comfort in
the words; forgiveness, maybe, but no promise of reconciliation.
Truly he had made a horrid mess of it; nevertheless he rebelled
against taking all the blame. Christina could not have cared much
when she would listen to no explanations. . . . Now he had a great
longing for the touch of his mother and the smile of his father,
the soft speech of Jeannie and the eager pipings of wee Jimsie.
Also, he wondered, with a sort of ache, how Willie was faring.

A nurse appeared, sorted his pillow, chatted for a moment, then
went and drew down the blinds against the afternoon sun. And
presently Macgregor dropped into a doze.

He awoke to what seemed a dream. Of all people, Aunt Purdie was
seated at his bedside.

In a hesitating way, quite unlike her, she put out her hand, laid
it on his and patted gently.

'What's up?' he exclaimed in astonishment.

'How do you do, Macgregor?' she said formally yet timidly.

'Fine, thenk ye,' he answered from sheer force of habit.
Then--'Ye've come a lang road to see me,' he said, gratitude
asserting itself.

'It _is_ a conseederable distance,' she returned, with some
recovery of her old manner. 'Your uncle said I must go the moment
he heard where you were, and I quite homologated him. We was all
copiously relieved to hear of the non-seriosity of your wounds. I
have letters for you from your parents and sister, forbye your
brother James. Your mother was anxious to come, too, but decided
to wait for my report, your condeetion not being grave. All well
at home and proud of you, but I was en rout before I heard the most
gratifying news.' She cleared her throat with an important cough,
and Macgregor hoped none of the other chaps in the ward were
listening. 'I am exceedingly proud of you, Macgregor!'

'Me? What for?'

'Ah, do not distimulate, my boy; do not be too modest. You have
saved a comrade's life! It was magneeficent!'

'Eh?'

'Oh, I know all about it--how you protected your friend William
with your wounded body----'

Macgregor's hand went to his head. 'I suppose I'm sober,' he
muttered. 'Wha was stuffin' ye wi' a' this, Aunt Purdie?'

Aunt Purdie's manner was almost sprightly as she whispered--

'Your betrothed!'

'Ma what?'

'Christina, her own self, told me. So there you are, young man!'

Macgregor's head wagged feebly on the pillow. 'There's a bonny
mix-up somewhaur,' he said; 'it was Wullie saved ma life.' Then,
with an effort--'When di