“Ye ha’ena annoyed me, dearie. But I’m vexed to think ye’ve got sich notions in yer young heid.” M. Tod sighed. Christina sighed also, a little impatiently, and picked up the fancy ink-pot from the counter. “Hoo lang ha’e ye had this in the shop?” she enquired carelessly. M. Tod shook her head. “Ten years, onyway. It wudna sell.” “It’s marked eighteenpence.” “Ay. But when I had a wee sale, five year back, I put it among a lot of nick-nacks at threepence, an’ even then it wudna sell. It’s no’ pretty.” “It’s ugly――but that’s nae reason for it no’ sellin’.” Christina examined the glass carefully. “It’s no’ in bad condition,” she observed. “Wud ye part wi’ it for ninepence?” “Ninepence! I’ll never get ninepence!” “Never say die till ye’re buried! Jist wait a minute.” Christina went over to the desk and spent about five minutes there, while M. Tod watched her with intermittent wags of her old head. The girl came back with a small oblong of white card. “Dinna touch it, Miss Tod. The ink’s no’ dry,” she said warningly, and proceeded to place the inkpot and card together in a prominent position on the glass show-case that covered a part of the counter. “Noo, that’ll gi’e it a chance. Instead o’ keepin’ it in a corner as if we were ashamed o’ it, we’ll mak’ a feature o’ it for a week, an’ see what happens. Ye’ll get yer ninepence yet.” Christina printed admirably, and her employer had no difficulty in reading the card a yard away even without her glasses. It bore these words: ANTIQUE NOVEL GIFT MERELY 9D. “If ye call a thing ‘antique,’” explained Christina, “folk forget its ugliness. An’ the public likes a thing wi’ ‘novel’ on it, though they wudna believe ye if ye said it was new. An’ as for ‘gift’――weel, that adds to the inkpot’s chances o’ findin’ a customer. D’ye see?” “Ay,” said the old woman. “Ye’re a clever lassie, but I doobt ye’ll never get ninepence.” “Gi’e me a week,” said Christina, “an’ if it doesna disappear in that time, we’ll keep it till Christmas an’ reduce it to a shillin’. But I think a week’ll suffice.” M. Tod hesitated ere she gently said: “But ye’ll no try to cod onybody, dearie?” Christina waved her hand in the direction of the card. “I’ll leave the public to cod itsel’,” she said. “Noo it’s time ye was gettin’ ready for yer walk.” * * * * * It may have been that Christina, in the back of her mind, saw in Macgregor a possible customer for the ugly inkpot. At any rate, she was disappointed when the evening passed without his entering the shop; she hoped she had not spoken too plainly to him on his last visit――not but what he needed plain speaking. She was not to know until later how Macgregor’s employer had unexpectedly decreed that he should work overtime that night, nor how Macgregor had obeyed joylessly despite the extra pay.