Willie went to bed, too, earlier than usual, and lay awake wondering, among other things, whether his aching ear entitled him to a little further credit in the matter of his debt to Jessie Mary――not that any length of credit would have made payment seem possible. For Willie was up to the neck in debt, owing the appalling sum of five shillings and ninepence to an old woman who sold newspapers, paraffin oil and cheap cigarettes, and who was already threatening to go to his aunt for her money――a proceeding which would certainly result in much misery for Willie. He was “out of a job” again; but it isn’t easy to get work, more especially when one prefers to do nothing. To some extent Macgregor was to blame for his having got into debt with the tobacconist, for if Macgregor had not stopped smoking, Willie would not have needed to buy nearly so many cigarettes. Nevertheless, Willie’s thoughts did not dwell long or bitterly on that point. Rather did they dwell on Macgregor himself. And after a while Willie drew up his legs and pulled the insufficient bedclothes over his head and lay very still. This he had done since he was a small boy, when lonesomeness got the better of him, when he wished he had a father and mother like Macgregor’s. And, as has been hinted, neither was Christina at ease that night. Indeed, it were almost safe to say that of the four young people involved in this little tragicomedy, Macgregor, yawning over his old school dictionary, was the least unhappy. CHAPTER TWELVE On the fifth night, at the seventh page of words beginning with a “D,” Macgregor closed the dictionary and asked himself what was the good of it all. His face was hot, his whole being restless. He looked at his watch――a quarter to eight. He got up and carefully placed the dictionary under a copy of “Ivanhoe” on the chest of drawers. He would go for a walk. He left the house quietly. In the kitchen Lizzie, pausing in her knitting, said to John: “That’s Macgreegor awa’ oot.” “It’ll dae him nae harm,” said John. “He’s becomin’ a great reader, Lizzie.” “I dinna see why he canna read ben here. It’s cauld in his room. What’s he readin’?” “The book he got frae his Uncle Purdie three year back.” “Weel, I’m sure I’m gled if he’s takin’ an interest in it at last.” “Oh, ‘Ivanhoe’ ’s no’ a bad story,” remarked John. “Whiles it’s fair excitin’.” Said Jimsie from the hearthrug: “He doesna seem to enjoy it much, Paw.” “Weel, it’s no’ a funny book.” “It’s time ye was in yer bed, Jimsie,” said Mrs. Robinson. “It’s ower late for ye.” “Aw, the wean’s fine,” said John. Jeannie laid down her sewing. “Come on, Jimsie, an’ I’ll tell ye a wee story afore ye gang to sleep.” “Chaps ye!” Jimsie replied, getting up. When the two had gone, Lizzie observed casually: “It’s the first nicht Macgreegor’s been oot this week.” “Weel, ye should be pleased, wumman.” John smiled. A pause. “I wonder what made him gi’e up a’ his siller on Seturday nicht.”