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Updated: May 28, 2025
"Had I been always prudent," said I, blushing at the scene he recalled to my recollection, "I should have escaped a worse evil the reproach of my own conscience." MacGregor cast a keen and somewhat fierce glance on me, as if to read whether the reproof, which he evidently felt, had been intentionally conveyed.
He was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed, hardy-looking Scotchman, gentlemanly in his carriage, and bearing upon his visible character the stamp of Edinbro' colleges and of Calvinistic sincerity. He wore the Highland cap or bonnet, a belted blouse, knickerbockers, long gray stockings, and heavy-soled shoes. "Well, Mrs. Macgregor," said Adam, giving the name a joyful burr in his throat, "my sweethairt.
"Yes," replied the clerk in answer to his enquiry, "there's a wire for Mr. Macgregor just come in. Bad news, too, I guess." The Convener took the message and read: "Your mother passed away in perfect peace this evening. Your message brought her great joy. She wished me to send this reply: 'The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. Stay at your post, lad, till He calls: HELEN."
The tears were slowly making their way down the wrinkled face. "Oh, Mrs. Macgregor!" exclaimed Helen, "that seems an awfully hard doctrine. Do you think God ever wants a man to leave father, mother, wife, helpless behind?" "No, no, lassie, not helpless. But ," she could go no further.
"I informed the camp commander he was a simple sort of leutnant that I was going to overtake the column, the column, by the bye, having been sent by me on a fool's errand to capture an imaginary laager on Gwelba kopje. According to previous arrangements I fell in with Hauptmann Schmidt's company, and he obligingly set a squad of his Askaris to work to stage the last stand of Scout MacGregor.
I have already got the black silk, and Miss Macgregor, in the Parade you know what a fashionable dressmaker she is is making it up. I shall, of course, wear my widow's bonnet, as it looks so distingué, and Mrs. Sweat, the milliner in the High Street, is making up a new one, most stylish. "I can add no more now. My heart goes pit-a-pat. When you receive this I shall be packing for my journey.
She could not have expected him, he knew, but evidently she had hoped. He felt flattered and soothed, being unaware that she had had another swain in reserve in case he should fail her. 'Fancy meetin' you! she exclaimed, with a start of surprise. 'Where's the bad character? 'Gumbile, answered Macgregor, who would not for worlds have betrayed his friend's lack of skill with the rifle.
'He winna weir a cotton sark, I'll be boon', said MacGregor. 'Ow! he'll be gaein' to the college, I'm thinkin'. He's a fine lad, and a clever, they tell me, said Mr. Thomson. 'Indeed, he's all that, and more too, said the school-master. 'There's naething 'ull du but the college noo! said MacGregor, whom nobody heeded, for fear of again rousing his anger.
"Sacred Mother of the Sacred Child!" said the Ossified Man, in a patois of very south Italy. Then Miss Hoag turned to the right, a rail partitioning her from the highly popular spectacle of the Baron de Ross, christened, married, and to be buried by his nomenclature in disuse, Edwin Ross MacGregor. "Hot, honey?"
The mystery of the harrow is not explained, but Donald did return to his home, and made no further attempt to escape from his troubles in this way. If the bocan had a spite at Donald, he was still worse disposed towards his wife, the MacGregor woman. On the night on which he last made his presence felt, he went on the roof of the house and cried, "Are you asleep, Donald Ban?"
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