kindly, in their direction, and Macgregor reddened, while Willie
spat in defiance of the displayed regulation.

As the journey proceeded, their talk dwindled. It was after a long
pause that Willie said:

'Ye'll be for hame as sune as we get to Glesca--eh?'

'Ay. . . . An' you'll be for yer aunt's--eh?'

'Ay,' Willie sighed, and lowering his voice, said: 'What'll ye dae
if they laugh at ye?'

'They'll no laugh,' Macgregor replied, some indignation in his
assurance.

'H'm! . . . Maybe _she'll_ laugh at ye.'

'Nae fears!' But the confident tone was overdone. Macgregor,
after all, was not quite sure about Christina. She laughed at so
many things. He was to meet her at seven, and of late he had lost
sleep wondering how she would receive his first appearance in the
kilt. He dreaded her chaff more than any horrors of war that lay
before him.

'Aw, she'll laugh, sure enough,' croaked Willie. 'I wud ha'e
naething to dae wi' the weemen if I was you. Ye canna trust them,'
added this misogynist of twenty summers.

Macgregor took hold of himself. 'What'll ye dae if yer aunt