'Are ye there, dearie?' called a familiar female voice.
'Holy Moses!' she whispered. 'It's Miss Tod, hame three days afore
her time.'
'Oh, criffens!' gasped Macgregor. 'What'll I dae?'
'Ye can either hide in the coal bunker, or bide whaur ye are--like
a sojer. She'll no devour ye.'
Christina then ran out to receive her employer, which she did
without embarrassment.
'What a peety ye're ower late for ma wee tea-pairty. An' hoo are
ye?' Macgregor heard her saying.
'Aw, I was sweirt to disturb ye wi' yer' frien's, lassie,' replied
Miss Tod, who had been advised by postcard of Christina's doings,
'but I _couldna_ bide in thon place anither nicht.'
'Dear, dear!' the girl said sympathizingly. 'Did ye no get on wi'
yer auld frien', or did the poultry attack ye? Come ben, come ben.
There's jist Macgreegor left, an' he hasna consumed absolutely
everything. I'll get ye a cup o' fresh tea in a jiffy.'
Smiling faintly but kindly, Miss Tod greeted Macgregor, apologized
for disturbing him, and subsided into her old chair.
'Oh, I'm thenkfu' to be hame,' she sighed, while Christina flew to
her hospitable duties. 'Ye've got the room awfu' nice, dearie.'
'Does the smell o' the ceegarettes annoy ye?' inquired Macgregor,
now more at ease, though still ashamed of his recent panic.
'Na, na; it's jist deleecious,' she protested, 'efter the smell o'
the country.'
'Did ye no like the country, Miss Tod?'
'Maybe I could ha'e endured it till the week was up, if it hadna
been for ma auld frien'. Ye see, the puir body couldna speak or
think o' onything excep' airyplanes fleein' through the air an'
drappin' bombs on her dwellin' hoose an' her hen-hoose, no
forgettin' her pig-hoose. Mornin', noon an' nicht, she kep'
speirin' at me if I was prepared to meet ma Maker, maybe wantin' a
leg. Oh, I was rale vexed for her, I tell ye, but when she took
the mattress aff ma bed to protect her sewin' machine frae bombs, I
says to masel': 'If I've got to dee, I wud like to dae it as
comfortable as I can, an' I'm sure ma Maker'll no objec' to
that . . . an' so, at last, I jist tied up ma things in the broon paper,
an' said I had enjoyed masel' fine, but was anxious aboot the
shop--a terrible falsehood, dearie!--an' gaed to catch the sax
o'clock train, an' catched the yin afore it. . . . An' here I am.
I wud ha'e let ye enjoy yer pairty in peace, but what wi' the
forebodin's o' ma auld frien' an' the scent o' the hens an' pigs, I
could thole nae longer.'
'In short,' Christina brightly remarked, 'ye was completely fed up.
Weel, weel, ye'll sune forget aboot yer troubles in the joys o'
pursuin' pastries. We'll fetch the table close to ye so as ye can
fall to wi'oot unduly streetchin' yer neck. Mac, get busy! Toast
this cookie.'
'She's a great manager,' Miss Tod said, smiling to Macgregor. 'But
she'll mak' ye a rael guid wife when ye come back frae the wars----'
'Oh, whisht, Miss Tod!' cried Christina. 'Ye'll cause him to
blush.' Which was rather a mean way of diverting attention from
her own complexion.
However, at that moment the bell rang, and exclaiming, 'Anither
boom in trade!' she darted into the shop.
The customer seemed to be in a great hurry, for almost immediately
she reappeared in the sitting-room. She was smiling and carried a
small package in her hand.
'Guess wha it was,' said she.
'The meenister,' replied Miss Tod, who for some mysterious reason
always guessed the reverend gentleman, who happened to be a
customer.
'On the contrary,' said Christina.
'Wullie Thomson,' said Macgregor, suddenly remembering the borrowed
threepence.
'Up dux! Ye deserve a sweetie.' She presented the bag, open.
'What sort are they?'