Macgregor dropped his reply to Christina's unsatisfactory note into
the pillar-box and, half wishing he had destroyed it instead,
rejoined the faithful Willie Thomson. He still looked so gloomy
that Willie once more demanded to be told what the ---- was up with
him. Receiving no response, Willie remarked:

'If ye tak' a face like that to yer girl, she'll be wantin' to play
a tune on it.'

Macgregor held his peace. They had just arrived in Glasgow, but
without a trace of the usual eagerness on his part.

'I believe,' said Willie, with an inspiration, 'her an' you ha'e
cast oot.'

'Clay up! She's awa' her holidays.'

'Save us! Awa' her holidays!' cried Willie, uttering, unawares,
his friend's bitterest thought--'an' we may get oor mairchin'
orders ony meenute! Weel, weel, preserve me frae the female sect!
I suppose ye'll be for gi'ein' yer ain folk a treat for a change.'

'They're a' at Rothesay, at Granpaw Purdie's,' Macgregor returned
shortly, now half glad that he had let the letter go.

It was not a harsh letter, yet neither was it a humble one. In
effect, it informed Christina that she was welcome to disport
herself even though the writer lay dead in a trench. While
intended to be freezing, it had been written in considerable heat,