Still----'
'It's time ye was in yer bed, John. Ye canna dae onything, ma man,
excep' hope for the best.'
* * * * *
At dead of night--
'Lizzie!'
Silence.
'_Lizzie_!'
'Eh?--what is 't, John?'
'I was thinkin', wife; I was thinkin' it's no sae bad since her
name's Maggie. Ye see, if it had been Henrietta, or Dorothea,
or----'
'Mercy! Are ye talkin' in yer sleep?'
'I was gaun for to say that a Henrietta an' so forth wud be easier
traced nor a Maggie, Maggies bein' as common as wulks at Dunoon,
whereas----'
'D'ye imagine Christina--oh, dinna be silly, man!'
'But, Maggie--I mean Lizzie----'
'Oh, for ony favour gang to sleep an' rest yer brains.'
* * * * *
When Macgregor, alone save for the slumbering Jimsie, had opened
the parcel he muttered savagely: 'Oh, dash it! I wish she had kep'
her rotten socks to hersel'!'--and stuffed the gift behind the
chest of drawers. The message he tore into a hundred fragments.
Then he went to bed and slept better, perhaps, than he deserved.
He expected there would be a letter in the morning, for Christina
had left no message with his mother.
But there was no letter, so, after breakfast, he made a trip to the
camp on the chance, and in the hope, that one might be lying there.
Another blow! Managing to dodge Willie, he hurried home to meet
the second morning delivery. Nothing again! . . . His mother's
anxious questions as to his health irritated him, and he so far
lost his temper as to ask his sister why she was wearing a face
like a fiddle.
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