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The drear performance came to an end amid applause sufficient to satisfy Mrs. Pumpherston. 'Excep' when ye cracked on "arose," ye managed fine, she said to her perspiring mate, and to the hostess, 'What think ye o' that for a patriotic sang, Mistress McOstrich? 'Oh, splendid splendid! replied Mrs. McOstrich with a nervous start.
And she said lightly, and by no means unkindly: 'Hullo, Mac! . . . Ye've had yer hair cut. From sheer relief after the long strain, something was bound to give way. The string on his finger snapped and the package, reaching the floor, gaily exploded. MRS. McOSTRICH ENTERTAINS 'I'm fed up wi' pairties, was Macgregor's ungracious response when informed at home of the latest invitation.
McOstrich said I was to give you when the time came for you to go. I hope it will bring you good luck. God bless you. She lay awake most of the night, wondering if she might not have written more, wondering what answer he would send, wondering wondering. . . .
An' you, John, should think shame o' yersel'. Ye should baith be sayin' it's terrible kind o' Mistress McOstrich to ask ye what nicht wud suit yer convenience. Macgregor regarded his mother almost as in the days when he addressed her as 'Maw' yet not quite. There was a twinkle in his eye. Evidently she had clean forgotten he had grown up!
Possibly she detected the twinkle and perceived her relapse, for she went on quickly 'Though dear knows hoo Mistress McOstrich can afford to gi'e a pairty wi' her man's trade in its present condeetion. 'She's been daft for gi'ein' pah-ties since ever I can mind, Mr.
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.
Pumpherston had become much greyer, stouter, shorter of breath, and was no longer funny. And, as in the past, the prodigious snores of Mr. McOstrich, who still followed his trade of baker, sounded at intervals through the wall without causing the company the slightest concern, and were likewise no longer funny.
'I wonder wha's sendin' the laddie socks, she said, feeling it. 'I best open it an' put his name on them. Maybe they're frae Mistress McOstrich. She removed the string and brown paper. 'Vera nice socks a wee thing to the lairge side but vera nice socks, indeed. But wha
For the last five minutes she had been lost in furtive contemplation of her two youthful guests, her withered countenance more melancholy even than usual. Ten o'clock struck, and, to Macgregor's ill-disguised delight, Christina rose and said she must be going. Mrs. McOstrich accompanied the two to the outer door. There she took Christina's hand, stroked it once or twice, and let it go.
McOstrich was painfully fluttered by having a real live kiltie in her little parlour, which was adorned as heretofore with ornaments borrowed from the abodes of her guests. Though Macgregor was acquainted with all the guests, she insisted upon solemnly introducing him, along with his betrothed to each individual with the formula: 'This is Private Robi'son an' his intended.
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