She made allowance for his youth and the bashfulness she had so often experienced. “Macgreegor,” she whispered, slipping her hand through his arm, in the darkness of the street leading to her home, “Macgreegor, I believe I wud suner dance wi’ you than onybody else.”
Macgregor seemed to have nothing to say. The touch of her hand was pleasant, and yet he was uneasy.
“Macgreegor,” she said presently, a little breathlessly, “I’m no’ heedin’ aboot ony o’ the chaps that wants to tak’ me to the dance. If ye had a ticket——” She paused. They had halted in the close-mouth, as it is locally termed. “I’m sayin’, Macgreegor, if ye had a ticket——” She paused again.
The boy felt foolish and wretched. “But I canna gang to the dance, Jessie Mary,” he managed to say.
She leaned closer to him. “It’ll be a splendid dance—at least”—she looked at him boldly—“it wud be splendid if you and me was gaun thegether.”
In his wildest of wild dreams he may have thought of kissing this girl. He might have done it now—quite easily.
But he didn’t—he couldn’t.
“Na; I canna gang,” he said. “An’—an’ ma fayther’ll be waitin’ for his tobacco. Guidnicht.” He glanced at her with a miserable smile, and departed—bolted.
Poor Jessie Mary with her little natural vanities!
Poor Macgregor! He went home hot and ashamed—he could not have told why. He did not grudge the gifts, yet vaguely wished he had not given them.