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 way of a joke.

Thus it came about that on the fifth morning, Macgregor received a postcard depicting a light-house on a rocky coast and bearing a few written words, also an oddly shaped parcel.  The written words were:—­

’Delighted to hear you are doing so well at the shooting.  Sending prize by same post.

This was better!—­more like Christina herself.  All was not lost!  Eagerly he tore off the numerous wrappings and disclosed a—­cocoa-nut!  In his present state of mind he would have preferred an infernal machine.  A cocoa-nut!  She was just laughing at him!  He was about to conceal the nut when Willie appeared.

’My! ye’re the lucky deevil, Macgreegor!  Frae yer uncle, I suppose.  I’ll help ye to crack it.  I’ll toss ye for the milk—­if there’s ony.’

‘I’m no gaun to crack it the noo, Wullie,’ Macgregor said, restraining himself.

‘At nicht—­eh?’

‘I’ll see.’

By evening, however, Willie was not thinking of cocoa-nuts or, indeed, of anything in the nature of eatables.  His first experience in firing a rifle had taken place that afternoon and had left him with an aching jaw and a highly swollen face.  On the morrow he was not much better.

‘I’ll no be able to use ma late pass the nicht,’ he said bitterly.

‘I’m no carin’ whether I use mines or no,’ Macgregor remarked from the depths of his dejection.

Willie gave him a grostesque wink, and observed:  ’I believe ye’re feart to gang into Glesca noo.  Oh, they weemen!’

‘If ye hadna a face for pies already, I wud gi’e ye yin!’

’Ah, but ye daurna strike a man that’s been wounded in his country’s service.  Aw, gor, I wisht I had never enlisted!  What country’s worth a mug like this? . . .  Which girl are ye maist feart for, Macgreegor?’