“No,” replied Christina, with a sniff or two of her straight little nose.
“Or a pictur’ artist?” said M. Tod, conveying the two bundles to the wrong drawer.
Christina, without a word, recovered them and put them into their proper places. She mounted her stool and whipped up a pen.
M. Tod sighed. “I never used to keep pencils at that price. They canna be vera guid.”
“They’re rotten.”
“Oh, lassie!”
“Sell—or gang bankrupt,” said Christina with enough bitter cynicism for twenty-one. “There’s a penny profit on the bundle. Ex—cuse me.” She dipped her pen.
* * * * *
As Macgregor was nearing his home, a prey to misery and wroth, a grinning face popped from a close-mouth.
“Haw! haw! Macgreegor! So ye’re courtin’, are ye?”