"Margaret," I said softly, "I love you!"
She held up her lips to me ... and then I walked out of the byre.
And, you know, I intended to say something very different. I intended to say: "Margaret, I was a fool last night. Try to forget all about it."
I kissed her instead. I'm afraid I was a fool last night, and a fool to-night, and a fool all the time. However, I am a happy fool to-night.
X.
Macdonald has returned. He has brought a man Macduff with him, a college friend of his, and now the headmaster of a big school in Perthshire. He has mentioned Macduff to me more than once. Macduff is his ideal schoolmaster, a stern disciplinarian and a great producer of "results." When they came up to see me to-night Macdonald's face glowed with anticipation; it was evident that he had come to my funeral. Macduff was to slay me, bury me, and write my epitaph. I thought of agreeing with Macduff as much as possible, so as to rob Macdonald of his triumph, but I found it impossible to find more than a few points of agreement. I managed, however, to carry the war into the enemy's camp, and Macduff found himself acting on the defensive more than once.
"I read your Log," he said agreeably, "and I must congratulate you on it. I laughed at many of the yarns you have in it."
"The worst of being called a humorist," said I, "is that everybody seizes on your light bits, and ignores your serious bits."