She made allowance for his youth and the bashfulness she had so often experienced. “Macgreegor,” she whispered, slipping her hand through his arm, in the darkness of the street leading to her home, “Macgreegor, I believe I wud suner dance wi’ you than onybody else.” Macgregor seemed to have nothing to say. The touch of her hand was pleasant, and yet he was uneasy. “Macgreegor,” she said presently, a little breathlessly, “I’m no’ heedin’ aboot ony o’ the chaps that wants to tak’ me to the dance. If ye had a ticket――――” She paused. They had halted in the close-mouth, as it is locally termed. “I’m sayin’, Macgreegor, if ye had a ticket――――” She paused again. The boy felt foolish and wretched. “But I canna gang to the dance, Jessie Mary,” he managed to say. She leaned closer to him. “It’ll be a splendid dance――at least”――she looked at him boldly――“it wud be splendid if you and me was gaun thegether.” In his wildest of wild dreams he may have thought of kissing this girl. He might have done it now――quite easily. But he didn’t――he couldn’t. “Na; I canna gang,” he said. “An’――an’ ma fayther’ll be waitin’ for his tobacco. Guidnicht.” He glanced at her with a miserable smile, and departed――bolted. Poor Jessie Mary with her little natural vanities! Poor Macgregor! He went home hot and ashamed――he could not have told why. He did not grudge the gifts, yet vaguely wished he had not given them. And he dreamed that night of, among other queer things, a shop window, a plait of fair hair on a scarlet shoulder, and a black beetle. CHAPTER FIVE “Mercy, laddie!” exclaimed Mrs. Robinson, as her son entered the kitchen, a little late for tea. “What ha’e ye been daein’ to yer face?” The colour induced by the question seemed almost to extinguish the hectic spot at Macgregor’s left cheek-bone. “Washin’ it,” he answered shortly, taking his accustomed chair. “But it’s cut.” “Tits, Lizzie!” muttered Mr. Robinson. “Are ye for toast, Macgreegor?” “He’s been shavin’ his whiskers,” said Jimsie. “Did ye no’ ken Macgreegor’s gettin’ whiskers, Maw?” he went on in spite of a warning pressure from sister Jeannie. “Paw, what way dae folk get whiskers?” “Dear knows,” returned his father briefly. “Lizzie, can ye no’ gi’e Macgreegor a cup o’ tea?” Lizzie lifted the cosy from the brown teapot. “Where did ye get the razor, Macgreegor?” “He hasna got a razor, Maw,” said Jimsie. “He does it wi’ a wee knife.” “Shurrup!” Macgreegor growled, whereupon Jimsie choked and his eyes filled with tears. “Macgreegor,” said his mother, “that’s no’ the way to speak to yer wee brither.” “Macgreegor,” said his sister, “I’ll mak’ ye a bit o’ hot toast, if ye like.” “Ay, Jeannie,” said John quickly, “mak’ him a bit o’ hot toast, an’ I’ll look after Jimsie.” He turned the conversation to the subject of a great vessel that had been launched into the Clyde that morning.