. . . Ha'e ye a match? Weel, show a
licht. Is ma nose queer-like?'
'Ay,' Macgregor unwillingly replied, and, with inspiration, added
consolingly, 'But it was aye that, Wullie.'
IV
THE RING
'Wha' was chasin' ye?' Christina inquired, as Macgregor came
breathless to the counter, which she was tidying up for the night.
'I was feart I was gaun to be late.' he panted.
'I wud ha'e excused ye under the unique circumstances,' she said
graciously. 'Sit doon an' recover yer puff.'
He took the chair, saying: 'It was Wullie Thomson. He's awa' to
enlist.'
'Wullie Thomson! Weel, that's a bad egg oot the basket. Hoo did
ye manage it, Mac?'
'It wasna me,' Macgregor replied, not a little regretfully. 'He's
enlistin' to please hissel'. He says he's fed up wi' his aunt.'
'She's been feedin' him up for a lang while, puir body. But ye're
a queer lad,' she said softly, 'the way ye stick to a fushionless
character like him. I was tellin' Miss Tod,' she continued,
'aboot----'
'Oor engagement!' he burst out, scarlet.
'Whist, man!--ye've a wild imagination!--aboot ye enlistin'. She's
been in a state o' patriotic tremulosity ever since. Dinna be
surprised if she tries for to kiss ye.'
'I wud be mair surprised,' said Macgregor, with unexpected
boldness, 'if you tried it.'
'Naething could exceed ma ain amazement,' she rejoined, 'if I did.'
'I've got the ring,' he announced, his hand in his pocket.
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