“When ye come in, Macgreegor, I want ye to tell me if ye’re still set on leavin’ the pentin’. Dinna tell me noo. Tak’ yer walk, an’ think it ower, seriouslike. But dinna be late, laddie.” She went back to the kitchen, leaving him to shut the door. It was not much after seven o’clock, but he went straightway in the direction of M. Tod’s shop. For the first time in what seemed an age, he found himself at the familiar, glittering window. And lo! the glazed panel at the back was open a few inches. Quickly he retreated to the edge of the pavement, and stood there altogether undecided. But desire drew him, and gradually he approached the window again. Christina was sitting under the lamp, at the desk, her pretty profile bent over her writing, her fair plait falling over the shoulder of her scarlet shirt. She was engaged in pencilling queer little marks on paper, and doing so very rapidly. Macgregor understood that she was practising shorthand. No doubt she would be his uncle’s private secretary some day, while he―――― All at once it came to him that no one in the world could answer the great question but Christina. If the thing didn’t matter to Christina, it didn’t matter to him; it was for her sake that he would strive to be “guid enough yet,” not for the sake of being “guid enough” in itself. Besides, she had put the idea into his head. Surely she would not refuse to speak to him on that one subject. Now all this was hardly in accordance with the brave and independent plan which Macgregor had set out to follow――to wit, that he would not attempt to speak to Christina until he could announce that he was a member of his uncle’s staff. Yes, love is the great maker of plans――also, the great breaker. Coward or not, it took courage to enter the shop. Christina looked up, her colour deepening slightly. “Hullo,” she said coolly, though not coldly. It was not a snub anyway, and Macgregor walked up to the counter. He came to the point at once. “Wud ye advise me to try an’ get a job frae ma uncle?” he said, distinctly enough. “Me?” The syllable was fraught with intense astonishment. “Ye advised me afore to try it,” he said, fairly steadily. “Did I?”――carelessly. It was too much for him. “Oh, Christina!” he whispered reproachfully. “Well, I’m sure it’s none of my business. I thought you preferred being a painter.” The pity was that Christina should have just then remembered the existence of such a person as Jessie Mary, also the fact of her own slow walk from the shop the previous night. Yet she had forgotten both when she opened the panel at the back of the window a few inches. And perhaps she was annoyed with herself, knowing that she was not behaving quite fairly. He let her remark concerning his preference for the painting pass, and put a very direct question. “What made ye change yer mind aboot me that night?” “What night?” she asked flippantly, and told herself it was the silliest thing she had ever uttered.