Hastily deciding to “burst” the sum of one penny on the purchase of a pencil――an article for which he had more respect than use――he entered the doorway and turned the handle. He had forgotten the spring bell. When he pushed the door inwards, it “struck one”――right from the shoulder, so to speak. Who will assert that the ordinary healthy youth has no nerves? ’Tis a hoggishly healthy youth who does not bustle with them. The sturdy Macgregor wavered on the threshold; and as he wavered he heard behind him a badly stifled guffaw. Next moment a hearty push in the small of the back propelled him into the shop. With a hot countenance he pulled up, guessing who had pushed him, and strove to look as if this were his usual mode of entering a place of business. In his confusion he missed the quick glance of the girl seated at the desk on the window-end of the counter. Her head was bent low over her writing. He noticed, however, that she was wearing a white blouse――which did not remind him of Jessie Mary――and that she had a scarlet bow at her neck. “Yes, sir?” A mouse-like human being slipped from the back of the shop to the middle point of the counter. “Yes, sir?” it repeated, with an accent on the query. The girl at the desk took no notice. Macgregor approached. “I was wantin’ a pencil,” he said in the tone of one requesting a pint of prussic acid. “A pencil!” exclaimed the mouse-like human being, as though she had a dim recollection of hearing of such a thing long, long ago. “A pencil――oh, certainly,” she added, more hopefully. “Penny or ha’penny,” murmured the girl at the desk. “Penny or ha’penny?” demanded the mouse-like human being, almost pertly. Men didn’t expect change out of a penny! “A penny yin,” said Macgregor with an attempt at indifference. He tried to look at the girl, but could not get his eyes higher than her elbow. “A penny pencil!” The mouse-like human being assumed an expression suitable to a person who has just discovered the precise situation of the North Pole, but not the Pole itself. “Top drawer on your left, Miss Tod,” whispered the girl at the desk. “Quite so, Christina,” Miss Tod replied with dignity. There were times when she might have been accused of copying her assistant’s manners. She opened the drawer, which was a deep one, peered into it, groped, and brought forth three bundles of pencils. With sudden mildness she enquired of the girl: “These?... Those?” “No; them!” said Christina, forgetting her grammar and grabbing the third bundle. “Wait a minute.” She slipped lightly from her stool and gently edged M. Tod from the position at the counter which had been familiar to the latter for five-and-thirty years. “This,” she said to Macgregor, laying the bundle in front of him, “is a special line. One dozen――price threepence.” She looked over his head in a manner suggesting that it was quite immaterial to her whether he purchased the dozen or faded away on the spot.