He went red to the roots of his hair, or at any rate to the edge of his hat. “Oh, I kent fine ye was coddin’ me,” he said crossly, looking hurt and getting to his feet. She stopped laughing at once. “That’s the worst o’ talkin’ plain sense nooadays; folk think ye’re only coddin’,” she observed, good-humouredly. “I’m sorry I vexed ye.” Impulsively she held out her hand. “I doobt we’ll ha’e to shake again.” This, also, was too much for Macgregor. He seized her fingers in a grip that made her squeal. And just then bang went the bell above the door. Christina bit her lip and smiled through her tears as M. Tod entered the shop. “Anything else to-day?” she enquired in her politest voice, and placed the little parcel under Macgregor’s hand. His reply was inaudible. His hand closed automatically on his purchase, his eyes met hers for the fraction of a second, and then he practically bolted. “Young men are aye in sich a great hurry nooadays,” remarked M. Tod, beginning to remove her gloves. “He’s the young man that bought the dizzen pencils the ither nicht,” Christina explained, examining the joints of her right hand. “I’ve just been sellin’ him anither dizzen.” “Dearie me! he _must_ be a reporter on yin of the papers.” “He’s a whale for pencils, whatever he is,” Christina returned, putting straight the piles of periodicals that adorned the counter. “I doobt he wud need to report wi’ his feet forbye his han’s to get through a dizzen pencils in three days. It’s a bit o’ a mystery aboot the pencils.” “A mystery!” exclaimed M. Tod, who was just about to blow into a glove. Christina picked the neglected penny from the counter and dropped it into the till. “It’s a case o’ _cherchez la femme_,” she said softly, with quite a passable accent. “What’s that?” murmured M. Tod. “French,” sighed Christina, making a jotting of her last sales, and taking a long time to do it. M. Tod stared for a moment or two, shook her head, drew a long breath, and with the same inflated her glove. CHAPTER SEVEN Macgregor was half-way home ere he comprehended the cause of the dull ache about his temples. He eased his hat and obtained relief. But there was no lid to lift from his mind which seemed to be overcrowded with a jumble of ideas――old ideas turned topsy-turvy, some damaged, some twisted, and new ideas struggling, as it were, for existence. Moral earthquakes are not infrequent during our ’teens and twenties; by their convulsions they provide construction material for character; but the material is mixed, and we are left to choose whether we shall erect sturdy towers or jerry-buildings. * * * * *