Jimsie was at afternoon
school; Jeannie sat in the little parlour knitting as though life
depended thereby.
He sat down in his father's chair by the hearth and lit a cigarette
with fingers not quite under control.
'I'll ha'e to send a lot o' things efter ye,' Lizzie remarked.
'This semmit's had its day.'
'I'll be gettin' a bit leave afore we gang to the Front,' said
Macgregor, as though the months of training were already nearing an
end.
'If ye dinna get leave sune, I'll be up at the barracks to ha'e a
word wi' the general.'
'It'll likely be a camp, mither.'
'Aweel, camp or barracks, see an' keep yer feet cosy, an' dinna
smoke ower mony ceegarettes.' She fell to with her needle.
At the end of a long minute, Macgregor observed to the kettle: 'I
tell't fayther what I done wi' the twa pound.'
'Did ye?'
'Ay. He--he was awfu' pleased.'
'Was he?'
Macgregor took a puff at his cold cigarette, and tried again. 'He
said I was to tell ye he was pleased.'
'Oh, did he?'
'Never pleaseder in his life.'
'That was nice,' commented Lizzie, twirling the thread round the
stitching of a button.
He got up, went to the window, looked out, possibly for
inspiration, and came back with a little box in his hand.
'That's what I done,' he said, dropped it on her sewing, and
strolled to the window again.
After a long time, as it seemed, he felt her gaze and heard her
voice.
'Macgreegor, are ye in earnest?'
'Sure.
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