The boy was not, of course, aware that here was a crisis in his life. He was staggered and disturbed, just as he would have been had the smooth, broad street on which he walked suddenly become a narrow pass beset with rifts and boulders. The upheaval of his preconceived notions of girlhood had been sharp indeed. He had never heard a girl speak as Christina had spoken; it had never occurred to him that a girl could speak so. But while he felt hurt and vexed, he harboured no resentment; her frank friendliness had disposed of that; and while he was humbled, he was not――thanks to his modesty, or, if you prefer it, lack of cocksureness――grievously humiliated. It is not in the nature of healthy youth to let misery have all its own way. Before he reached home he was able to extract several sips of comfort from his recent experience. He knew her name and she knew his; they had discovered a mutual acquaintance (how we love those mutual acquaintances――sometimes!); they had shaken hands twice. He spent the evening indoors――he might have done otherwise had not Christina said something about being busy on Saturday nights. He was patient with his little brother, almost tender towards his sister. He played several games of draughts with his father, wondering between his deplorable moves when he should see Christina again. He spoke in a subdued fashion. And about nine o’clock his mother anxiously asked him whether he was feeling quite well, and offered to prepare a homely potion. One regrets to record that he returned a rough answer and went off to bed, leaving Lizzie to shake her head more in sorrow than in anger while she informed John that she doubted Macgregor was “sickenin’ for something.” As Macgregor had not condescended to play draughts for at least two years, John was inclined to share her fears; it did not occur to him to put down such conduct to feminine influence; and an hour later, at her suggestion, he went to his son’s room and softly opened the door. “Oh! ye’re no’ in yer bed yet, Macgreegor?” “I’m jist gaun.” “What are ye workin’ at?” “Jist sharpenin’ a pencil. I’ll no’ be lang”――impatiently. “Are ye feelin’ weel enough?” “I’m fine. Dinna fash yersel’.” John withdrew and reported to Lizzie. She was not satisfied, and before going to bed, about eleven o’clock, she listened at Macgregor’s door. All she heard was: “Here, Jimsie, I wish to peace ye wud keep yer feet to yersel’.” She opened the door. “Laddie, are ye no’ sleepin’ yet?” “Hoo can I sleep wi’ Jimsie jabbin’ his feet in ma back?” She entered, and going to the bed removed the unconscious Jimsie to his own portion thereof, at the same time urging him into a more comfortable position. Then she came round and laid her hand on her first-born’s brow. “Are ye sure ye’re a’ richt, laddie?” “Ay, I’m fine. I wish ye wudna fash,” he said shortly, turning over.