drink,' he said.

'Ye should think shame to say a thing like that to a chap that
hasna tasted but wance for near a year--at least, for several
months,' said Willie, following. 'But I'll forgive ye like a
Christian. . . . For peety's sake ten' us a tanner. I ha'ena had
a fag since yesterday. I'll no split on ye.' He winked and nudged
Macgregor. 'Maggie's a whale for the cuddlin'--eh?'

It was too much. Macgregor turned and struck, and Willie went
down. Then Macgregor, feeling sick of himself and the whole world,
assisted the fallen one to his feet, shoved a shilling into his
hand, and departed hastily.

He wrote a long, pleading letter to Christina and posted it--in the
cook's fire. Next day he tried again, avoiding personal matters.
The result was a long rambling dissertation on musketry and the
effect of the wind, etcetera, on one's shots, all of which, with
his best love, he forwarded to Aberdeen. In previous letters he
had scarcely ever referred to his training, and then with the
utmost brevity.

The letter, quite apart from its technicalities, puzzled Christina;
and to puzzle Christina was to annoy her. To her mind it seemed to
have been written for the sake of covering so much paper. Of
course she wanted Macgregor to be interested in his work, but not
to the exclusion of herself. She allowed the thing to rankle for
three days. Then, as there was no further word from him, she
became a little alarmed. But it was not in her to write all she
felt, and so she sought to break the tension with something in the