the same,' John persisted, 'as meetin' her
quiet-like. When I was courtin' you, Lizzie, did ye no prefer----'

Lizzie ignored her man--the only way. 'What aboot Friday, next
week?'

'If we're no in Flanders afore then,' reluctantly replied the
soldier of seven weeks' standing.

* * * * *

Happily for Mrs. McOstrich's sake Macgregor was able to keep the
engagement, and credit may be given him for facing the wasted
evening with a fairly cheerful countenance. Perhaps Christina,
with whom he arrived a little late, did something to mitigate his
grudge against his hostess.

Mrs. McOstrich was painfully fluttered by having a real live kiltie
in her little parlour, which was adorned as heretofore with
ornaments borrowed from the abodes of her guests. Though Macgregor
was acquainted with all the guests, she insisted upon solemnly
introducing him, along with his betrothed to each individual with
the formula: 'This is Private Robi'son an' his intended.'

While Macgregor grinned miserably, Christina, the stranger, smiled
sweetly, if a little disconcertingly.

Then the party settled down again to its sober pleasures.
Macgregor possessed a fairly clear memory of the same company in a
similar situation a dozen years ago, but the only change which now
impressed itself upon him was that Mr. Pumpherston had become much
greyer, stouter, shorter of breath, and was no longer funny. And,
as in the past, the prodigious snores of Mr. McOstrich, who still
followed his trade of baker, sounded at intervals through the wall
without causing the company the slightest concern, and were
likewise no longer funny.

After supper, which consisted largely of lemonade and pastries, the
hostess requested her guests, several being well-nigh torpid, to
attend to a song by Mr. Pumpherston. No one (excepting his wife)
wanted to hear it, but the Pumpherston song had become traditional
with the McOstrich entertainments. One could not have the latter
without the former.

'He's got a new sang,' Mrs. Pumpherston intimated, with a
stimulating glance round the company, 'an' he's got a tunin' fork,
forbye, that saves him wrastlin' for the richt key, as it were.
Tune up, Geordie!'

Mr. Pumpherston deliberately produced the fork, struck it on his
knee, winced, muttered 'dammit,' and gazed upwards. Not so many
years ago Macgregor would have exploded; to-night he was occupied
in trying to find Christina's hand under the table