“There’s a shillin’ each for Jeannie an’ Jimsie. I’m no’ needin’ the rest. I’m wearied,” he said, and went straightway to his own room.
John got up and joined his wife at the table. “Did I no’ tell ye,” he cried, triumphantly, “that Macgreegor wud dae the richt thing?”
Lizzie stared at the little heap of silver and bronze.
“John,” she whispered at last, and there was a curious distressed note in her voice, “John, d’ye no’ see?—he’s gi’ed me ower much!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As a rule tonics are bitter, and their effects very gradual, often so gradual as to be hardly noticeable until one’s strength is put to some test. While it would be unfair to deny the existence of “backbone” in Macgregor, it is but just to grant that the “backbone” required stiffening. And it is no discredit to Macgregor that the tincture of Christina’s hardier spirit which, along with her (to him) abundant sweetness, he had been absorbing during these past weeks, was the very tonic he needed, the tonic without which he could not have acted as he did on the Monday night following his dismissal.
Of this action one may say, at first thought, that it was simply the outcome of an outraged pride. Yet Macgregor’s pride was at best a drowsy thing until a girl stabbed it. It forced him to Jessie Mary’s door, but there failed him. Throughout the miserable Sunday it lay inert, with only an occasional spasm. And though he went with it to the encounter on Monday, he carried it as a burden. His real supporters were Love and Determination, and the latter was a new comrade, welcome, but not altogether of his own inspiring.
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