A minute later he slipped quietly into the passage and took his cap from its peg. The kitchen door opened. “Whaur are ye gaun, Macgreegor?” his mother asked. “Oot,” he replied briefly, and went. Going down the stairs he felt sorry somehow. Sons often feel sorry somehow, but mothers may never know it. When Lizzie, hiding her hurt, had shut the kitchen door, Mr. Purdie said softly: “That question an’ that answer, ma dear, are as auld as human natur’.” * * * * * As Macgregor turned out of the tenement close he encountered his one-time chum, Willie Thomson. Macgregor might not have admitted it to his parents, but during the last few weeks he had been finding Willie’s company less and less desirable. Willie now put precisely the same question that Mrs. Robinson had put a minute earlier. “I’ll maybe see ye later,” was Macgregor’s evasive response, delivered awkwardly. He passed on. “Ha’e ye a ceegarette on ye?” cried Willie, taking a step after him. “Na.” “Ye’re in a queer hurry.” “I’ll maybe see ye later,” said Macgregor again, increasing his speed in a curious guilty fashion. Willie made no attempt to overtake him. He, too, had been finding a certain staleness in the old friendship――especially since Macgregor had stopped his purchases of cigarettes. Willie was as often out of employment as in it, but he did not realise that he was in danger of becoming a mere loafer and sponge. Yet he was fond of Macgregor. Macgregor passed from the quiet street wherein he lived into one of Glasgow’s highways, aglow with electric light, alive with noise out of all proportion to its traffic. He continued to walk swiftly, his alert eyes betraying his eagerness, for the distance of a couple of blocks. Then into another quiet street he turned, and therein his pace became slower and slower, until it failed altogether. Beneath a gas lamp he questioned his watch, his expression betokening considerable anxiety. It was a fine October night, but chilly――not that he gave any sign of feeling cold. For a space he remained motionless, gazing up the street. Possibly he would have liked a cigarette just then. As though rousing himself, he moved abruptly and proceeded slowly to the next lamp post, turned about and came back to his first halting-place, where he turned about again. For a long half-hour he continued to stroll between the two posts. Few persons passed him, and he did not appear to notice them. Indeed, it may as well be frankly admitted that he shamefully avoided their glances. When at last he did stop, it was with a sort of jerk. From one of the closes a girl emerged and came towards him. CHAPTER TWO Macgregor’s acquaintance with Jessie Mary was almost as old as himself; yet only within the last three months had he recognised her existence as having aught of importance to do with his own. This recognition had followed swift on the somewhat sudden discovery that Jessie Mary was pretty.