But he had his dignity too. Producing three pennies from two pockets, he laid them on the counter, took up the bundle of pencils, said “Thank ye” to nobody in particular, and marched out. Nor did he forget to close the door behind him. The stationer and her assistant regarded each other for several seconds. “Dae ye think,” said M. Tod slowly, “that that young man is a newspaper reporter?” “No,” replied Christina, with a sniff or two of her straight little nose. “Or a pictur’ artist?” said M. Tod, conveying the two bundles to the wrong drawer. Christina, without a word, recovered them and put them into their proper places. She mounted her stool and whipped up a pen. M. Tod sighed. “I never used to keep pencils at that price. They canna be vera guid.” “They’re rotten.” “Oh, lassie!” “Sell――or gang bankrupt,” said Christina with enough bitter cynicism for twenty-one. “There’s a penny profit on the bundle. _Ex_――cuse me.” She dipped her pen. * * * * * As Macgregor was nearing his home, a prey to misery and wroth, a grinning face popped from a close-mouth. “Haw! haw! Macgreegor! So ye’re courtin’, are ye?” As the clock incontinently strikes when the hour has come, so struck Macgregor. And he struck so hard, that it was afterwards necessary he should see Willie Thomson to the latter’s door. Alone again, he cast the bundle of pencils into a dark entry and made his way home. His father opened the door, smiling a welcome. “Weel, Macgreegor――――” “I’m wearied,” said the boy, and passed straightway to his room and bolted the door. Jimsie was sleeping like a log, and was, as usual, occupying most of the bed. Macgregor stood at the old chest of drawers that served as dressing-table, his elbows planted thereon, his face in his hands. He _was_ wearied. But under his tired eyes lay a small oblong package with a covering of newspaper. The neatness of it made him think of his mother; she had a way of making next to nothing look something important in a parcel. Presently, wondering a little, he undid the paper. It contained one of his father’s old razors. Five minutes later he was enjoying a _real_ shave. The luxury was only exceeded by the importance he felt! And only two cuts that bled worth mentioning.... How one’s life may be changed in two short hours! But Macgregor was still without regret for having flung the pencils into the dark entry. CHAPTER SIX