'Then I'll bid ye guid-bye--an' I could bet ye a bob ye'll never see me again. So I'll tell ye something.' His words came with a rush. 'Ye're aboot the nicest girl I ever kent, Christina. Macgreegor's a luckier deevil nor he deserves. But I'll look efter him for ye in Flanders. Trust me for that. Noo that we're really boun' for the Front, in a day or so, things is different--at least I'm feelin' different. Dinna laugh! I--I dinna want to ha'e ony enemies but the Germans. I've jist been an' kissed ma aunt--dammit! An' noo'--he caught her hand, pulled her to him--'I'm gaun to kiss _you_! There!' He turned and bolted. Christina's hand went to her cheek, and fell back to her side. Her colour ebbed as swiftly as it had flowed. She began to shake. 'Bound for the Front, in a day or so.' . . . Later she went to the sitting-room where her employer was once more absorbing comfort from a cup. 'Miss Tod,' she said quietly, 'I want to gang hame.' In the evening she posted a small package with this note enclosed-- 'I am sending the ring Mrs. McOstrich said I was to give you when the time came for you to go. I hope it will bring you good luck. God bless you. 'CHRISTINA.' She lay awake most of the night, wondering if she might not have written more, wondering what answer he would send, wondering--wondering. . . . And as she fell asleep in the grey of morning, hours before the package would be delivered at the camp, a long train, at an outlying station, started on its way south, and six hundred eager lads shouted in the face of all things. 'We're awa' this time, by Goad!' yelled Willie in his friend's ear. And Macgregor laughed wildly and wrung his friend's hand. XXI 'HULLO, GLESCA HIELANDERS!' Like a trodden, forgotten thing Private Macgregor Robinson lay on the Flanders mud, under the murk and rain. A very long time it seemed since that short, grim struggle amid the blackness and intermittent brightness. The night was still rent with noise and light, but the storm of battle had passed from the place where he had fallen. He could not tell whether his fellows had taken the enemy's trench or retired to their own. He had the vaguest ideas as to where he was. But he knew that there was pain in his left shoulder and right foot, that he was athirst, also that he had killed a man--a big stout man, old enough to have been his father. He tried not to think of the last, though he did not regret it: it had been a splendid moment.