A wretched position to be in, for nothing else in the world of stationery was quite so natural and easy to ask for as a pencil――unless a―――― Why had he not thought of it before?――a pen! Saved! He would enter boldly, as one who had every right to do so, and demand to be shown some pencils――no, pens, of course. There were many varieties of pens, he knew, even in small shops, so his selection would take time――lots of time! If only he were _sure_ the old woman wasn’t there. And just then the bell rang, the door of the shop opened and closed, and the old woman herself came out. In spite of her hat Macgregor recognised her at once. She turned her face skywards to make certain that it wasn’t raining, gave a satisfied smirk, which Macgregor accepted with a fearful start, though it was intended for the window and its contents, and trotted up the street. On the wave of relief, as it were, Macgregor was carried from the window to the entrance. Yet he had no sooner opened the door with its disconcerting note of warning than he wished he had delayed a minute or two longer. To retire, however, was out of the question. He closed the door as though he were afraid of wakening a baby, and faced the counter. The girl was there, and wearing the scarlet blouse again. Laying aside the magazine which she had just picked up, she smiled coldly and said calmly: “Good-afternoon. Nice day after the rain.” In mentally rehearsing his entrance the previous night Macgregor had, among other things, seen himself raise his brand-new bowler hat. To his subsequent shame and regret, he now omitted to perform the little courtesy. That he should forget his manners was perhaps even less surprising than that he should forget the hat itself, which gripped his head in a cruel fashion. “Ay,” he said solemnly in response to the polite greeting, and advanced to the counter. “Not just so disagreeable as yesterday,” she added, a trifle more cordially. “Ay――na.” He glanced up and down the counter. “I――I was wantin’ a pencil,” he said at last. “A _pencil_!” cried Christina; then in a voice from which all the amazement had gone: “A pencil――oh, certainly.” Macgregor reddened, opened his mouth and――shut it. Why should he make a bigger fool of himself by explaining that he had meant to say “a pen?” Besides (happy thought!) the pen would be an excuse for calling another time. Christina opened the drawer and paused, pursing her lips. Her tone was casual as she said: “I hope you found the dozen you bought lately quite satisfactory.” “Oh――ay, they were――splendid.” Macgregor blushed again.