Christina smiled as prettily as any musical comedy actress selling guinea button-holes at a charity fête. She said: “I’ll tell Miss Tod. She’ll be delighted. It’s a great saving, buying a dozen, isn’t it?” Her hand went into the drawer. “Especially when one uses so many. It’s hardly worth while buying a single pencil, is it?” Her hand came out of the drawer and laid a bundle in front of Macgregor. “Wonderful how they can do it for threepence!” He stared at the bundle, his will fluttering like a bird under a strawberry net. Dash the pencils!――but she might be offended if―――― “Some shops sell those pencils at a ha’penny each, I know,” she went on; “and I believe some have the neck――I mean the cheek to ask a penny. Would you like me to put them in paper, sir?” Recovering from the shock of the “sir,” Macgregor shook his head, and laid three coppers on the counter. “Thank you,” said she. “Is there anything else to-day?” Before he could answer, the door opened and an elderly man entered. At the ring of the bell Macgregor dropped the bundle; the flimsy fastening parted, and the pencils were scattered. Christina checked an “Oh, crickey!” and turned to attend to the second customer while the first collected his purchases from the floor. The elderly man wanted a newspaper only, but thanks to Christina’s politeness over the transaction, he went out feeling as if he had done quite a stroke of business. “I think you should let me tie them up for you,” she said to Macgregor, who was rising once more, rather red in the face. “Thank ye,” he said apologetically, handing her the pencils. “Accidents will happen,” she remarked cheerfully. “If they didn’t, there would be mighty little happening. I say, there’s only eleven pencils here.” “The ither rolled ablow the counter. It doesna matter,” he said. “Oh, but that won’t do. See, I’ll give you another now, and get the one under the counter some day――next stock-taking, maybe.” She began to make a parcel, then halted in the operation. “Are you sure there’s nothing else that I can show you to-day, sir?” Macgregor didn’t want to go just yet, so he appeared to be thinking deeply. “Essay paper――notebooks,” she murmured; “notepaper――envelopes―― indiarubber――――” “Injinrubber,” said Macgregor. (He would give it to Jimsie.) She turned and whipped a box from a shelf. “Do you prefer the red or the white――species?” she enquired, and felt glad she hadn’t said “sort.” “Oh, I’m no heedin’ which,” he replied generously, with a bare glance at the specimens laid out for his inspection. “All the same price――one penny per cake. The red is more flexible.” By way of exhibiting its quality, she took the oblong lengthwise between her finger and thumb and squeezed. To her dismay it sprang from her grip and struck her customer on the chin. “Oh, mercy!” she exclaimed. “I didna mean――” Recovering the missile from the floor, he said gravely: “My! ye’re a comic!” “I’m not! I tell ye I didna mean it. Did it hurt ye?”