Macgregor knew, but could not have put it in words.

'Gettin' tired o' yer job here?'

'Na, Uncle Purdie.'

'H'm!' Mr. Purdie fondled his left whisker. 'An' when--a--ha'e ye
got to--a--jine yer regiment?'

'The morn's mornin'. I believe we're gaun into camp immediately.'

'Oho! So ye'll be wantin' to be quit o' yer job here at once.
Weel, weel, if ye feel it's yer duty to gang, lad, I suppose it's
mines to let ye gang as cheery as I can. But--I maun tell yer
aunt.' Mr. Purdie rose.

Macgregor, smiled dubiously. '_She'll_ no' be pleased onyway.'

'Aw, ye never can tell what'll please yer aunt. At least, that's
been ma experience for quarter o' a century. But it'll be best to
tell her--through the 'phone, of course. A handy invention the
'phone. Bide here till I come back.'

In a few minutes he returned suppressing a smile.

'I couldna ha'e presumed frae her voice that she was delighted,' he
reported; 'but she commanded me to gi'e ye five pound for
accidental expenses, as she calls them, an' yer place here is to be
preserved for ye, an' yer wages paid, even supposin' the war gangs
on for fifty year.'