'Maggie! Oh, h.e.l.l! But no frae me, Macgreegor, no frae me! Ye believe that?'

'Oh, ay.'

Willie let off sundry curses. 'But I suppose I'm to blame,' he said bitterly.

'Naebody to blame but masel'.'

'But did ye no explain to Christina? A' ye did was to canoodle wi'

the wrang girl, pro tem.--a thing that happens daily. I couldna fancy a girl that naebody had ever wanted to cuddle; an' if I was a girl I couldna fancy a chap that----'

'Nae use talkin' aboot it, Wullie,' Macgregor said sadly, wearily.

'Aw, but her an' you 'll mak' it up afore ye're done. If ye dinna, I'll want to kill masel' an' Maggie forbye. A' the same, I wisht fat Maggie was here the noo. I could dae fine wi' a bit squeeze.'

'My! ye're a fair treat!' said Macgregor, chuckling in his misery.

''_Sh_! Keep still! Something comin'!'

The distant gun-fire had diminished. There were appreciable silences between the blasts. But during a flash Macgregor detected a helmeted crawling shape. Willie's hand stole out and grasped the bayonet.

'Number twa!' he muttered, with a stealthy movement. 'I maun get him!'

But Macgregor's ears caught a faint sound that caused him to grip the other's wrist.

'Wait,' he whispered.

The helmeted shape came on, looking neither to right nor left, and as it came it sobbed. And it pa.s.sed within a few yards of them, and into the deeper gloom, sobbing, sobbing.

'Oh, Christ!' sighed Willie, shuddering.

'Put yer arm roun' me, Mac. I'm feart.'

Five minutes later he affected to jeer at himself. 'Weel, I'm rested noo,' he continued, 'an' it's time we was gettin' a move on.

Mornin's comin', an' if we're spotted here, we're done for. Can ye creep?'

Macgregor tried and let out a little yelp.

'Na, ye canna. Ye'll jist ha'e to get on ma back.'

'Wullie, gang yersel'----'

'Obey yer corporal!'

'Ye're no a corp----'

'If they dinna mak' me a corporal for this, I'll quit the service!

Onyway, I'm no gaun wi'oot ye. Same time, I canna guarantee no to tak' ye to the German lines. But we maun risk that. Ye'll ha'e to leave yer rifle, but keep on the dish-cover till I gi'e ye the word. . . . Noo then! Nae hurry. I'll ha'e to creep the first part o' the journey. Are ye ready? Weel, here's luck to the twa o' us!'

There is no authentic description of that horrible journey save Willie's, which is unprintable.

It was performed literally by inches. More than once Willie collapsed, groaning, under his burden. Macgregor, racked as he was, shed tears for his friend's sake. Time had no significance except as a measure of suspense and torture. But Willie held on, directed by some instinct, it seemed, over that awful sh.e.l.l-fragment-studded mire, round the verges of sh.e.l.l-formed craters, past dead and wounded waiting for succour--on, on, till the very guns seemed to have grown weary, and the rain ceased, and the air grew chillier as with dread of what the dawn should disclose, and the blackness was diluted to grey.

'Drap the ---- dish-cover,' croaked Willie, and halted for a minute's rest.

Then on again. But at long last Willie muttered: 'I think it's oor trench. If I'm wrang, fareweel to Argyle Street! I'll ha'e to risk gi'ein' them a hail in case some silly blighter lets fly in this rotten licht. Slip doon, Mac--nae hurry--nae use hurtin'

yersel' for naething. I'll maybe ha'e to hurt ye in a meenute. . . . N' for it!' He lifted up his voice. 'Hullo, Glesca Hielanders!'

It seemed an age until--

'Right oh!' came a cheerful response.

'Hurray!' yelled Willie, and rose stiffly to his feet.

Then with a final effort, he gave Macgregor the 'fireman's lift,'

and staggered and stumbled, amid shots from the other side, into safety.

XXII

NO HERO, YET HAPPY

Christina was arranging the counter for the day's business when the postman brought her a letter in a green envelope with the imprint 'On Active Service'. Her heart leapt only to falter as her eyes took in the unfamiliar writing. Then under the 'Certificate' on the left-hand side she perceived the signature--'W. Thomson.'

Something dreadful must have happened! She sat down and gazed at the envelope, fingering it stupidly. At last she pulled herself together and opened it. The letter was dirty, ill-written, badly spelt; but so are many of the finest-spirited letters of these days.

'If you are wanting a perf.e.c.k man, by yourself a statute from the muesum. Then you can treat him cold and he will not nottice other girls when you leav him for to enjoy yourself. Mac was not for haveing anny when he first seen Maggie, but he was vext at you, and I eggged him on with telling him he was feared, and he took her in a cab becaus it was poring, and maybe he gave her a bit sqeese, I do not no for certin, but it is more like she began it, for Maggie woud rather take a cuddel nor a good dinner anny day. Likewize there is times when a chap must sqeese something. It is no dash use for a girl to expeck her intended to keep looking at her when she is not there, unless she makes it worth his while with nice letters and so fourth. He gets soon fed up on cold nothings. Mac does not care a roten aple for Maggie, but you left him nothing better, and she is a nice girl and soft with a man, so G.o.d forgive you as I will not till I hear you are reddy to kiss him again. Mac is wounded in 2 places, but not mortle. He got wounded saveing my life. I am not wounded yet. He garded my back, which saved me.

Probly you will see him soon, so prepare to behave yourself.

Remmember you alowed me to kiss you??? Hopping you will take this good advice more kindly nor usual.

Yours resp.

W. THOMSON, Lce. Corp. 9th H.L.I.

P.S.--If you was less proud and more cuddelsom, you woud not loss much fun in this world.--W. T., Lce. Corp. 9th H.L.I.

Macgregor was in a small hospital not far from London. While not to be described as serious, his wounds were likely to keep him out of action for several months to come. He was comfortable, and the people were very kind. Their English speech puzzled him almost as much as his Scotch amused them.

More tired than pained, he lay idly watching the play of light on his old-fashioned ring, the gift of Mrs. McOstrich. It had reached him just before he was borne from France, too late, he thought, to bring him luck. But the only luck he wanted now was Christina. He had her brief note by heart. There was kindness but no comfort in the words; forgiveness, maybe, but no promise of reconciliation.

Truly he had made a horrid mess of it; nevertheless he rebelled against taking all the blame. Christina could not have cared much when she would listen to no explanations. . . . Now he had a great longing for the touch of his mother and the smile of his father, the soft speech of Jeannie and the eager pipings of wee Jimsie.

Also, he wondered, with a sort of ache, how Willie was faring.

A nurse appeared, sorted his pillow, chatted for a moment, then went and drew down the blinds against the afternoon sun. And presently Macgregor dropped into a doze.

He awoke to what seemed a dream. Of all people, Aunt Purdie was seated at his bedside.