David would hardly have been human if he had not boasted a little that first night.  He had often pictured to himself just how it would be.  Jean would sit by the fire and listen, and he would sit on the old comfortable sofa and recount all the doings of his first term, tell of his friends, his tutors, his rooms, the games, the fun—­all the details of the wonderful new life.  And it had happened just as he had pictured it—­lucky David!  The room had looked as he had known it would look, with a fire that sparkled as only Jean’s fire ever sparkled, and Jean’s eyes—­Jean’s “doggy” eyes, as Mhor called them—­were lit with interest; and Jock and Mhor and Peter crept in after a little and lay on the rug and gazed up at him, a quiet and most satisfactory audience.

Jean felt a little in awe of this younger brother of hers, who had suddenly grown a man and spoke with an air of authority.  She had an ache at her heart for the Davie who had been a little boy and content to lean; she seemed hardly to know this new David.  But it was only for a little.  When Jock and Mhor had gone to bed, the brother and sister sat over the fire talking, and David forgot all his new importance and ceased to “buck,” and told Jean all his little devices to save money, and how he had managed just to scrape along.

“If only everyone else were poor as well,” said Jean, “then it wouldn’t matter.”

“That’s just it; but it’s so difficult doing things with men who have loads of money.  It never seems to occur to them that other people haven’t got it.  Of course I just say I can’t afford to do things, but that’s awkward too, for they look so surprised and sort of ashamed, and it makes me feel a prig and a fool.  I think having a lot of money takes away people’s imagination.”

“Oh, it does,” Jean agreed.

“Anyway,” David went on, “it’s up to me to make some money.  I hate sponging on you, old Jean, and I’m not going to do it.  I’ve been trying my hand at writing lately and—­I’ve had two things accepted.”

Jean all but fell into the fire in her surprise and delight.

“Write!  You!  Oh, Davie, how utterly splendid!”

A torrent of questions followed, which David answered as well as he could.

“Yes, they are printed, and paid for, and what’s more I’ve spent the money.”  He brought out from his pocket a small leather case which he handed to his sister.

“For me?  Oh, David!” Her hands shook as she opened the box and disclosed a small brooch, obviously inexpensive but delicately designed.

“It’s nothing,” said David, walking away from the emotion in his sister’s face.  “With the rest of the money I got presents for the boys and Mrs. M’Cosh and Peter, but they’d better be kept out of sight till Christmas Day.”

Truth to tell, he had meant to keep the brooch also out of sight till Christmas, but the temptation to see Jean’s pleasure had been too strong.  This Jean divined and, with happy tears in her eyes, handed it back to him to keep till the proper giving-day arrived.