‘I burst the twa pound on a ring.’

‘Oho!’ said John, gaily; then solemnly, ‘What kin’ o’ a ring, Macgreegor?’

‘An engagement yin,’ the ruddy youth replied.

Mr. Robinson laughed, but not very heartily.  ’Sae lang as it’s no a waddin’ ring. . . .  Weel, weel, this is the day for news.’  He touched his son’s arm.  ’It’ll be the young lass in the stationery shop—­her that ye whiles see at yer Uncle Purdie’s hoose—­eh?’

‘Hoo did ye ken?’

‘Oh, jist guessed.  It’s her?’

‘Maybe. . . .  She hasna ta’en the ring yet.’

’But ye think she will, or ye wudna ha’e tell’t me.  Weel, I’m sure I wish ye luck, Macgreegor.  She’s a bonny bit lass, rael clever, I wud say, an’—­an’ gey stylish.’

‘She’s no that stylish—­onyway, no stylish like Aunt Purdie.’

‘Ah, but ye maunna cry doon yer Aunt Purdie——­’

‘I didna mean that.  But ye ken what I mean, fayther.’

‘Oh, fine, fine,’ Mr. Robinson replied, thankful that he had not been asked to explain precisely what he had meant.  ‘She bides wi’ her uncle an’ aunt, does she no?’ he continued, thoughtfully.  ’I’m wonderin’ what they’ll say aboot this.  I doobt they’ll say ye’re faur ower young to be thinkin’ o’ a wife.’

It was on Macgregor’s tongue to retort that he had never thought of any such thing, when his father went on——­

‘An’ as for yer mither, it’ll be a terrible surprise to her.  I suppose ye’U be tellin’, her as sune’s ye get back ?’

‘Ay. . . .  Are ye no pleased about it?’

‘Me?’ Mr. Robinson scratched his head.  ‘Takin’ it for granted that ye’re serious aboot the thing, I was never pleaseder.  Ye can tell yer mither that, if ye like.’

Macgregor was used to the paternal helping word at awkward moments, but he had never valued it so much as now.  As a matter of fact, he dreaded his mother’s frown less than her smile.  Yet he need not have dreaded either on this occasion.

He found her in the kitchen, busy over a heap of more or less woolly garments belonging to himself.  Jimsie was at afternoon school; Jeannie sat in the little parlour knitting as though life depended thereby.

He sat down in his father’s chair by the hearth and lit a cigarette with fingers not quite under control.

‘I’ll ha’e to send a lot o’ things efter ye,’ Lizzie remarked.  ‘This semmit’s had its day.’

‘I’ll be gettin’ a bit leave afore we gang to the Front,’ said Macgregor, as though the months of training were already nearing an end.

’If ye dinna get leave sune, I’ll be up at the barracks to ha’e a word wi’ the general.’

‘It’ll likely be a camp, mither.’

‘Aweel, camp or barracks, see an’ keep yer feet cosy, an’ dinna smoke ower mony ceegarettes.’  She fell to with her needle.

At the end of a long minute, Macgregor observed to the kettle:  ’I tell’t fayther what I done wi’ the twa pound.’