CHAPTER TWELVE
On the fifth night, at the seventh page of words beginning with a “D,” Macgregor closed the dictionary and asked himself what was the good of it all. His face was hot, his whole being restless. He looked at his watch—a quarter to eight. He got up and carefully placed the dictionary under a copy of “Ivanhoe” on the chest of drawers. He would go for a walk.
He left the house quietly.
In the kitchen Lizzie, pausing in her knitting, said to John: “That’s Macgreegor awa’ oot.”
“It’ll dae him nae harm,” said John. “He’s becomin’ a great reader, Lizzie.”
“I dinna see why he canna read ben here. It’s cauld in his room. What’s he readin’?”
“The book he got frae his Uncle Purdie three year back.”
“Weel, I’m sure I’m gled if he’s takin’ an interest in it at last.”
“Oh, ‘Ivanhoe’ ’s no’ a bad story,” remarked John. “Whiles it’s fair excitin’.”