round her shop with an air of pride.

From behind the counter Christina, with a kindly, faintly amused smile, watched her.

“Ay,” remarked M. Tod, “everything looks vera nice—vera nice, indeed, dearie. I can see ye’ve done yer best to follow ma instructions.”

It had become a habit with M. Tod to express observations of this sort prior to going out, a habit, also, to accept all Christina’s innovations and improvements as originally inspired by herself. Even the painting of the shop, which, when first mooted by the girl, had seemed about as desirable as an earthquake, had gradually become her very own bright idea. Happily Christina had no difficulty in tolerating such gentle injustices; as a matter of fact, she preferred that her mistress should be managed unawares.

“Tak’ a squint at the window when ye gang oot,” she said, pleasantly. “Ye ha’ena seen it since it was dressed. There’s a heap o’ cheap trash in it, but it’s trash that draws the public noo-a-days.”

“Oh, I wudna say that, dearie,” said the old woman. “I’ve aye tried to gi’e folk guid value.”

“Ay! Ma aunt was like that—near ruined hersel’ tryin’ to gi’e the public what it didna want. What the public wants is gorgeousness—an’ it wants it cheap. Abyssinian Gold an’ papermashy leather an’ so on. See thon photo-frames!”—Christina pointed—“the best sellin’ photo-frames ever we had! In a week or so, they get wearit sittin’ on the mantel-piece, an’ doon they fa’ wi’ a broken leg; in a fortnight they look as if they had been made in the year ten B.C.! Behold thon purses! Safer to carry yer cash in a paper poke, but the public canna resist the real, genuine silver mounts. Observe thon——”

“Weel, weel,” Miss Tod mildly interrupted, “it’s maybe as ye say, an’ I canna deny that custom’s improvin’. But it’s a sad pity that folk winna buy the best——”

“Oh, let the folk pity theirsel’s—when they get sense—an’ that’ll no’ be this year. Gi’e them what they want, an’ never heed what they need. That’s the motto for a shop-keeper. Come ower here for a minute till I sort yer bonnet, or ye’ll be lossin’ twa o’ yer grapes. I hear figs an’ onions is to be the favourite trimmin’ next Spring. Ye could dae wi’ a new bonnet, Miss Tod.”

“So I could,” the old woman wistfully admitted as she submitted her headgear to her assistant’s deft fingers. “I couldna say when I got this yin.”

“Oh, I’m no’ keen on dates. But”—encouragingly—“we’ll tak’ stock next week, an’ when we’ve struck the half-year’s balance I’ll no’ be surprised if ye tak’ the plunge an’ burst a pound-note at the milliner’s.” Christina administered a final pat to the ancient bonnet. “Noo ye’re ready for the road. See an’ no’ catch cold. I’ll ha’e the kettle at the bile against yer return at five.”

“I’ll no’ be late,” replied M. Tod who, to tell the truth, was already wishing it were tea-time, and moved to the door.

“I suppose,” said Christina, “ye wudna care to call at the Reverend Mr. McTavish’s an’ politely ask for payment o’ his account—consistin’ chiefly o’ sermon-paper. He’s a whale for sermon-paper!”

“Oh, dearie, dearie, I couldna dae that,” faltered M. Tod, and made her escape.

“If that account isna paid sune,” Christina murmured, “I’ll ha’e to gang masel’ an’ put the fear o’ death into the man. Business is business—even when it’s releegious.”

She looked round the shop to discover if aught required her attention; then being satisfied that nought could be improved, she seated herself on the stool and prepared to do a little book-keeping.

As she dipped her pen, however, the door of the shop was slowly opened, the bell above it banged, and a young man—so she reckoned him—came in. In her quick way, though she had never seen him before, she put him down in her mind as a purchaser of a half-penny football paper. But having recovered from the alarm of the bell and carefully shut the door, he hesitated, surveying his surroundings.

Christina flung back her thick plait of fair hair, slipped from the stool, and came to attention.

“Nice day,” she remarked in her best manner. She contrived to get away from the vernacular in her business dealings.

“Ay,” The young man smiled absently.

“Nice teeth,” thought Christina. (That Macgregor’s teeth were good was entirely due to his mother’s firmness in the matter of brushing them during his younger days. He was inclined to be proud of them now.)

“Just take a look round,” she said aloud.

Macgregor acknowledged the invitation with a nod.

“Was it anything special you wanted to see?” she enquired.

Macgregor regarded her for a moment. “I had a look at yer window,” he said, his eyes wandering once more, “but I seen naething dearer nor a shillin’.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Christina. Then recovering her dignity—“The window is merely a popular display. We have plenty of more expensive goods within.” She felt pleased at having said “within” instead of “inside.”

At the word “expensive” Macgregor shrank. “Aboot half-a-croon?” he said diffidently, taking a step towards the door.

“Half-a-croon and upwards,” said Christina very distinctly. As a matter of fact, the shop contained few articles priced as high as two shillings, the neighbourhood not being noted for its affluence; but one of Christina’s mottoes was “First catch your customer and then rook him.” “Oh, yes,” she added pleasantly, “our goods at half-a-crown are abundant.”

For a moment Macgregor doubted she was laughing at him, but a veiled glance at her earnest face reassured him—nay, encouraged him. He had never bought a present for a lady before, and felt his position keenly. Indeed, he had left his home district to make the purchase in order that he might do so unrecognised.

So with a shy, appealing smile he said:

“It’s for a present.”

“A present. Certainly!” she replied, lapsing a trifle in the excitement of the moment. “Male or female?”

Macgregor gave her an honest stare.

“Is it for a lady or gent?” she enquired, less abashed by the stare than annoyed with herself for having used the wrong phrase.

“Lady,” said Macgregor, with an attempt at boldness, and felt himself getting hot.

“Will you kindly step this way?” came the polite invitation.

Macgregor proceeded to the counter and bumped his knee against the chair that stood there.

“Useful or ornamental?”

“I—I dinna ken,” he answered between his teeth.

“I’ll break that chair’s neck for it some day!” cried Christina, her natural sympathy for suffering getting the better of her commercial instincts. Then she coughed in her best style. “Do you think the young lady would like something to wear?”

“I dinna ken, I’m sure.” Macgregor pushed back his cap and scratched his head. “Let’s see what ye’ve got for wearin’ an’—an’ no’ for wearin’.”

Christina, too, nearly scratched her head. She was striving to think where she could lay hands on articles for which she could reasonably charge half-a-crown.

Without very noticeable delay she turned to a drawer, and presently displayed a small green oblong box. She opened it.

“This is a nice fountain-pen,” she explained. “Its price has been reduced——”

“Aw, I’m no’ heedin’ aboot reduced things, thank ye a’ the same.”

“I’ll make it two shillings to you,” Christina said persuasively. “That’s a very drastic reduction.” Which was perfectly true. On the other hand, the pen was an old model which she had long despaired of selling. “Nothing could be more suitable for a young lady,” she added, exhibiting the nib. “Real gold.”

But Macgregor shook his head.

With apparent cheerfulness she laid the pen aside. “It’s for a young lady, I think you said?”

“Ay, it’s for a young lady, but she’s no’ that young either. Aboot ma ain age, maybe.”

Christina nearly said “about twelve, I suppose,” but refrained. She was learning to subdue her tendency to chaff. “I perceive,” she said gravely. “Is she fond of needlework?”

“I couldna say. She’s gettin’ a pink dress, but I think her mither’s sewin’ it for her.”

“A pink dress!” muttered Christina, forgetting herself. “Oh, Christopher Columbus!” She turned away sharply.

“Eh?”

“She’ll be a brunette?” said Christina calmly, though her cheeks were flushed.

“I couldna say,” said Macgregor again.

Christina brought forward a tray of glittering things. “These combs are much worn at present,” she informed him. “Observe the jewels.”

“They’ll no’ be real,” said Macgregor doubtfully.

“Well—a—no. Not exactly real. But everybody weers—wears imitation jewellery nowadays. The west-end’s full of it—chock-a-block, in fact.” She held up a pair of combs of almost blinding beauty. “Chaste—ninepence each.”

“Ay,” sighed Macgregor, “but I’m no’ sure——”

“Silver belt—quite the rage—one shilling.”

Macgregor remembered the scarlet belt at the picnic. He had a vague vision of a gift of his in its place. He held out his hand for the glittering object.

“You don’t happen to know the size of the lady’s waist?” said Christina in a most discreet tone of voice.

“I couldna say.” He laid down the belt, but kept looking at it.

“Excuse me,” she said softly, lifting the belt and fastening it round her waist. She was wearing a navy skirt and a scarlet flannel shirt, with a white collar and black tie. “My waist is just about medium.” She proceeded to put the combs in her hair. “Of course they would look better on a brunette.” She permitted herself the faintest of smiles. “But you can see how they look when they’re being worn.”

as there a hint of mockery in the bright grey-blue eyes? Macgregor did not observe it; nor was he shocked by the crudity and gaudiness of the ornaments in broad daylight. But perhaps the general effect was not so shocking. Christina, having previously experimented with the ornaments, had a pretty good idea of how they appeared upon her. It would be difficult to describe precisely what Macgregor thought just then, but it is to be feared that he made the sudden and unexpected discovery that Jessie Mary was not the only pretty girl in the world.

“I’ll tak’ them,” he said uneasily, and put his hand in his pocket.

“Thank you,” said Christina. “Will that be all to-day?”

“Ay; that’ll be a’.” He had purposed spending the odd penny of his fund on a birthday card, but for some undefinable reason let the coin fall back into his pocket.

Christina proceeded to make a neat parcel. “You’re a stranger here,” she remarked pleasantly.

“Ay. But I dinna live far awa’.” Now that the ordeal was over, he was feeling more at ease. “Ye’ve a nice shop, miss.”

“Do you think so? I’m very glad you got something to suit you in it. Thank you! Half-a-crown—two-and-six exactly. Good afternoon!”

It may be that Macgregor would have stopped to make a remark or two on his own account, but just then an elderly woman entered the shop.

“Guidbye, Miss,” he murmured, touching his cap, and departed with his purchase.

Christina dropped the silver into the till. To herself she said: “I doobt he’s no’ as green as he’s cabbage-lookin’.” Aloud: “Nice day, Mrs. Dunn. Is your little grandson quite well again?”

CHAPTER FOUR

For some weeks Macgregor had nourished an idea of making the birthday presentation with his own hands. In fancy he had beheld his own gallant proffering of the gifts, and Jessie Mary’s shy acceptance of the same. Why he should have foreseen himself bold and Jessie Mary bashful is a question that may be left to those who have the profound insight necessary to diagnose the delicate workings of a youthful and lovelorn imagination. At the same time he had harboured many hopeful fears and fearful hopes, but to divulge these in detail would be sacrilege.

On the day following the purchase of the gifts, however, his original plan, so simple and straightforward, would seem to have lost something of its attractiveness. Perhaps he was suddenly assailed by the cowardice of modesty; possibly he argued, in effect, that the offering would gain in importance by impersonal delivery. At all events, he endeavoured, on the way to church, to borrow from Willie Thomson the sum of threepence—the charge for delivery demanded by a heartless post-office. Unfortunately Willie’s finances just then were in a most miserable state, so much so that on this very morning he had been compelled to threaten his aunt, with whom and on whom he lived, with the awful vow never to enter a church again unless she supplied him with twopence on the spot. (This, of course, in addition to the customary penny for “the plate.”)

He jingled the coins in his pocket while he confided to Macgregor his tale of a hard world, and continued to do so while he waited for the sympathy which past experience of his friend led him to expect.

It was therefore something of a shock to Willie when Macgregor, privately fondling the penny which he had not spent on a birthday card, replied: “I could manage wi’ the tuppence, Wullie. An’ I’ll pay ye back on Seturday, sure.”

“Eh?” Willie stopped jingling and clutched his coins tightly.

Macgregor repeated his words hopefully.

“Aw, but I canna len’ ye the tuppence,” said Willie, almost resentfully; adding, “But I’ll gi’e ye a ceegarette or twa when I buy some.”

“I’m no’ wantin’ yer ceegarettes,” Macgregor returned, his eyes on the pavement.

Willie shot at him a curious glance. “What for d’ye want the tuppence? Ha’e ye been bettin’ on horses?”

For a moment Macgregor was tempted to plead guilty of that or any other crime on the chance of gaining the other’s sympathies and pence. Instead, however, he answered with caution: “I’ll maybe tell ye, if ye’ll len’ me the tuppence.”

Willie laughed. “I’m no’ sae green. Ye best get yer fayther to gi’e ye the money.”

“Clay up!” snapped Macgregor, and remained silent for the rest of the journey.

Had the money been required for any other object in the world, Macgregor would probably have gone straightway to his father and frankly asked for it. But the limits of confidence between son and parent are reached when the subject is a girl. Nevertheless, it was to the boy’s credit that he never dreamed of attempting to obtain his father’s help under false pretences.

That night he came to the dismal decision to deliver the package himself at Jessie Mary’s door, at an hour when Jessie Mary would be certain to be out. There was nothing else for it, as far as he could see just then.

The following morning’s light found him at his work—no longer, alas! in the far west-end with its windfall of pennies for the car, but in the heart of the city. The man under whom he worked found him so slow and stupid that he threatened to report him to his employer. Altogether it was a dreary day, and Macgregor, who usually paid enough attention to his duties to escape the burden of time, was more than glad when the last working hour had dragged to its close.

He went home by an unaccustomed though not entirely unfamiliar route. It led him past the shop wherein he had made the birthday purchases on Saturday afternoon. The window was more brightly illuminated than the majority of its neighbours; the garish contents were even more attractive than in daylight. Macgregor found himself regarding them with a half-hearted interest. Presently he noticed that one of the sliding glass panels at the back of the window was open a few inches. This aperture permitted him to see the following: A hand writing a letter on a sloping desk, a long plait of fair hair over a scarlet shoulder, and a youthful profile with an expression very much in earnest yet cheerful withal.

Macgregor could not help watching the writer, and he continued to do so for several minutes with increasingly lively interest. He was even wondering to whom the letter might be written, when the writer, having dipped her pen too deeply, made a horrid, big blot. She frowned and for an instant put out her tongue. Then, having regarded the blot for a space with a thoughtful gaze, she seized the pen and with a few deft touches transformed the blot into the semblance of a black beetle. Whereupon she smiled with such transparent delight that Macgregor smiled also.

“What are ye grinnin’ at?” said a voice at his elbow.

He turned to discover Willie Thomson. At no time in the whole course of their friendship had he felt a keener desire to hit Willie on his impudent nose. “Naething,” he muttered shortly. “Are ye gaun hame?”

“Ay,” said Willie, noting the other’s discomposure, but not referring to it directly. “This isna yer usual road hame.”

“Depends whaur I’m comin’ frae,” returned Macgregor, quickening his pace. “Ha’e ye got a job yet, Wullie?” he enquired more graciously.

“I tried yin the day, but it’s no’ gaun to suit me. But I’ve earned ninepence. I can len’ ye thon thruppence, if ye like.”

“Aw, I’m no’ needin’ it noo.”

“Weel, ha’e a ceegarette.” Willie produced a yellow packet.

“Na, I’m no’ smokin’, Wullie.”

“What’s wrang wi’ ye?”

“Naething.... What sort of job was ye tryin’?”

Willie told him, and thereafter proceeded to recount as many grievances as there had been hours in his working day. Macgregor encouraged him to enter into all sorts of detail, so that home was reached without reference to the shop window which had caused him amusement.

“So long,” said Willie, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Maybe see ye later.”

“Ah, it’s likely,” Macgregor replied, and turned into the close, glad to escape.

“Haud on!” cried Willie.

“What?” Macgregor halted with reluctance.

Willie sniggered. “I seen ye wi’ Jessie Mary the ither nicht.”

“Did ye?” retorted Macgregor feebly.

“Ay; an’ if I was you, I wud let girls alane. They’re nae fun, an’ they’re awfu’ expensive.”

With which sage advice Willie walked off.

Macgregor made up his mind not to leave the house that evening, yet eight o’clock found him at the foot of the street wherein Jessie Mary lived. But he did not go up the street, and at the end of five minutes he strolled the way he had taken two hours earlier. As he approached a certain shop the light in its window went out. He marched home quickly, looking neither right nor left.

* * * * *

On the following evening he hired a small boy for the sum of one halfpenny to deliver the package to Jessie Mary at her abode, and straightway returned to the parental fireside, where he blushed at the welcome accorded him.

That night, however, fate willed it that John Robinson should run out of tobacco. Macgregor, who had been extremely restless, expressed himself ready to step down to the tobacco shop in the main street.

Here it must be mentioned that the gifts had reached Jessie Mary at precisely the right moment. They had raised her spirits from the depths of despair to at least the lower heights of hope. Only an hour before their arrival she had learned how the young man with the exquisite moustache had treacherously invited another young lady to accompany him to the Ironmongers’ dance; and although to the ordinary mind this may appear to have been the simple result of a lack of superhuman patience on the young man’s part, Jessie Mary could perceive in it nothing but the uttermost perfidy. So that until the arrival of Macgregor’s present—“to J. M. from M. with best wishes” (an “l” had been scraped out where the second “w” now stood)—she had felt like tearing the pink frock to tatters and preparing for the tomb.

* * * * *

They met near the tobacconist’s—on Macgregor’s home side, by the way—and he could not have looked more guilty had he sent her an infernal machine.

“It was awful kind o’ ye,” she said sweetly; “jist awful kind.”

“Aw, it was naething,” he stammered.

“They’re jist lovely, an’ that fashionable,” she went on, and gradually led the conversation to the subject of the United Ironmongers’ dance.

“Ye should come,” she said, “an’ see hoo nice I look wi’ them on. The belt’ll be lovely wi’ ma pink frock. An’ the combs was surely made for black hair like mines. Of course I tried them on the minute I got them.”

“Did ye?” murmured Macgregor. Where was all the feverish joy, the soft rapture anticipated three nights ago? “Did ye?”—that was all he said.

She made allowance for his youth and the bashfulness she had so often experienced. “Macgreegor,” she whispered, slipping her hand through his arm, in the darkness of the street leading to her home, “Macgreegor, I believe I wud suner dance wi’ you than onybody else.”

Macgregor seemed to have nothing to say. The touch of her hand was pleasant, and yet he was uneasy.

“Macgreegor,” she said presently, a little breathlessly, “I’m no’ heedin’ aboot ony o’ the chaps that wants to tak’ me to the dance. If ye had a ticket——” She paused. They had halted in the close-mouth, as it is locally termed. “I’m sayin’, Macgreegor, if ye had a ticket——” She paused again.

The boy felt foolish and wretched. “But I canna gang to the dance, Jessie Mary,” he managed to say.

She leaned closer to him. “It’ll be a splendid dance—at least”—she looked at him boldly—“it wud be splendid if you and me was gaun thegether.”

In his wildest of wild dreams he may have thought of kissing this girl. He might have done it now—quite easily.

But he didn’t—he couldn’t.

“Na; I canna gang,” he said. “An’—an’ ma fayther’ll be waitin’ for his tobacco. Guidnicht.” He glanced at her with a miserable smile, and departed—bolted.

Poor Jessie Mary with her little natural vanities!

Poor Macgregor! He went home hot and ashamed—he could not have told why. He did not grudge the gifts, yet vaguely wished he had not given them.

And he dreamed that night of, among other queer things, a shop window, a plait of fair hair on a scarlet shoulder, and a black beetle.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Mercy, laddie!” exclaimed Mrs. Robinson, as her son entered the kitchen, a little late for tea. “What ha’e ye been daein’ to yer face?”

The colour induced by the question seemed almost to extinguish the hectic spot at Macgregor’s left cheek-bone.

“Washin’ it,” he answered shortly, taking his accustomed chair.

“But it’s cut.”

“Tits, Lizzie!” muttered Mr. Robinson. “Are ye for toast, Macgreegor?”

“He’s been shavin’ his whiskers,” said Jimsie. “Did ye no’ ken Macgreegor’s gettin’ whiskers, Maw?” he went on in spite of a warning pressure from sister Jeannie. “Paw, what way dae folk get whiskers?”

“Dear knows,” returned his father briefly. “Lizzie, can ye no’ gi’e Macgreegor a cup o’ tea?”

Lizzie lifted the cosy from the brown teapot. “Where did ye get the razor, Macgreegor?”

“He hasna got a razor, Maw,” said Jimsie. “He does it wi’ a wee knife.”

“Shurrup!” Macgreegor growled, whereupon Jimsie choked and his eyes filled with tears.

“Macgreegor,” said his mother, “that’s no’ the way to speak to yer wee brither.”

“Macgreegor,” said his sister, “I’ll mak’ ye a bit o’ hot toast, if ye like.”

“Ay, Jeannie,” said John quickly, “mak’ him a bit o’ hot toast, an’ I’ll look after Jimsie.” He turned the conversation to the subject of a great vessel that had been launched into the Clyde that morning.

Sullenly Macgregor took the cup from his mother’s hand and forthwith devoted his attention to his meal. Seldom had resentment taken such possession of his soul. Another word from his mother or Jimsie, and he would have retorted violently and flung out of the room. The mild intervention of his sister and father had saved a scene. Though his face cooled, his heart remained hot; though hungry, he ate little, including the freshly made toast, which he accepted with a gracelessness that probably shamed him even more than it hurt Jeannie. Poor sensitive, sulky youth!—a hedge-hog with its skin turned outside-in could not suffer more.

For the first time in the course of his married life John Robinson really doubted Lizzie’s discretion. It was with much diffidence, however, that he referred to the matter after Macgregor had gone out, and while Jeannie was superintending Jimsie’s going to bed.

“Lizzie,” he began, eyeing his cold pipe, “did ye happen to notice that Macgreegor was a wee thing offended the nicht?”

Mrs. Robinson did not halt in her business of polishing a bread plate. “Macgreegor’s gettin’ ower easy offended,” she said, carelessly enough.

John struck a match and held it without application to his pipe until the flame scorched his hardened fingers. “Speakin’ frae experience,” he said slowly, “there’s twa things that a young man tak’s vera serious-like. The first——”

“Wha’s the young man?”

“Macgreegor.... Aw, Lizzie!”

“Macgreegor’s a laddie.”

“He’s a young man—an’ fine ye ken it, wife!”

Lizzie put down the plate and took up another. “An’ what does he tak’ serious-like?” she enquired, coolly.

“Firstly,” said John, with a great effort, and stuck.

“Ye’ll be preachin’ a sermon directly,” said she. “Can ye no’ licht yer pipe an’ speak nateral?”

“Hoo can I speak nateral when I ken ye’re makin’ a mock o’ me?”

“Havers, man!” she said, becoming good-humoured lest he should lose his temper; “licht yer pipe. I’m listenin’.”

John lit his pipe in exceedingly methodical fashion. “Weel, Lizzie,” he began at last, “I jist wanted to say that when a young man’s gettin’ hair on his face, ye—ye shouldna notice it.”

“I didna notice it.”

“Weel, ye shouldna refer to it.”

“It was the cut I referred to.”

John sucked at his pipe and scratched his head. “That’s true,” he admitted. “Still, if yer sister had a wudden leg, ye wudna refer to the noise on the stair. It wasna like ye, Lizzie, to hurt Macgreegor’s feelin’s.”

Mrs. Robinson put down the plate with an unusual clatter. Hurt Macgreegor’s feelings!—She?—The idea! “Are ye feenished?” she snapped.

John nerved himself. “There’s anither thing that it’s best no’ to refer to—anither thing that a young man tak’s vera serious-like. When a young man begins to tak’ an interest in the lassies——”

“Oh, man, can ye no stop haverin’?” she cried. “Ha’e ye forgot the laddie’s age?”

“It’s the shavin’ age, an’ that means——”

“Ma brither Rubbert was nineteen afore he put a razor to his face.”

“Yer brither Rubbert was never what I wud ca’ a female fancier. Of course that wasna his fau’t; he was jist as the Lord made him, and he’s turned oot a vera successful man, an’ for a’ we ken his wife Sarah’s maybe better nor she’s bonny. But yer son Macgreegor——”

“Macgreegor wud never look at the lassies. He’s ower shy.”

“Whiles it’s the kind that doesna look that leaps the furdest. But there’s waur things in the world nor razors and lassies,” said John, with a feeble laugh, “an’ I jist wanted to warn ye no’ to ask questions, even though ye should see Macgreegor weerin’ his Sunday tie every nicht in the week! I hope ye’re no’ offended, Lizzie.”

But it is to be feared that Lizzie was offended just then. She had not been the better half for eighteen years without knowing it; she had grown to expect her easy-going husband’s cheerful acquiescence in practically all she did, and to regard her acceptance of his most mild remonstrances as a sort of favour. And now he was actually giving her advice concerning her treatment of her firstborn! It was too much for her pride.

She set her mouth in a hard line, threw up her head, and proceeded with her polishing.

John waited for a couple of minutes, then sighed and took up his evening paper.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Macgregor was having his troubles. He contrived to dodge Willie Thomson, who nowadays seemed always to be where he was not wanted, but the operation involved a detour of nearly a quarter of a mile, in the course of which he was held up by another youth of his acquaintance. Ten minutes were wasted in listening with ill-concealed impatience to fatuous observations on the recent play of certain professional footballers, and then he continued his journey only to fall, metaphorically speaking, into the arms of Jessie Mary emerging from a shop.

“Hullo, Mac! I thought ye was deid!” was her blithe greeting, the “sausage roll” phrase having at long last served its day. “Ye’re in a hurry,” she added, “but so am I, so ye can walk back to the corner wi’ me.”

Macgregor mumbled something to the effect that he was in no special hurry, and, possibly in order to give a touch of truth to his falsehood, turned and accompanied her.

“Ye’ve no’ been gi’ein’ the girls a treat lately,” she remarked. “I ha’ena noticed ye floatin’ aroun’. Ha’e ye been keepin’ the hoose at nicht?”

“Whiles,” he replied, and enquired with some haste, “Hoo did ye enjoy the dance last week, Jessie?”

“Oh, dinna mention it!” she cried, with a toss of her head. “I didna gang to it.”

“Ye didna gang to the dance!”

“If I had went, it wud ha’e meant bloodshed,” she impressively informed him. “Ye see, there was twa chaps implorin’ me to gang wi’ them, an’ they got that fierce aboot it that I seen it wudna ha’e been safe to gang wi’ either. A riot in a ballroom is no’ a nice thing. An’ if I had went wi’ a third party, it wud ha’e been as much as his life was worth. So I jist bided at hame.”

Macgregor began, but was not allowed to complete, a sympathetic remark.

“Oh, I was glad I didna gang. The dance turned oot to be a second-rate affair entirely—no’ half-a-dizzen shirt fronts in the comp’ny. An’ I believe there wasna three o’ the men could dance for nuts, an’ the refreshments was rotten.”

They had now reached the appointed corner.

“Jist as weel ye didna gang, then,” absently said Macgregor, halting.

“Come up to the close,” said Jessie Mary. “I’ve something to show ye. Ay; it was jist as weel, as ye say. But there’s a champion dance comin’ off on the nineteenth o’ November—the young men o’ the hosiery department are gettin’ it up—naething second-rate aboot it. Ye should come to it, Macgreegor.” She touched his arm—unintentionally perhaps. “Plenty o’ pretty girls—though I wudna guarantee their dancin’. I’ve no’ decided yet wha I’ll gang wi’.” She paused. Macgregor did not speak. “Ye see, I’m parteec’lar wha I dance wi’,” she went on softly, “an’ I expec’ you’re the same. Some girls are like bags o’ flour an’ ithers are like telegraph poles, but there’ll be few o’ that sort at the hosiery dance. An’ onyway”—she laughed—“ye could aye fa’ back on this girl—eh?”

“I dinna think ye wud be that hard up for a partner,” said Macgregor, suddenly stimulated by a flash of her eyes in the lamplight. “But I’m no’ awfu’ keen on the dancin’.”

“Ye danced fine when ye was a wee laddie. I mind when ye danced the Highland Fling in the kitchen, on Hogmanay. That was the nicht I had to kiss ye to get ye oot o’ the ring. Ye was ower shy to kiss me. An’ you an’ Wullie Thomson started the fightin’, because he laughed. D’ye mind?”

“That’s an auld story,” he said, with embarrassment.

“I suppose it is,” she admitted reluctantly. Then cheerfully: “Weel, here we are! But wait till I let ye see something.” She halted at the mouth of the close and began to unbutton her jacket.

“Ye’ve never seen the belt since ye gi’ed it to me, Macgreegor. I weer it whiles in the evenin’. There ye are! It looks fine, does it no’? Maybe a wee thing wide. I could dae wi’ it an inch or twa tighter. Feel.”

She took his hand and slid his fingers between the metal and the white cotton blouse. Jessie Mary had at least one quite admirable characteristic: she doted on white garments and took pride in their spotlessness. A very elemental sense for the beautiful, yet who dare despise it? In these grimy days purity of any kind is great gain.

This girl’s hunger for the homage and admiration of the other sex was not so much abnormal as unrestrained. Her apparent lack of modesty was in reality a superabundance of simplicity—witness her shallow artifices and transparent little dishonesties which deceived few save herself and the callowest of youths. Men “took their fun off her.” And even Macgregor was not to be entrapped now. There is nothing so dead as the fallen fancy of a boy. Moreover, Macgregor was still at the stage when a girl’s face is her whole fortune, when the trimmest waist and the prettiest curves are no assets whatsoever.

For a moment or two he fingered the belt, awkwardly, to be sure, but with as much emotion as though it were a dog’s collar.

“Ay,” he said, “ye’re ower jimp for it.” And put his hand in his pocket.

Then, indeed, it was forced on Jessie Mary that somehow her charms had failed to hold her youngest admirer. The knowledge rankled. Yet she carried it off fairly well.

“Ye’re no’ the first to tell me I’ve an extra sma’ waist,” she said, with a toss of her head. Then, as if struck by a remembrance of some duty or engagement: “But I’ve nae mair time to stan’ gassin’ wi’ you. So long!” She ran briskly up the stone stair, humming a popular tune.

“So long,” returned Macgregor, and resumed his interrupted journey, rather pleased than otherwise with himself. He realised, though not in so many words, that he had conducted himself in more manly fashion than ever before. It did not for a moment occur to him that he had left a big “Why?” behind him, not only in the mind of Jessie Mary, but in Willie Thomson’s also.

* * * * *

His pilgrimage ended at the illuminated window of M. Tod’s stationery and fancy goods shop. Jingling the few coppers in his pockets, he appeared to be deliberating a weighty problem of extensive purchases, while, as a matter of fact, he inwardly debated the most profitable ways of wasting a penny. While he would now gladly have given all he possessed—to wit, ninepence—to win a smile from the girl with the scarlet blouse and the ripe-corn-yellow pigtail, he was not prepared to squander more than he could help for the benefit of her employer. The opaque panels at the back of the window were closed, the door of the shop was composed chiefly of ground glass; wherefore he had no inkling as to which person he was likely to encounter at the receipt of custom. He was hoping and waiting for a customer to enter the shop, so that he might gain a glimpse of the interior with the opening of the door, when suddenly the lights in the window were lowered. Evidently it was near to closing time.

Hastily deciding to “burst” the sum of one penny on the purchase of a pencil—an article for which he had more respect than use—he entered the doorway and turned the handle. He had forgotten the spring bell. When he pushed the door inwards, it “struck one”—right from the shoulder, so to speak. Who will assert that the ordinary healthy youth has no nerves? ’Tis a hoggishly healthy youth who does not bustle with them. The sturdy Macgregor wavered on the threshold; and as he wavered he heard behind him a badly stifled guffaw.

Next moment a hearty push in the small of the back propelled him into the shop. With a hot countenance he pulled up, guessing who had pushed him, and strove to look as if this were his usual mode of entering a place of business. In his confusion he missed the quick glance of the girl seated at the desk on the window-end of the counter. Her head was bent low over her writing. He noticed, however, that she was wearing a white blouse—which did not remind him of Jessie Mary—and that she had a scarlet bow at her neck.

“Yes, sir?” A mouse-like human being slipped from the back of the shop to the middle point of the counter. “Yes, sir?” it repeated, with an accent on the query. The girl at the desk took no notice.

Macgregor approached. “I was wantin’ a pencil,” he said in the tone of one requesting a pint of prussic acid.

“A pencil!” exclaimed the mouse-like human being, as though she had a dim recollection of hearing of such a thing long, long ago. “A pencil—oh, certainly,” she added, more hopefully.

“Penny or ha’penny,” murmured the girl at the desk.

“Penny or ha’penny?” demanded the mouse-like human being, almost pertly.

Men didn’t expect change out of a penny! “A penny yin,” said Macgregor with an attempt at indifference. He tried to look at the girl, but could not get his eyes higher than her elbow.

“A penny pencil!” The mouse-like human being assumed an expression suitable to a person who has just discovered the precise situation of the North Pole, but not the Pole itself.

“Top drawer on your left, Miss Tod,” whispered the girl at the desk.

“Quite so, Christina,” Miss Tod replied with dignity. There were times when she might have been accused of copying her assistant’s manners. She opened the drawer, which was a deep one, peered into it, groped, and brought forth three bundles of pencils. With sudden mildness she enquired of the girl: “These?... Those?”

“No; them!” said Christina, forgetting her grammar and grabbing the third bundle. “Wait a minute.” She slipped lightly from her stool and gently edged M. Tod from the position at the counter which had been familiar to the latter for five-and-thirty years. “This,” she said to Macgregor, laying the bundle in front of him, “is a special line. One dozen—price threepence.” She looked over his head in a manner suggesting that it was quite immaterial to her whether he purchased the dozen or faded away on the spot.

But he had his dignity too. Producing three pennies from two pockets, he laid them on the counter, took up the bundle of pencils, said “Thank ye” to nobody in particular, and marched out. Nor did he forget to close the door behind him.

The stationer and her assistant regarded each other for several seconds.

“Dae ye think,” said M. Tod slowly, “that that young man is a newspaper reporter?”

“No,” replied Christina, with a sniff or two of her straight little nose.

“Or a pictur’ artist?” said M. Tod, conveying the two bundles to the wrong drawer.

Christina, without a word, recovered them and put them into their proper places. She mounted her stool and whipped up a pen.

M. Tod sighed. “I never used to keep pencils at that price. They canna be vera guid.”

“They’re rotten.”

“Oh, lassie!”

“Sell—or gang bankrupt,” said Christina with enough bitter cynicism for twenty-one. “There’s a penny profit on the bundle. Ex—cuse me.” She dipped her pen.

* * * * *

As Macgregor was nearing his home, a prey to misery and wroth, a grinning face popped from a close-mouth.

“Haw! haw! Macgreegor! So ye’re courtin’, are ye?”

As the clock incontinently strikes when the hour has come, so struck Macgregor. And he struck so hard, that it was afterwards necessary he should see Willie Thomson to the latter’s door. Alone again, he cast the bundle of pencils into a dark entry and made his way home.

His father opened the door, smiling a welcome. “Weel, Macgreegor——”

“I’m wearied,” said the boy, and passed straightway to his room and bolted the door. Jimsie was sleeping like a log, and was, as usual, occupying most of the bed.

Macgregor stood at the old chest of drawers that served as dressing-table, his elbows planted thereon, his face in his hands. He was wearied.

But under his tired eyes lay a small oblong package with a covering of newspaper. The neatness of it made him think of his mother; she had a way of making next to nothing look something important in a parcel.

Presently, wondering a little, he undid the paper.

It contained one of his father’s old razors.

Five minutes later he was enjoying a real shave. The luxury was only exceeded by the importance he felt! And only two cuts that bled worth mentioning....

How one’s life may be changed in two short hours!

But Macgregor was still without regret for having flung the pencils into the dark entry.

CHAPTER SIX

Circumstance rather than circumspection was accountable for the fact that Macgregor followed the elusive, winding trail of love alone. The tender adventures of our ’teens usually consist in encounters between two boys and two girls; two friends who tacitly admit that they want to meet the girls; two friends who pretend that they do not want to see the boys at any distance; and to sum up, two pairs of young human beings with but a single thought—themselves. Also it may happen, now and then, that for lack of likelier company Prince Charming goes hunting with Master Fathead, while Princess Lilian Rose lays the scent along with Miss Gooseberry, which but adds plausibility to the assumption that neither sex has the courage of its inclinations. For to be honest, there is no cowardice like that of lad’s love; no hypocrisy like that of lass’s. But, surely, you remember! And if so it happened that in your own day you, perforce, fared solitary to the chase, you will sympathise all the more with the unheroic hero of this slight record.

In this respect Macgregor was not fortunate in his male friends. The oldest thereof, Willie Thomson, openly contemned the female sex, not omitting his aunt; the others confined their gallantries to the breezy pastimes of pushing girls off the sidewalk, bawling pleasantries after them, and guffawing largely at their own wit or the feminine repartee. Their finer instincts were doubtless still dormant. The only mortals worthy of respect were sundry more or less prominent personages whose feet or fists were their fortunes. In these days the adoration of the active by the inert is, one hopes, at its zenith of inflation. Again, to put it now in metaphor, Macgregor’s friends could do with a brass band in scarlet uniform all the time, but they had no use for a secret orchestra of muted strings. All of which was perfectly natural—just as natural as Macgregor’s inexplicable preference for the secret orchestra. Spring comes early or late; the calendar neither foretells nor records its coming. A lad and a lass—how and when and why the one first realises that the other is more than a mere human being are questions without answers. Well, it is a mercy that the world still holds something that cannot be explained away.

In one sense this boy was no more refined than his neighbours; in another they were coarser than he. Remains the fact that he followed the trail alone—or thought he did.

Willie Thomson, for one, was interested. He had been interested to the extent of grinning in Macgregor’s early tenderness for little Katie, and to the extent of sniggering in his friend’s bashful pursuit of Jessie Mary. But now the interest was that of the boy who discovers a nest just beyond his hand and wonders what sort of eggs he will get if, somehow, he can reach it. On the whole, Willie resented his swollen nose and cut lip less than the recent ill-disguised attempts to avoid his company. The latter rankled. Truth to tell, without Macgregor he was rather a lonely creature, a kind of derelict. No one really wanted him. He was not without acquaintances, shirkers like himself; but in the congregation of loafers is no true comradeship. Without admitting it even to himself, he still admired the boy who had faithfully championed his cause—not always virtuous—in the past, whose material possessions he had invariably shared, whose stolid sense of honour had so often puzzled his own mischievous mind, whose home he had envied despite a certain furtive dread of the woman who ruled there. Altogether it may be questioned whether Willie’s grudge was directed against his old friend and not against that which had caused his old friend’s defection. At all events, he began to spare Macgregor any necessity for dodging, and took to shadowing him on his solitary strolls.

On the grey Saturday afternoon of the week rendered so eventful by his first real shave, Macgregor was once more standing by the window of M. Tod’s shop. He was endeavouring to prop up his courage with the recollection of the fact that a fortnight ago, at the same hour as the present, there had been no old woman behind the counter, and with the somewhat rash deduction that no old woman was there now.

He was also wondering what he could buy for a penny without making a fool of himself. The spending of a penny when there is absolutely nothing one wants to buy is not quite so simple a transaction as at first thought it may seem—unless, of course, the shop is packed with comestibles; and even then one may hesitate to choose. Besides, Macgregor was obsessed by the memory of the pencil transaction of three nights ago. Had he but kept his head then, and confined his purchase to a single pencil, he might now have had a fair excuse for requiring another. At any rate, he could have met suspicion with the explanation that he had lost the first. But who would believe that he had used, or lost, a whole dozen within the brief space of three days?

A wretched position to be in, for nothing else in the world of stationery was quite so natural and easy to ask for as a pencil—unless a—— Why had he not thought of it before?—a pen! Saved! He would enter boldly, as one who had every right to do so, and demand to be shown some pencils—no, pens, of course. There were many varieties of pens, he knew, even in small shops, so his selection would take time—lots of time! If only he were sure the old woman wasn’t there.

And just then the bell rang, the door of the shop opened and closed, and the old woman herself came out. In spite of her hat Macgregor recognised her at once. She turned her face skywards to make certain that it wasn’t raining, gave a satisfied smirk, which Macgregor accepted with a fearful start, though it was intended for the window and its contents, and trotted up the street.

On the wave of relief, as it were, Macgregor was carried from the window to the entrance. Yet he had no sooner opened the door with its disconcerting note of warning than he wished he had delayed a minute or two longer. To retire, however, was out of the question. He closed the door as though he were afraid of wakening a baby, and faced the counter.

The girl was there, and wearing the scarlet blouse again. Laying aside the magazine which she had just picked up, she smiled coldly and said calmly: “Good-afternoon. Nice day after the rain.”

In mentally rehearsing his entrance the previous night Macgregor had, among other things, seen himself raise his brand-new bowler hat. To his subsequent shame and regret, he now omitted to perform the little courtesy. That he should forget his manners was perhaps even less surprising than that he should forget the hat itself, which gripped his head in a cruel fashion.

“Ay,” he said solemnly in response to the polite greeting, and advanced to the counter.

“Not just so disagreeable as yesterday,” she added, a trifle more cordially.

“Ay—na.” He glanced up and down the counter. “I—I was wantin’ a pencil,” he said at last.

“A pencil!” cried Christina; then in a voice from which all the amazement had gone: “A pencil—oh, certainly.”

Macgregor reddened, opened his mouth and—shut it. Why should he make a bigger fool of himself by explaining that he had meant to say “a pen?” Besides (happy thought!) the pen would be an excuse for calling another time.

Christina opened the drawer and paused, pursing her lips. Her tone was casual as she said: “I hope you found the dozen you bought lately quite satisfactory.”

“Oh—ay, they were—splendid.” Macgregor blushed again.

Christina smiled as prettily as any musical comedy actress selling guinea button-holes at a charity fête. She said: “I’ll tell Miss Tod. She’ll be delighted. It’s a great saving, buying a dozen, isn’t it?” Her hand went into the drawer. “Especially when one uses so many. It’s hardly worth while buying a single pencil, is it?” Her hand came out of the drawer and laid a bundle in front of Macgregor. “Wonderful how they can do it for threepence!”

He stared at the bundle, his will fluttering like a bird under a strawberry net. Dash the pencils!—but she might be offended if——

“Some shops sell those pencils at a ha’penny each, I know,” she went on; “and I believe some have the neck—I mean the cheek to ask a penny. Would you like me to put them in paper, sir?”

Recovering from the shock of the “sir,” Macgregor shook his head, and laid three coppers on the counter.

“Thank you,” said she. “Is there anything else to-day?”

Before he could answer, the door opened and an elderly man entered. At the ring of the bell Macgregor dropped the bundle; the flimsy fastening parted, and the pencils were scattered.

Christina checked an “Oh, crickey!” and turned to attend to the second customer while the first collected his purchases from the floor.

The elderly man wanted a newspaper only, but thanks to Christina’s politeness over the transaction, he went out feeling as if he had done quite a stroke of business.

“I think you should let me tie them up for you,” she said to Macgregor, who was rising once more, rather red in the face.

“Thank ye,” he said apologetically, handing her the pencils.

“Accidents will happen,” she remarked cheerfully. “If they didn’t, there would be mighty little happening. I say, there’s only eleven pencils here.”

“The ither rolled ablow the counter. It doesna matter,” he said.

“Oh, but that won’t do. See, I’ll give you another now, and get the one under the counter some day—next stock-taking, maybe.” She began to make a parcel, then halted in the operation. “Are you sure there’s nothing else that I can show you to-day, sir?”

Macgregor didn’t want to go just yet, so he appeared to be thinking deeply.

“Essay paper—notebooks,” she murmured; “notepaper—envelopes—indiarubber——”

“Injinrubber,” said Macgregor. (He would give it to Jimsie.)

She turned and whipped a box from a shelf. “Do you prefer the red or the white—species?” she enquired, and felt glad she hadn’t said “sort.”

“Oh, I’m no heedin’ which,” he replied generously, with a bare glance at the specimens laid out for his inspection.

“All the same price—one penny per cake. The red is more flexible.” By way of exhibiting its quality, she took the oblong lengthwise between her finger and thumb and squeezed. To her dismay it sprang from her grip and struck her customer on the chin.

“Oh, mercy!” she exclaimed. “I didna mean——”

Recovering the missile from the floor, he said gravely: “My! ye’re a comic!”

“I’m not! I tell ye I didna mean it. Did it hurt ye?”

“No’ likely! I ken ye didna try it.” He smiled faintly. “If ye had tried to hit me, ye wud ha’e missed me.”

“If I had tried, I wud ha’e hit ye a heap harder,” she said indignantly.

“Try, then.” His smile broadened as he offered her the cake. “I’ll stan’ still.”

Christina’s sporting instinct was roused. “I’ll bet ye the price o’ the cake I hit ye.” And let fly.

It went over his left shoulder.

“Ha’e anither shot,” he said, stooping to pick up the rubber.

But as swiftly as it had gone her professional dignity returned. Macgregor came back to the counter to receive a stiff: “Thank you. Do you require anything else to-day?”

His mumbled negative, his disappointed countenance reproached her.

“Of course,” she said pleasantly, as she put his purchases in paper, “I cannot charge you for the indiarubber.”

“Aw, cheese it!” he muttered shortly, flinging a penny on the counter.

“I beg your pardon?”—this with supreme haughtiness.

“Oh, ye needna. An’ ye can keep yer injinrubber—an’ yer pencils forbye!” With these words he wheeled about and strode for the door.

Christina collapsed. A customer who paid for goods and then practically threw them at her was beyond her experience and comprehension.

“Here!” she cried. “Stop a minute! I—I was jist jokin’. Come back an’ get yer things. We’ll no’ quarrel aboot the penny.”

With his fingers on the handle he paused and regarded her half angrily, half reproachfully. He wanted to say something very cutting, but it wouldn’t come.

“Please,” said Christina softly, dropping her eyes. “Ye’ll get me into trouble if ye dinna tak’ them.”

“Eh?”

“Miss Tod wud be vexed wi’ me for lossin’ a guid customer. She wud gi’e me the sack, maybe.”

“Wud she?—the auld besom!” cried Macgregor, retracing his steps.

“Oh, whisht! She’s no’ an auld besom. But I ken she wud be vexed.” Christina sighed. “I suppose I’m to blame for——”

“It’s me that’s to blame,” he interrupted. “Here!” he said in an unsteady whisper, “will ye shake han’s?”

After a momentary hesitation she gave him her hand, saying graciously: “I’ve no objections, I’m sure. To tell the truth,” she went on, “I am not entirely disinterested in you, sir.”

Macgregor withdrew his empty hand. “I—I wish ye wudna speak like that,” he sighed.

“Like what?”

“That awfu’ genteel talk.”

“Sorry,” she said. “But it gangs doon wi’ maist o’ the customers. Besides, I try to keep it up to please ma aunt. But it doesna soun’ frien’ly-like, does it?”

“That’s why I dinna like it,” he ventured, more easily.

“I see. But if ye was servin’ in a shop ye wud ha’e to speak the same way.”

“I’m in the pentin’ trade,” he informed her, with an air of importance.

“I’ve a nose—but I like the smell fine. Ye’re no’ offended, are ye?”

“I’m no’ that easy offended. Is Miss Tod yer aunt?”

“Na, na; she’s nae relation. Ma aunt is Mrs. James Baldwin.” In the frankest fashion she gave a brief sketch of her position on the world’s surface. While she spoke she seated herself on the stool, and Macgregor, without thinking about it, subsided upon the chair and leant his arm upon the counter. Ere she ended they were regarding each other almost familiarly.

Anon Macgregor furnished a small account of himself and his near relatives.

“That’s queer!” commented Christina when he had finished.

“What?” he asked, anxiously.

“Ma Uncle James is a great frien’ o’ your Uncle Purdie. Your uncle buys a heap o’ fancy things frae mine, an’ he’s often been in oor hoose. I hear he’s worth a terrible heap o’ money, but naebody wud think it. I like him fine.”

“Ye wudna like ma aunt fine,” said Macgregor.

“No’ bein’ acquaint wi’ her, I canna say,” Christina returned. “But I believe if it hadna been for her yer uncle wud never ha’e made his fortune at the grocery trade——”

“Her! What had she got to dae wi’ ’t?”

“Dear knows; but Uncle James says she egged him on to mak’ money frae the day she married him. But mony a woman does that. I wud dae it masel’—no’ that I’m greedy; I jist couldna endure a man that didna get on. I hate a stick-in-the-mud. It’s a fac’, though, that Mr. Purdie got the push-on frae his wife. An’ Uncle James says he’s no’ near done yet: he’ll be Lord Provost afore he’s feenished. Ye should keep in wi’ yer Uncle Purdie.”

Macgregor scarcely heard her latter words. His Aunt Purdie responsible for his Uncle Purdie’s tremendous success in business! The idea was almost shocking. From his earliest boyhood it had been a sort of religion with him to admire his uncle and despise his aunt. Could any good thing come out of Aunt Purdie?

“I doobt yer Uncle James doesna ken her extra weel,” he said at last.

“Oh, ma uncle’s a splendid judge o’ character,” she assured him. “Especially female character,” she added. “That’s why he married ma aunt an’ adopted me. I took his name, like ma aunt did when she married him. It was a love match, in spite o’ their ages. There’s grander names, but nane better, nor Baldwin. In ma youth I called it Bald-yin to tease ma aunt when she was saft on him. But never heed aboot that the noo. D’ye ken what astonishes me aboot yersel’?”

“What?” asked Macgregor, startled.

“That ye’re no’ in the grocery trade.”

“Me! What for wud I be a grocer?”

“What for are ye a penter? An’ yer Uncle Purdie has nae offspring. My! if I had had a chance like you!” She heaved a sigh. “I’m sure yer uncle wud ha’e ta’en ye into his business. Ye canna be sae stupid that he wudna gi’e ye even a trial. Nae offence intended.”

“I could ha’e been in the business if I had wanted,” Macgregor replied, with some dignity. “He offered me a job when I left the schule. But, ye see, I aye had the notion to be a penter. I like to be movin’ ma han’s an’ feet.”

“An’ what did yer parents say?”

“They canna thole Aunt Purdie. It was her that brought the message frae ma uncle—as if it was a favour. They said I was to choose for masel’.”

“Pride’s an awfu’ thing for costin’ folk cash,” the girl remarked, with a shake of her head.

“Eh?”

“Naething,” she replied. After a slight pause she continued: “It’s no’ for me to speak aboot yer parents, but I hope ye’ll excuse me sayin’ that ye’re a bigger fool than ye look.”

“Wha—what d’ye mean?”

“I didna mean to insult ye or hurt yer feelin’s.” Another pause. “D’ye no’ want to get up in the world, man? D’ye no’ want to be a millionaire—or a thoosandaire, onyway?”

“Me?”

“Ay, you!”

Across the counter he regarded her in a semi-dazed fashion, speechless. She was rather flushed; her eyes danced with eagerness. Apparently she was all in earnest.

“Are ye gaun to be a penter a’ yer life?” she demanded.

“What for no’?” he retorted with some spirit. “It’s guid pay.”

“Guid pay! In ten year what’ll ye be makin’?”

“I couldna say. Maybe—maybe twenty-five shillin’s; maybe——”

“A week?”

“Ay; of course,” he said, nettled. “D’ye think I meant a month?”

“If ye was wi’ yer uncle an’ stickin’ to yer business, I wud ha’e said ’a day’! Ma gracious goodness! if ye was pleasin’ a man like that, there’s nae sayin’ where ye wud be in ten year.”

“Ach,” he said, with an attempt at lightness, “I’m no’ heedin’.”

Christina doubled her fist and smote the counter with such violence that he fairly jumped on his seat.

“Ye’re no’ heedin’! What’s the use o’ bein’ alive if ye’re no’ heedin’? But ye’re a’ the same, you young workin’ men. Yer rule is to dae the least ye can for yer wages, an’ never snap at an opportunity. An’ when ye get aulder ye gang on strike an’ gas aboot yer rights, but ye keep dumb enough aboot yer deserts, an’——”

“Here, haud on!” cried Macgregor, now thoroughly roused. “What dae you ken aboot it? Ye’re jist a lassie——”

“I’ve eyes an’ ears.”

There was a pause.

“Are ye a—a suffragist?” he asked, weakly.

“I ha’ena quite decided on that p’int. Are you in favour o’ votes for females? Aweel, there’s nae use answerin’, for ye’ve never thought aboot it. I suppose, like the ither young men aboot here, ye buy yer brains every Seturday done up in the sports edition o’ the evenin’ paper. Oh, Christopher Columbus! that’s when I get busy on a Seturday nicht. Footba’—footba’—footba’!”

Macgregor swallowed these remarks, and reverted to the previous question. “What,” he enquired a little loftily, “dae you expec’ to be earnin’ ten year frae the noo?”

Promptly, frankly, she replied: “If I’m no’ drawin’ thirty shillin’s a week I’ll consider masel’ a bad egg. Of course, it a’ depends on whether I select to remain single or itherwise.”

This was too much for Macgregor. He surveyed her with such blank bewilderment that she burst out laughing.

He went red to the roots of his hair, or at any rate to the edge of his hat. “Oh, I kent fine ye was coddin’ me,” he said crossly, looking hurt and getting to his feet.

She stopped laughing at once. “That’s the worst o’ talkin’ plain sense nooadays; folk think ye’re only coddin’,” she observed, good-humouredly. “I’m sorry I vexed ye.” Impulsively she held out her hand. “I doobt we’ll ha’e to shake again.”

This, also, was too much for Macgregor. He seized her fingers in a grip that made her squeal.

And just then bang went the bell above the door.

Christina bit her lip and smiled through her tears as M. Tod entered the shop.

“Anything else to-day?” she enquired in her politest voice, and placed the little parcel under Macgregor’s hand.

His reply was inaudible. His hand closed automatically on his purchase, his eyes met hers for the fraction of a second, and then he practically bolted.

“Young men are aye in sich a great hurry nooadays,” remarked M. Tod, beginning to remove her gloves.

“He’s the young man that bought the dizzen pencils the ither nicht,” Christina explained, examining the joints of her right hand. “I’ve just been sellin’ him anither dizzen.”

“Dearie me! he must be a reporter on yin of the papers.”

“He’s a whale for pencils, whatever he is,” Christina returned, putting straight the piles of periodicals that adorned the counter. “I doobt he wud need to report wi’ his feet forbye his han’s to get through a dizzen pencils in three days. It’s a bit o’ a mystery aboot the pencils.”

“A mystery!” exclaimed M. Tod, who was just about to blow into a glove.

Christina picked the neglected penny from the counter and dropped it into the till. “It’s a case o’ cherchez la femme,” she said softly, with quite a passable accent.

“What’s that?” murmured M. Tod.

“French,” sighed Christina, making a jotting of her last sales, and taking a long time to do it.

M. Tod stared for a moment or two, shook her head, drew a long breath, and with the same inflated her glove.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Macgregor was half-way home ere he comprehended the cause of the dull ache about his temples. He eased his hat and obtained relief. But there was no lid to lift from his mind which seemed to be overcrowded with a jumble of ideas—old ideas turned topsy-turvy, some damaged, some twisted, and new ideas struggling, as it were, for existence. Moral earthquakes are not infrequent during our ’teens and twenties; by their convulsions they provide construction material for character; but the material is mixed, and we are left to choose whether we shall erect sturdy towers or jerry-buildings.

* * * * *

The boy was not, of course, aware that here was a crisis in his life. He was staggered and disturbed, just as he would have been had the smooth, broad street on which he walked suddenly become a narrow pass beset with rifts and boulders. The upheaval of his preconceived notions of girlhood had been sharp indeed. He had never heard a girl speak as Christina had spoken; it had never occurred to him that a girl could speak so. But while he felt hurt and vexed, he harboured no resentment; her frank friendliness had disposed of that; and while he was humbled, he was not—thanks to his modesty, or, if you prefer it, lack of cocksureness—grievously humiliated. It is not in the nature of healthy youth to let misery have all its own way.

Before he reached home he was able to extract several sips of comfort from his recent experience. He knew her name and she knew his; they had discovered a mutual acquaintance (how we love those mutual acquaintances—sometimes!); they had shaken hands twice.

He spent the evening indoors—he might have done otherwise had not Christina said something about being busy on Saturday nights. He was patient with his little brother, almost tender towards his sister. He played several games of draughts with his father, wondering between his deplorable moves when he should see Christina again. He spoke in a subdued fashion. And about nine o’clock his mother anxiously asked him whether he was feeling quite well, and offered to prepare a homely potion. One regrets to record that he returned a rough answer and went off to bed, leaving Lizzie to shake her head more in sorrow than in anger while she informed John that she doubted Macgregor was “sickenin’ for something.” As Macgregor had not condescended to play draughts for at least two years, John was inclined to share her fears; it did not occur to him to put down such conduct to feminine influence; and an hour later, at her suggestion, he went to his son’s room and softly opened the door.

“Oh! ye’re no’ in yer bed yet, Macgreegor?”

“I’m jist gaun.”

“What are ye workin’ at?”

“Jist sharpenin’ a pencil. I’ll no’ be lang”—impatiently.

“Are ye feelin’ weel enough?”

“I’m fine. Dinna fash yersel’.”

John withdrew and reported to Lizzie. She was not satisfied, and before going to bed, about eleven o’clock, she listened at Macgregor’s door. All she heard was: “Here, Jimsie, I wish to peace ye wud keep yer feet to yersel’.”

She opened the door. “Laddie, are ye no’ sleepin’ yet?”

“Hoo can I sleep wi’ Jimsie jabbin’ his feet in ma back?”

She entered, and going to the bed removed the unconscious Jimsie to his own portion thereof, at the same time urging him into a more comfortable position. Then she came round and laid her hand on her first-born’s brow.