Macgregor was in a small hospital not far from London. While not to be described as serious, his wounds were likely to keep him out of action for several months to come. He was comfortable, and the people were very kind. Their English speech puzzled him almost as much as his Scotch amused them.
More tired than pained, he lay idly watching the play of light on his old-fashioned ring, the gift of Mrs. McOstrich. It had reached him just before he was borne from France, too late, he thought, to bring him luck. But the only luck he wanted now was Christina. He had her brief note by heart. There was kindness but no comfort in the words; forgiveness, maybe, but no promise of reconciliation. Truly he had made a horrid mess of it; nevertheless he rebelled against taking all the blame. Christina could not have cared much when she would listen to no explanations. . . . Now he had a great longing for the touch of his mother and the smile of his father, the soft speech of Jeannie and the eager pipings of wee Jimsie. Also, he wondered, with a sort of ache, how Willie was faring.
A nurse appeared, sorted his pillow, chatted for a moment, then went and drew down the blinds against the afternoon sun. And presently Macgregor dropped into a doze.
He awoke to what seemed a dream. Of all people, Aunt Purdie was seated at his bedside.
In a hesitating way, quite unlike her, she put out her hand, laid it on his and patted gently.
'What's up?' he exclaimed in astonishment.
'How do you do, Macgregor?' she said formally yet timidly.
'Fine, thenk ye,' he answered from sheer force of habit. Then—'Ye've come a lang road to see me,' he said, gratitude asserting itself.
'It is a conseederable distance,' she returned, with some recovery of her old manner. 'Your uncle said I must go the moment he heard where you were, and I quite homologated him. We was all copiously relieved to hear of the non-seriosity of your wounds. I have letters for you from your parents and sister, forbye your brother James. Your mother was anxious to come, too, but decided to wait for my report, your condeetion not being grave. All well at home and proud of you, but I was en rout before I heard the most gratifying news.' She cleared her throat with an important cough, and Macgregor hoped none of the other chaps in the ward were listening. 'I am exceedingly proud of you, Macgregor!'
'Me? What for?'