"Are you not well?" she said, peering anxiously into the pupils of Mac's eyes.
Such attentions are flattering, and Mac, being a squire of dames, was desirous of making the most of it.
"Well, I was not feeling quite up to the mark, but I daresay it'll pass off," he said diplomatically.
"You must not be working so hard. You will kill yourself one of these days."
For which we hope and trust she may be forgiven, though it is a good deal to hope.
"Where do you feel it most, Mr. Mac?" then inquired Teena tenderly.
Mac is of opinion that, if anywhere, he feels it worst in his head, but his chest is also paining him a little.
"Gang richt awa' in, my laddie," says the landlady, "an' lie doon and rest ye on the sofa, an' I'll be ben the noo wi' something till ye!"
Mac comes in with a slightly scared and conscious expression on his face. Almond and I look up from our work as he enters, though, as it were, only in a casual manner. But what we see arrests our attention, and Almond's jaw drops as he looks from Mac to me, and back again to Mac.
"Good gracious, what's wrang wi' ye, man?" he gasps, in his native tongue.