affects you?'

He looked hard at her. 'My! ye're a game yin!' he said admiringly.
'Weel, I maun slope,' he went on, with a sigh that sounded absurd,
coming from him. 'I suppose ye've nae message for
Macgreegor--something ye forgot to say at the last meenute? Eh?'

Christina was at a loss. Apparently he knew nothing, yet his
manner was odd.

'No message, thank you,' said she slowly.

'Then I'll bid ye guid-bye--an' I could bet ye a bob ye'll never
see me again. So I'll tell ye something.' His words came with a
rush. 'Ye're aboot the nicest girl I ever kent, Christina.
Macgreegor's a luckier deevil nor he deserves. But I'll look efter
him for ye in Flanders. Trust me for that. Noo that we're really
boun' for the Front, in a day or so, things is different--at least
I'm feelin' different. Dinna laugh! I--I dinna want to ha'e ony
enemies but the Germans. I've jist been an' kissed ma
aunt--dammit! An' noo'--he caught her hand, pulled her to
him--'I'm gaun to kiss _you_! There!' He turned and bolted.

Christina's hand went to her cheek, and fell back to her side. Her
colour ebbed as swiftly as it had flowed. She began to shake.
'Bound for the Front, in a day or so.' . . .

Later she went to the sitting-room where her employer was once more
absorbing comfort from a cup. 'Miss Tod,' she said quietly, 'I
want to gang hame.'

In the evening she posted a small package with this note enclosed--

'I am sending the ring Mrs. McOstrich said I was to give you when
the time came for you to go. I hope it will bring you good luck.
God bless you.

'CHRISTINA.'

She lay awake most of the night, wondering if she might not have
written more, wondering what answer he would send,
wondering--wondering. . . .

And as she fell asleep in the grey of morning, hours before the
package would be delivered at the camp, a long train, at an
outlying station, started on its way south, and six hundred eager
lads shouted in the face of all things.

'We're awa' this time, by Goad!' yelled Willie in his friend's ear.

And Macgregor laughed wildly and wrung his friend's hand.

XXI

'HULLO, GLESCA HIELANDERS!'

Like a trodden, forgotten thing Private Macgregor Robinson lay on
the Flanders mud, under the murk and rain. A very long time it
seemed since that short, grim struggle amid the blackness and
intermittent brightness. The night was still rent with noise and
light, but the storm of battle had passed from