Ye canna trust them,'
added this misogynist of twenty summers.

Macgregor took hold of himself. 'What'll ye dae if yer aunt
laughs?' he quietly demanded.

'Her? Gor! I never heard her laugh yet--excep' in her sleep efter
eatin' a crab. But by Jings, if she laughs at me, I--I'll gang oot
an' ha'e a beer!'

'But ye've ta'en the pledge.'

'To ----! I forgot aboot that. Weel, I--I'll wait an' see what
she's got in for the tea first. . . . But she _canna_ laugh. I'll
bet ye a packet o' fags she greets.'

'I'll tak' ye on!'

It may be said at once that the wager was never decided, for the
simple reason that when the time came Willie refused all
information--including the fact that his aunt had kissed him.
Which is not, alas, to say that his future references to her were
to be more respectful than formerly.

* * * * *

At three minutes before seven Macgregor stood outside Miss Tod's
little shop, waiting for the departure of a customer. It would be
absurd to say that his knees shook, but it is a fact that his
spirit trembled. Suspended from a finger of his left hand was a
small package of Christina's favourite sweets, which unconsciously
he kept spinning all the time. His right hand was chiefly occupied
in feeling for a pocket which no longer existed, and then trying to
look as if it had been doing something entirely different. He
wished the customer would 'hurry up'; yet when she emerged at last,
he was not ready. He was miserably, desperately afraid of
Christina's smile, and just as miserably, desperately desirous to
see it again.

Solemnly seven began to toll from a church tower. He pulled
himself up. After all, why should she laugh? And if she
did--well. . . .

Bracing himself, he strode forward, grasped the rattling handle and
pushed. The little signal bell above the door went off with a
monstrous 'ding' that rang through his spine, and in a condition of
feverish moistness he entered, and, halting a pace within, saw in
blurred fashion, and seemingly at a great distance, the loveliest
thing he knew.

Christina did smile, but it was upon, not at, him. And she said
lightly, and by no means unkindly:

'Hullo, Mac! . . . Ye've had yer hair cut.'

From sheer relief after the long strain, something was bound to
give way. The string on his finger snapped and the package,
reaching the floor, gaily exploded.

VI

MRS. McOSTRICH ENTERTAINS

'I'm fed up wi