Century/'For a Good Boy'

By J. J. Bell

WFU' little news in the paper," remarked John Robinson to his wife, who had been in one of her silent moods since tea-time. "I see the Liberal's in—"

"I wisht Macgreegor was in." Lizzie lifted her eyes from the pinafore she was repairing to the clock. "It's time he was in his bed, an' he's got a' his lessons to learn for the morn." She turned to her man, shirt-sleeved and slippered, at ease by the kitchen hearth. "It'll no' dae, John. Ye'll ha'e to speak to him serious-like; an' if speakin' does na gar him improve, ye'll jist ha'e to—"

"Aw, the wean's fine, Lizzie." John smiled, dropped the paper, and took out his pipe.

"He is na fine. He gets waur every day. An' it's his fayther's fau't. He thinks he can get daein' onything he likes. I tell ye he's got to be checkit, an' if you 're no' gaun to dae yer duty—"

"Weel, weel, I'll gi'e him a word o' comfort when he comes in, wife," said John, between puffs. "But it's a fine nicht for playin' ootbye, an' I mind when I was a wean masel'—"

"That's easy mindit, for ye've never been onything else."

At this Mr. Robinson laughed heartily. "Aweel, ye've wisdom for the twa o' us, wumman." Becoming graver: "W'u'd ye like me to gang oot an' seek Macgreegor?"

Before Lizzie could reply, the bell tinkled. "That'll be Mistress McOstrich. I promised to lend her the bew [blue] vases an' twa-three tidies for her party the morn's nicht," she said, rising.

"I thocht the party was na till next week."

"So it was. But an auld aunt o' Mistress McOstrich was ta'en badly yesterday, an' Mistress McOstrich thocht she better hurry on the party in case onything serious happened. Whisht, man! it's naething to laugh at." Lizzie disappeared, and presently showed in Mrs. McOstrich, the wife of a baker in the vicinity, a weary-looking, elderly little woman. She carried a large basket.

"Fine nicht, Mistress," said John, pleasantly, getting up and nodding. "An' hoo's the guidman the nicht?"

"Aw, thenk ye," replied Mrs. McOstrich, in melancholy tones, "he's jist aboot his usual. He gets that wearit efter he's had his tea he would na heed an earthquake." She turned to her hostess. "It's rael kind o' ye, Mistress Robi'son, to lend me yer maist gorgeous ornaments, an' I'll tak' terrible guid care o' them—"

"Will ye tak' aff yer shawl an' sit doon?" said Lizzie, kindly.

"Na, na, I daur na bide, thenk ye a' the same. Ye see, ma man's that wearit, an' he'll be wantin' to gang til his bed." Brightening for a moment: "Yer guidsister Mistress Purdie's comin' the morn's nicht."

"Oh, is she?" murmured Lizzie, who found it hard to keep friends with her haughty, moneyed sister-in-law.

"That'll be a cooky extra," said John, and guffawed.

"John!" exclaimed his wife.

"Oh, let yer man ha'e his bit joke," sighed the visitor. "Ma man has na made a joke for seeven-an'-twinty year'—no' since he tell 't me I was like a giraffe. 'Deed, it's nae fun bein' a baker, an' it's less bein' marrit on yin. If folk thocht what it meant to be marrit on a baker, their mornin' rolls would choke them. Mistress Purdie's unco lucky to be marrit on a grocer. It's wonderfu' hoo folk in the grocery trade flee up in the world nooadays. Ma man's aye wishin' he was a grocer, espaycially at three o'clock on a cauld, frosty mornin'. Oh, dear! I never seen a man like him for sleepin'! An' whiles he has the maist terrible bad dreams. The ither nicht he dreamed he was a cake o' gingerbread that would na rise, an' his struggles was something awfu'."

"D' ye tell me that?" said Lizzie, sympathetically, while John put his hand to his mouth. "But could he no' change to the grocery trade?"

Mrs. McOstrich wagged her beshawled gray head. "Na, na. It's ower late noo. The Ethiopian canna change his spots, nor—"

"There's Macgreegor!" cried John, going to the door in response to a knock.

When father and son appeared, Mrs. McOstrich was packing the borrowed ornaments in her basket and profusely thanking the lender.

"Here's his lordship!" John announced proudly.

"Macgreegor," said Lizzie, "what d' ye mean, stoppin' ootbye till this time o' nicht? I've a guid mind to—" Mrs. McOstrich gently interposed. "Aw, the wee man! D' ye no' ken me?"

"Fine. Ye're Mistress McOstrich. I'm comin' to yer party the morn's nicht. Ha'e ye got wur bew vases there?"

"Macgreegor!" Lizzie whispered warningly.

The boy, on the safe side of his father, continued: "I like your parties. Ye've ay plenty pastries. I wisht ma paw was a baker."

"Whisht!" cried his mother. "If ye canna behave yersel', ye'll no' get to the party—"

"Toots, Lizzie! the wean's fine," said John.

Thus encouraged, Macgregor proceeded: "I'm gaun to ha'e a party, tae, on Hogmanay. Will ye come. Mistress?"

Curbing herself, Lizzie said quietly: "Never heed him, Mistress McOstrich. He's gaun to ha'e nae party."

Macgregor met his mother's eyes. "But paw said I was," he said, speaking as one who knows he is in the right. He turned to his father. "Did ye no', Paw? Aye, ye did!"

There was a pause before Mr. Robinson said rather sheepishly: "Let him ha'e his party, Lizzie. Jist twa-three o' his wee frien's, ye ken."

"I never heard sich nonsense," said Lizzie. "Get yer lesson-book, laddie, an learn—"

Mrs. McOstrich's sad voice came in. "It w'u'd be rael nice for the laddie to ha'e a party. Mistress Robi'son."

"Na, na; he canna ha'e a party," said Lizzie in a tone of finality.

"But," said Macgregor, "I've askit Wullie Thomson an' Peter Ross an' Jessie Mary—"

"Aweel, ye had nae business to ask onybody."

Awkwardly John rose to the occasion. "It's me that's to blame, Lizzie. I was gaun to speak to ye aboot it when—when I got a chance," he explained haltingly.

After all, Lizzie was not the woman to abash her goodman before a third party.

"Weel, we'll see aboot it," she said at last, kindly enough. "Noo, laddie, awa' an' get yer book. John, try if ye canna help him wi' his lesson."

"'Deed, aye, Lizzie; I 'll dae that," said Mr. Robinson, and he and Macgregor moved with relieved countenances to the fireside.

"It's a' richt—eh, Paw?" whispered the boy.

"Aye, aye," muttered John, grinning. "But we'll pey attention to yer lesson in the meantime, ma mannie."

Said Lizzie to Mrs. McOstrich:

"Ye maun excuse Macgreegor; he means weel."

"'Deed, aye; 'deed, aye," the baker's spouse replied; "a' weans means weel, an' whiles I think they w'u'd dae weel, if it was na for us auld yins." With which deplorable heresy she took her departure, just pausing at the door to assure Macgregor that there would be a sufficiency of pastry on the following evening.

Mrs. Robinson, having succeeded in stemming the torrent of gratitude which poured forth afresh at the outer door, bade the borrower of vases a friendly good night, and then paid a brief visit to the room wherein her little daughter was sleeping. On her return to the kitchen she surprised father and son in a pleasant discussion on the subject of the latter's prospective party. Her expression hardened.

"John, ha'e ye nae sense? See the time, and Macgreegor's lessons no' learnt yet! Macgreegor, bring me the book, an' I'll hear ye yer spellin'." She seated herself at the table. "I tell ye, Macgreegor, if ye dinna pey attention to yer lessons, ye'll never grow up to be a lord provost."

"I'm no' wantin' to be a lord provost, Maw. I want to be a plumber."

Whereupon Mr. Robinson chuckled, and hearing the same, the boy grinned.

Happily for them both, and perhaps for Lizzie also, the door-bell rang again.

"I'll gang, Lizzie." John jumped up and hurried out. "Noo, laddie," said Lizzie, restraining herself, "spell misery."

"Ye're lukin' at the wrang page, Maw. That was in yesterday's lesson."

Lizzie cleared her throat. "Spell dungeon."

"D-u-n—" Macgregor halted.

"Tak' yer time. Spell it in bits. Dun—geon. Dun?"

"D-u-n."

"Geon," very distinctly.

"J-o-h-n—geon—dungeon!" said Macgregor, smartly.

Lizzie groaned. "Tak' the book an' learn it. An' if ye canna say it—"

The door was pushed open, and John's voice cried, "He thocht he w'u'd surprise ye."

Lizzie turned. "Fayther!"

"Gran'paw Purdie!" Macgregor shouted, dropping his book and running to the old man who entered, beaming.

"Weel, ma dochter, an' hoo's a' wi' ye?" said Mr. Purdie, heartily. "An' ma auld frien' Macgreegor!" He took the youngster's hand. "I was feart ye w'u'd be awa' to yer bed."

"No' likely."

"Macgreegor," his mother interposed, "pick up yer book, an' awa' in aside wee Jeannie, an' learn yer lessons. But see an' no' wauken her."

"But I want to bide—"

"Preserve us!" ejaculated the old man, taking the chair proffered by his son-in-law. "Is the laddie no' feenished wi' his lessons? I doubt he's bein' ower hard wrocht. I'm no' agreein' wi' weans ha'ein' ower mony lessons to learn at nicht."

"Macgreegor did na come in when he should ha'e come in," said Lizzie. "It's a' his ain fau't that he's no' feenished wi' his lessons."

"Och, Lizzie, never heed aboot that," said John, with an insinuating glance at his wife. "The wean's fine. An' he'll be gettin' his holidays in twa-three days."

"I'm gaun to ha'e a party on Hogmanay, Gran'paw," the boy announced. "Will ye come?"

"Dae what I bid ye, Macgreegor," his mother commanded.

"But I want to bide—"

"Maybe," Mr. Purdie mildly interrupted—"maybe he w'u'd na tak' very lang to learn his lessons."

Lizzie was tired that night; her wrongs got the better of her. "It's no' jist his lessons, Fayther," she said; "it's his disobedience. Aye, an' he's gettin' that impiddent."

"I'm no' impiddent. Maw," her son protested. "I'm no' impiddent—excep' to Aunt Purdie, an' she's impiddent to me."

Once more John made matters worse by sniggering. The color rose in Lizzie's face.

Grandfather Purdie, who, it must be confessed, had come near to sniggering himself, held up his hand, and said soothingly: "Jist a moment, Lizzie. I've a word or twa to say to Macgreegor." He dropped his hand on the boy's arm and drew him gently against his knee.

"Listen, laddie. I was thinkin' aboot ye comin' up in the steamboat the day, and I was wonderin' what I would gi'e ye for yer Ne'erday, if—"

"What are ye gaun to gi'e us, Gran'paw?" "Patience, patience! What I would gi'e ye for yer Ne'erday —if ye was guid an' diligent an' obedient an' weel-behaved till the end o' the year. Noo, it's no' vera lang till the end o' the year,—jist ten days,—an' I've nae doubt ye could please yer paw an' yer maw rael weel for that time, if ye was tryin'. D' ye see?"

"Aye, I see; I'll try. What are ye gaun to gi'e us?" "It'll be a prize for guid conduc'." Mr. Purdie smiled on the parents, and turned again to his grandson. "Weel, I was thinkin' o' a watch an' chain."

"Dod! that'll be fine!" cried John, delightedly.

"A watch an' chain!" murmured Lizzie. "Oh, Fayther!"

Macgregor looked straight in the old face. "D' ye mean a penny yin, Gran'paw?"

"Macgreegor!" a warning whisper from Lizzie.

Mr. Purdie laughed. "Na, na, laddie; a real silver watch an' chain."

"Wi' a key to wind it? I like the sort wi' a key—same as your auld yin. I dinna like the sort—"

"Macgreegor," Lizzie exclaimed, "haud yer tongue an' say 'thenk ye' to yer gran'paw."

"But I ha'e na got it yet, Maw. Wi' a key to wind it, Gran'paw?"

"I'll tak' a note o' the key, ma mannie," was the good-humored assurance of Mr. Purdie. "But ye'll no' forget ye've got to win the prize," he added, at a hint from his daughter. "I'll no' forget," Macgregor said confidently.

There was a pause that lasted till Lizzie managed to catch her son's eye.

"I'll awa' an' learn ma lessons," said Macgregor, cheerfully, and, picking up his book, left the room.

"A guid beginnin'," remarked Mr. Purdie, bringing out his pipe and smiling.

"Oh, he'll win the prize easy," said John, with a laugh. "Eh, wife?"

Lizzie's expression softened. "I wonder hoo wee Jeannie made that big hole in her pinny," she said, taking up her sewing.

we come to think of it, ten days is a long time to be good and diligent and obedient and well-behaved. Which of us would venture to promise stability in these qualities over that period? Which of us would deserve a prize at the end thereof? As Gran'paw Purdie said on the last night of the year—but stay; Gran'paw Purdie shall speak for himself presently.

No boy worthy of the name can win a prize for good conduct. At the best, a boy may be given a prize for conduct less bad than that of his fellows. The phrase "good conduct," however, has a smugly pleasing sound to very young children, and also to adults who affect to have forgotten their own youthful misdeeds.

It was only to be expected that Macgregor would plunge from failure into failure. Nevertheless, failure involves the existence of endeavor to succeed. And, curiously enough, the more outstanding failures of those ten days were not so much due to Macgregor's badness, idleness, disobedience, and ill behavior as to certain circumstances, examples of which ought, in common fairness, to be recorded.

Macgregor would certainly not have started to climb that lamp-post in the dark had his friend Willie Thomson, instead of daring him to perform the feat, informed him that the lamp-post was freshly adorned with green paint. Nor would he have been foot of his class on the last day of the term had Willie Thomson, whose turn it indubitably was to occupy that seat of dishonor, refrained from taking an unlawful holiday. Nor, during the Saturday visit to the zoo with his parents, would he have permitted a monkey to purloin his new hat, which his mother had insisted on his wearing, however "daft" he miserably felt it to be, had not the monkey snatched it from his head while he was busy telling his mother how he hated it. Nor, finally, would he have left the little jam tart, surreptitiously annexed from Mrs. McOstrich's supper-table, upon a certain chair, had he foreseen that his most severe and superior relative, Aunt Purdie, would presently sit thereon.

But without their extenuating circumstances, which grown-up people could hardly be expected to appreciate, the four misdeeds were surely sufficient in themselves to blot out the vision of a shining prize. They did so, undoubtedly, as far as Lizzie was concerned, though she disguised her despair in exhortation and encouragement until the eleventh hour. Until which hour Macgregor replied that the watch must have a key. John continued, or professed to continue, sanguine, pointing out that they were not called upon to report all their son's misdeeds to the grandfather, and that Aunt Purdie was hardly likely to report the jam-tart incident for fear of being laughed at.

"Honesty," Lizzie said, with the heavy sigh of one deploring a dreary fact, "is the best policy; an' if Macgreegor does na deserve the prize, he's no' gaun to get it."

"He'll deserve it yet," returned John, and reeled off a long list of crimes which Macgregor might have, but had not, committed.

"An' he does na deserve to ha'e a party, neither," she said. "Ye ken that yersel', John."

"No' bein' a prize, it does na count," he replied lightly. "Cheer up, Lizzie! He's nae waur nor I was when I was his age." Here followed a fearful list of John's juvenile delinquencies.

"Man," she interrupted at last, "I've got a conscience!"

"Weel, ma dear, that's no' your fau't, an' I'm no' blamin' ye."

it came to Hogmanay. John, ignoring his wife's many protests, all more or less to the effect that he was aping "the gentry," had decorated the kitchen with long strings of paper flowers stretched from the four corners of the ceiling, a couple of Chinese lanterns suspended from the drying-pole, and sundry sprigs of holly stuck in likely places.

The "company" consisted of Gran'paw and Gran'maw Purdie; Willie Thomson, Macgregor's chief chum; two other small boys; three little girls, whom Macgregor had not been particularly keen on inviting; and a bigger girl, Jessie Mary, aged fourteen, who acted as Lizzie's lieutenant in organizing games and keeping order generally. Aunt and Uncle Purdie were expected later, when the juvenile entertainment was over, to assist the elders in bringing in the New-Year, at which ceremony, by the way, Macgregor's presence was to be permitted on condition that he was "extra good" throughout the evening. Mrs. McOstrich had been unable to accept Macgregor's invitation. Despite the fact that New-Year's day was a holiday in the bake-house, Mr. McOstrich insisted on retiring at his customary hour, eight o'clock, and consequently his spouse must stay at home. But the kindly woman had sent a large assortment of buns and pastries, which Macgregor and his young friends welcomed without any apparent regret at the donor's absence. It was unanimously agreed, however, that to be closely related to a baker was the most desirable thing in the world.

For the space of a couple of hours all went so brightly, so smoothly, and Macgregor behaved so nicely toward even the little girls, that hope, moribund for days, stirred softly in the mother heart. The watch and chain might yet be the laddie's property and her pride. Mrs. Robinson was roused from such a reverie by her husband's voice above the childish din:

"Here, Lizzie, what's next on the program?"

Joining the little throng, she appealed to Jessie Mary. "Something they can a' play at, lassie."

"Bee-baw-babbity," said Jessie Mary, and was echoed by the smaller guests.

"Ach, that's a daft game!" said Willie Thomson, contemptuously.

"Aye," Macgregor agreed; "it's a daft—"

Lizzie was swiftly upon him, a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Mind what yer gran'paw's maybe got for ye, if ye're a guid laddie, deary," she whispered.

Macgregor hesitated. "Ye're sure It'll ha'e a key?" Then he said: "Wullie Thomson, come on an' play, or I'll gi'e ye a bat on the nose."

"Gaun! hit me!" said Willie, truculently, stepping forward in an attitude of defense and defiance.

John interposed, laughing, and presently the game, which is of the kiss-in-the-ring order, was set going.

It fell to Macgregor to be first in the center. He didn't like the part, but was determined to go through with it. With a self-conscious smirk he knelt to the words:

The singing ceased, the dancers halted. The small boys sniggered, the little girls looked modestly expectant. Macgregor looked exquisitely awkward.

"Come awa', Macgreegor!" his grandfather called encouragingly from the fireside.

"The dear!" murmured his grandmother.

Macgregor took a step in Jessie Mary's direction.

"That's the boy!" cried John.

Macgregor took another step.

"Haw! haw!" laughed Willie Thomson. "He's for the big yin!"

Before Macgregor could turn, Jessie Mary, doubtless to end his embarrassment, ran forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"Haw! haw!" laughed Willie again.

Threateningly, Macgregor went close to him. "What are ye laughin' at?"

"Haw! haw! Ye kissed her! Haw!—"

"I did na! If ye say that again, I'll gi'e ye a—"

Jessie Mary put herself between the threatening fists.

"Wullie Thomson," she said indignantly, "if ye dinna behave yersel'—"

"I believe ye kissed him first," cried Willie, with more guffaws.

With a toss of her head, Jessie Mary retorted, "I w'u'd na kiss you if ye was the only man in the warld."

"I w'u'd na gi'e ye the chance," yelled Willie, and fell upon Macgregor.

"This'll never dae!" cried John, separating the combatants. "Wullie, shake han's wi' Macgreegor, an' tell Jessie Mary ye're sorry."

After some persuasion, the boys shook hands, rather limply, it must be allowed.

"Noo, Wullie, tell Jessie Mary ye're sorry."

Said Jessie:

"He can keep his sorry. I'm no' in wi' him ony mair." With another toss of her head, she moved away.

The next moment Lizzie's arm went round her neck.

"Lassie, ye've been a terrible help to me the nicht. Dinna let onything spile Macgreegor's party noo." She led the girl back to the cause of the disturbance. "Wullie, here's Jessie Mary ready to forgie ye."

"I'm no' heedin'," returned the boy, sullenly. "I mean I'm sorry. Onything for peace." He walked off to the table against the wall, and presently he and Macgregor were sharing an orange, while Gran'paw Purdie, with a chuckle of relief, relit his pipe, and gran'maw, still nervous, pretended to resume knitting.

Jessie Mary's proposal to play at "Spin-the-plate" was hailed with general approval.

"I'll get a plate," cried Macgregor, and with the aid of a chair scrambled upon the dresser.

"Stop, laddie!" exclaimed Lizzie, starting to cross the floor.

"I can manage fine, Maw," he replied, taking a large plate from the rack.

"Na, na! Pit it doon this meenute!"

A dismal crash was followed by a more dismal silence. Macgregor's knuckles went to his eyes. "Ye should na ha'e tell 't me to pit it doon, Maw."

With a choking sound, Mrs. Robinson stooped to collect the fragments of one of her "best."

John and the grandparents hastened to the scene of disaster.

"Dinna greet, deary!" said gran'maw.

"I'm no' greetin'," mumbled Macgregor.

His father lifted him down and patted his shoulder. "Never heed, Lizzie. He did na mean to break it. An'—an' it's Hogmanay," he said. "I'll sune get ye a plate, Macgreegor." He mounted the chair. "Here's yin."

Mrs. Robinson rose swiftly to her feet.

"No' that yin, John!" she almost screamed, clutching his arm.

Crash!

John followed the plate to the floor, looking less crestfallen, perhaps, than might have been expected.

With something like a sob, Lizzie fell on her knees beside the new wreckage. There was a silence. Macgregor turned from one parent to the other. Then he went to his mother, and touched her rather diffidently.

"Never heed, Maw," he said in a low voice. "He did na mean it. An' it's Hogmanay."

"Aw, the wee man!" Gran'maw Purdie softly exclaimed.

At this point John slipped from the room.

Gran'paw Purdie created a diversion by toddling to the dresser and declaring his intention of "trying his luck." This set the company smiling, and brought Lizzie to her feet.

"Na, na, Fayther!" she cried, half laughing, half crying, as she restrained his arm.

"Weel, Lizzie," he said, drawing Macgregor to his side, "never heed aboot the plates. Ye can get plenty mair like them, but ye'll never get anither Hogmanay like this."

Lizzie said nothing, but proceeded to take down one of her old plates, which she handed to Jessie Mary.

The game went merrily until Willie Thomson, having got the plate, called Macgregor, who in turn called Willie, who again called Macgregor, who once more called Willie, who for the third time called Macgregor—

"That'll no' dae," Jessie Mary interrupted, seizing the plate. "Ye maun cry somebody else."

Trouble seemed imminent when the door was thrown open, and John came in, flourishing a bunch of gaily colored rubber balloons on strings.

"See what Mistress McOstrich has sent ye a'," he cried, and was forthwith mobbed by shrieking children.

There was a balloon for every one, and joy seemed to have reached its climax, and Jessie Mary was returning the plate to the rack, when from the smallest boy arose a most doleful wailing. He was immediately surrounded by sympathetic inquirers.

"Naebody cried on me to spin the p-plate!" he sobbed at last.

"Never heed, Johnny," said Macgregor. "I'll let ye bash ma heid wi' yer balloon." He obligingly bent his poll. "Gaun! Bash it!"

A grin puckered Johnny's wet features, and he promptly let fly. So did Willie Thomson. So did the rest of the children. A general scrimmage ensued. The air was full of balloons and yells of delight. Gran'paw slapped his knee and chuckled. Gran'maw's smile was wavering and anxious. The bell rang, but no one heard it save Lizzie, who slipped from the room.

"But it was rael nice o' Macgreegor to let the wee laddie bash his heid," said gran'maw to her spouse. "Ye'll ha'e to mind that when ye 're decidin' aboot the prize."

Despite the din, John caught the latter remark.

"D' ye think Macgreegor's got ony chance noo, Maister Purdie?" he inquired of his father-in-law with assumed carelessness. "I ken he has na been as guid as he micht ha'e been—"

"Weel, John," the old man said, rubbing his hands, "I'm no' gaun to be severe on yer son. Efter a', there's nane o' us been as guid as we micht ha'e been—even in the last ten days. An' so I've decidet to gi'e Macgreegor the prize—if he's guid frae noo till the end o' the year."

John beamed his satisfaction. "I think Macgreegor'll manage that," he said, and, seizing a balloon, joined in the fray.

The door opened. Aunt Purdie entered in all her haughtiness and grandeur.

A hush fell upon the merrymakers. They withdrew with one accord from the field of fun.

Aunt Purdie halted and surveyed the scene with a severe eye.

"Sich a pandemolium!" she exclaimed, and looked round coldly for an explanation.

Lizzie, who had followed her, replied rather nervously, "Oh, it's jist Macgreegor ha'ein' a wee party for his Hogmanay."

"Oh, indeed." The visitor undid a button of her crimson cloak. "My friend Mrs. McCluny's children are having a party on the tenth of January. Mrs. McCluny is paying a man to play the pianoforte. Of course, in her position—"

"Will ye no' tak' a chair, Mistress Purdie?" ventured John, who was looking particularly red and foolish.

Aunt Purdie joined the old folks at the fireside, but declined a seat.

"I am thankful to say that my friend Mrs. McCluny's nervous breakdown has been perverted, though last night she was trembling like an ashpan-leaf," she announced. "I jist dropped in to tell you that Robert and me would not be able to arrive here till near midnight. Robert is extremely busy at the emporium—"

"Paw," said Macgregor, who had been listening, "is that whaur they keep livin' fish—swimmin' aboot in tanks?"

"Whisht!" whispered Lizzie.

John laughed and checked himself. "Na, na, Macgreegor, she means yer uncle's shop."

Ignoring the interruption, though the word "shop" was almost more than she could bear, Aunt Purdie proceeded: "And I am now going to the theater with the doctor and Mrs. McCluny and afterward to supper at their house. Mrs. McCluny and me—" A long story of social functions of a superior quality followed.

Meanwhile the children were grouped round the kitchen, wondering when they were going to be happy again. Willie Thomson drew Macgregor into a corner. The two boys began to converse in whispers.

"Did ye ever try sittin' doon on yin o' them?" inquired Willie, indicating his balloon.

"Naw. What does it dae?"

"It mak's a rare bang." A pause. "I w'u'd like fine to see yer aunt sittin' doon on yin."

"So would I," Macgregor admitted. "But I w'u'd na try it till efter Ne'erday, Wullie."

Willie's smile was pitying. "Aw, ye 're thinkin' o' yer watch an' chain, Macgreegor. But ye've nae chance noo. I heard what ye did at Mistress McOstrich's party an' at the Zoo. Oh, ye canna win the prize."

"Maybe—maybe I'll get it for—for lettin' Jessie Mary kiss me."

"My! ye're green! Ye'll never get it for that. But"—Willie's lips went closer to his friend's ear—"I'll tell ye hoo ye micht get it."

"Hoo?" very eagerly.

"If ye was pittin' forward thon chair"—Willie pointed—"an' askin' yer aunt to sit doon polite-like, that w'u'd maybe please yer aunt, an' she w'u'd maybe tell yer gran'paw to gi'e ye the prize. D' ye see?"

"Aye, I see. But I never did onything that pleased her yet."

"Weel, there's yer chance."

Macgregor took a glance at his superior relative. "She's lukin' awfu' crabbit, Wullie."

"She canna help that. She'll no luk crabbit if ye're polite-like to her. Ha'e a shot at it, onyway. I'll come wi' ye."

Macgregor plucked up courage for the desperate venture. "Come on, then. You haud [hold] ma balloon." Followed by his friend, Macgregor advanced solemnly toward the old people.

Said gran'paw:

"Here's Macgreegor comin' to shake han's wi' ye, Sarah. Come awa', ma mannie.

Aunt Purdie regarded her nephew condescendingly. "So you're having a party, are you? Well, I'm sure I hope you're all behaving yourselves."

His courage wavering, Macgregor pushed forward the chair. "Are ye no' for a sate?" he asked barely audibly.

"The deary!" exclaimed gran'maw. "Was that no' nice o' him? Sit doon to please him, Sarah."

"Well, upon my word!" Aunt Purdie was plainly taken aback. "Thank you, Macgregor," she said at last, almost graciously. "I did not intend for to be seated at this junction; still—"

And she sat—on the balloon which Willie, stealing behind his friend, placed like a flash beneath her.

Only Macgregor saw the action.

hours had passed away. The old clock pointed to ten minutes to midnight. A heavy silence brooded upon the kitchen. It was broken only by an occasional sigh from the people—gran'paw, gran'maw, and John—round the fire.

Lizzie entered quietly, somber of countenance, as though the house held some one seriously ill.

"Is he sleepin' yet?" asked John, dismally.

His wife shook her head.

"Puir Iamb!" sighed Gran'maw Purdie.

"His heart was that set on bringin' in the New-Year wi' us a'," said John. "Is—is he greetin', Lizzie?"

"No' the noo."

Gran'paw spoke. "Did he say onything?"

"Na." Disconsolately Mrs. Robinson took her chair. "Aweel, Macgreegor's had his chance, an' he's lost it."

"The temptation was great," said John. "When I was a wean—"

"I ken, John. Ye w'u'd ha'e done the same; but ye w'u'd ha'e got punished. Weel, if he's punished noo, he'll maybe be a better laddie in the year that's comin.

"If we was lettin' him bring in the New-Year, it micht remind him to be a better laddie. Eh, Lizzie?"

Lizzie held her peace.

Gran'paw sat up in his chair. He drew from his pocket a small box. "What I want to ken is, what am I to dae with this watch an' chain?"

A sharp ring at the bell took Mrs. Robinson from her place. "It'll be Mistress Purdie. I was feart she w'u'd be ower offendit to come back." She left the room.

Gran'paw handed the watch to John. For a space there was no sound save the clicks of winding as John toyed moodily with the stem. He uttered a word or two of feeble admiration and passed the watch to the old woman. "Nae doubt there's young folk in the warld that deserves prizes for guid conduc', Maister Purdie," he said, sarcastic for the first time in his life.

At that moment Lizzie showed in not Aunt, but Uncle, Purdie, a big, bearded, genial, successful merchant, without an ounce of affectation in his composition.

"An' hoo's a' wi' ye?" he cried. "My! ye're as quiet as mice!" He looked about him. "Whaur's Macgreegor? I thocht he was to get bringin' in—"

"Macgreegor's in his bed for misbehavin' hissel', Rubbert," said Lizzie, with dire solemnity.

"Oh, that's bad—for us yins. Weel, he did na misbehave hissel' sae faur as I'm concerned, so"—unwrapping a parcel and taking out a good-sized box—"ye can gi'e him them sweeties wi' his Uncle Purdie's compliments." The big man planted the box on the table and seated himself beside his mother. "I thocht Sarah w'u'd ha'e been here—"

"Oh, thenk ye, thenk ye, Rubbert!" cried John, and snatching up the sweets, made for the door. Lizzie caught him just in time. She secured the box and returned with it to the company, followed by her man, who looked abashed and possibly a little angry.

"Rubbert," she said heavily, "I canna gi'e yer sweeties to Macgreegor."

"Eh? They 're the best in the market. They'll no' hurt him. Tell him no' to eat mair nor a p'un' a day," said Robert, laughing.

"But it's no' that, Rubbert. I—I maun tell ye hoo Macgreegor misbehaved hissel'."

John touched her arm. "Aw, Lizzie, ye dinna need to tell Rubbert the noo."

"Puir lamb!" sighed gran'maw.

"Ye need na tell me," said Robert, bringing out his pipe, "excep' it's funny."

"Funny!" groaned Lizzie. "But I maun tell ye, Rubbert: he—he got Sarah to sit doon on his balloon." There was a dreary pause.

Then Robert, in a solemn voice, said:

"I'm rael vexed—for the balloon."

Whereat gran'paw smote his knee and gleefully repeated the words to gran'maw.

John's face relaxed. "There, ye see, Lizzie! It's no' as serious as ye thocht it was. Rubbert'll pit it richt wi' Sarah."

"Leave that to me," said Robert, heartily.

"So I'll jist gang an' fetch Macgreegor," John went on. "I ken he canna win the prize, but—"

"What way can he no' win the prize?" Uncle Purdie demanded.

"An' what's to be done wi' this?" asked gran'maw, gently, holding up the watch and chain.

"Aye," said gran'paw. "An' there's anither thing we should mind, Lizzie."

"What?" asked Lizzie, wearily.

"The laddie lost his balloon!"

"Dod, aye!" exclaimed John. "I'll awa' an' bring him to ye."

"Na, John," said Lizzie. She turned to the others. "Ye're a' against me, an' it's no' fair o' ye. Ye ken fine I was jist as anxious as onybody for Macgreegor to win the prize. But richt's richt, an' wrang's wrang."

"While's it's no' easy to split the difference," Uncle Purdie observed. "He's but a wean, an' it's Hogmanay. Was that the bell, Lizzie?"

"Aye; it'll be Sarah at last. We best no' say ony mair aboot it. But Macgreegor understands as weel as me what way he canna get the prize."

The bell rang again, and she hurried away.

"What way," said Uncle Purdie, twinkling—"what way dae ye no' turn the prize into a present?"

Gran'paw slapped his knee. "Man, Rubbert, ye've hit it!"

Gran'maw clapped her hands. "My! is that no' a fine notion, John?"

John hesitated. "Na," he answered sadly. "Lizzie w'u'd na like that."

Once more Lizzie showed in a visitor, but not yet Aunt Purdie.

A thin, pale woman, garbed in rusty black, entered, dragging rather than leading a small boy of abject mien and woebegone visage. She was unknown to the company, but the small boy was still recognizable as Willie Thomson.

"I'm Wullie's aunt," she explained, refusing the chair proffered by John. "I'm vexed for disturbin' ye at this time o' nicht, but Wullie cam' hame an' said he had a pain in his inside—"

"He got naething to hurt him here," put in Lizzie, doubtless forgetful of Mrs. McOstrich's pastries.

The visitor assented with a nod, and proceeded rapidly: "But efter I had gi'ed him a dose o' medicine, he said it was na exac'ly in his inside. He said it was furder up, an' I was for pittin' on a poultice, when I discovered it was his—his conscience."

"His conscience!" exclaimed gran'paw.

"Aye; jist that." She drew the boy in front of her. "Noo, Wullie," she said firmly, though not unkindly—"noo, Wullie, tell the truth."

"I—I canna," mumbled Willie, and sobbed freely.

"But ye've got to dae it. Ye promised me."

Thus adjured, Willie spoke, though very indistinctly:

"It was me that—that pit the balloon below her. Macgreegor k-kent naething aboot it."

"Weel! weel!" muttered gran'paw.

"Puir lamb!" sighed gran'maw.

"Gang on, Wullie!" said the aunt, inexorably.

"I—I tell 't Macgreegor he w'u'd maybe get the prize if he askit her to sit doon p-polite-like. I want to gang hame." And the hapless youngster sobbed afresh.

The aunt looked from one to the other. "Did Macgreegor no' tell ye? I thocht he w'u'd, but Wullie said Macgreegor was na a clipe."

"Wullie's richt there!" said John, proudly.

"Aweel, Wullie, we best get awa' hame. Ye can tell Macgreegor ye're sorry in the mornin'."

They were moving to the door when Uncle Purdie stepped forward. "I'll get Macgreegor anither the morn," he muttered to John, as he took the box of sweets from the table. He placed it in the arms of the astounded Willie. "There, laddie, ye've done no' sae bad. Tak' them for yer Ne'erday. They'll no' gi'e ye a pain in yer conscience, onyway."

While he was speaking, Aunt Purdie entered, Lizzie having omitted to fasten the outer door. No one paid any attention to her.

Suddenly John cried:

"I'm gaun to fetch Macgreegor, Lizzie."

"Oh, John, let me gang!"

And as they both turned to go, behold! Macgregor, in his scarlet flannel nightgown, stood blinking uncertainly in the doorway.

And the clock struck the first note of midnight.

"Bide a wee!" exclaimed gran'paw, rising in great excitement. "John, Lizzie, let me first!" He took the watch from gran'maw's hands and almost ran to the boy.

"Ma wee man, ma wee man," he said happily, leading Macgregor to the middle of the room, while jovial sounds began to come up from the street, "ye've won yer prize!" He placed the watch and chain in the young hands. "Ye've won yer prize!"

Speechless, Macgregor stood gazing gravely at his prize. All gathered round, Lizzie the happiest of them all. Even Aunt Purdie's countenance seemed to soften. It was as though, one and all, they waited the words of an oracle.

And as the last stroke of midnight fell, Macgregor's eyes flashed from the watch to his grandsire's face.

"Whaur's the key?" he demanded.