“Silence! I cannot hear a word you say,” declared Christina, recovering herself and her more formal speech, though her colour, which had faded, now bloomed again. “I’ll cry it loud, if ye like, so as the folk in the street can hear. But ye can pretend ye dinna hear,” he said ironically. “I’m no’ heedin’ whether ye hear or no’.” “I wish you would go away, you impertinent thing!” “Macgreegor――――” he began. Once more she covered her ears. “Macgreegor,” proceeded Willie, with a rude wink, “never had ony notion o’ takin’ Jessie Mary to the dance. She was jist coddin’ ye, though I daursay she was kin’ o’ jealous because ye had cut her oot. So I think ye should mak’ it up wi’ Macgreegor when ye get the chance. He’s awfu’ saft on ye. I wudna be him for a――――” “Go away!” said Christina. “You’re simply wasting your breath.” “Dinna let on to Macgreegor that I tell’t ye,” he continued, unmoved, “an’, if Jessie Mary tries it on again, jist you put yer finger to yer nose at her.” “If you don’t go at once, I’ll――――” “Oh, ye canna dae onything, miss. I’ll forgi’e ye for that scud ye gi’ed me, but I wud advise ye no’ to be so quick wi’ yer han’s in future, or ye’ll maybe get into trouble.” He turned towards the door. “I daursay ye ken fine that Macgreegor watches ye leavin’ the shop every nicht――――” “What _are_ you talking about?” “Gi’e him a whistle or a wave the next time. There’s nae use in bein’ huffy.” “That’s enough!” Willie opened the door. “An’ ye best hurry up, or ye’ll maybe loss him. So long. I’ll no’ tell him I seen ye blushin’.” Christina opened her mouth, but ere she could speak, with a grin and a wink he was gone. She collapsed upon the stool. She had never been so angry in her life――at least, so she told herself. CHAPTER THIRTEEN John Robinson and his son sat on a pile of timber at the docks. Dusk was falling, and the air that had been mild for the season was growing chill. John replaced his watch in his pocket. “It’s comin’ on for tea-time. Are ye ready for the road, Macgreegor?” “Ay,” said the boy, without stirring. For two hours he had been struggling to utter the words on which he believed his future depended. “Weel,” said John, getting out his pipe preparatory to lighting it on passing the gate, “we best be movin’.” It was now or never. Macgregor cleared his throat. “The pentin’ trade’s rotten,” he said in a voice not his own. “Eh?” said John, rather staggered by the statement which was without relevance to any of the preceding conversation. “What’s rotten aboot it?” “Everything.” “That’s the first I’ve heard o’ ’t. In fac’, I’m tell’t the pentin’ trade is extra brisk the noo.” “That’s no’ what I meant,” Macgregor forced himself to say. “I meant it was a rotten trade to be in.”