'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