'My dear, I quite know. Mr. Fordyce has told me. It is you I have come to see.'

When they entered the kitchen, she laid her two kind hands on the girl's shoulders, and turned her face to the light. Then, with a sudden impulse, she bent down and kissed her brow. Gladys burst into tears. It was the first kiss she had received since she came to Glasgow, and that simple caress, with its accompanying tenderness of look and manner, opened the floodgates of her pent heart, and taught her her own loneliness and need.

'I cannot leave you here, my dear child. My carriage is at the door. You must come home with me. I shall bring you back quite early to-morrow, but I must insist on taking you away to-night. It is not possible you can stay here.'

'I must, I will. You are truly kind, but I shall not leave my home till I must. I have my own little room, and I am not quite alone. Walter is up-stairs.'

Mrs. Fordyce saw that she was firm. She looked at her in wonder, noting with practised eyes the neat refinement of her poor dress, her sweet grace and delicate beauty. To find a creature so fair in such a place was like coming suddenly on a pure flower blooming in a stony street.

'Your position is very lonely, but you will not find yourself without friends. We must respect your wish to remain here, though the thought will make me unhappy to-night,' said the kind woman. 'You will promise to come to us immediately all is over?'

'If you still wish it; only there is poor Walter. It will be so dreadful for me to leave him quite alone.'

Mrs. Fordyce could not restrain a smile. The child-heart still dwelt in Gladys, though she was almost a woman grown.

'Ah, my dear, you know nothing of the world. It is like reading a fairy story to look at you and hear you speak. I hope—I hope the world will not spoil you.'

'Why should it spoil me? I can never know it except from you,' she said simply.

Mrs. Fordyce looked round the large, dimly-lighted place with eyes in which a wonder of pity lay.

'My child, is it possible that you have lived here almost two years, as my husband tells me, with no companion but an old man and a working lad?'

'I have been quite happy,' Gladys replied, with a slight touch of dignity not lost upon the lawyer's wife.

'Perhaps because you knew nothing else. We will show you what life can hold for such as you,' she answered kindly; and there came a day when Gladys reminded her of these words in the bitterness of a wounded heart.

When her visitor left, Gladys ran up-stairs to Walter. They had so long depended on each other for solace and sympathy, that it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to share this new experience with him.

'You heard the lady speaking, did you not, Walter?' she asked breathlessly. 'It was Mr. Fordyce's wife; she is so beautiful and so kind. Just think, she would have taken me away with her in her carriage.'

'And why didn't you go?' asked Walter in a dull, even voice, and without appearing in the least interested.

'Oh because I could not leave just now,' she said slowly, quite conscious of a change in his voice and look.

'But you will go, I suppose, after?'

'I suppose so. They seem to wish it very much.'

'And you want to go, of course. They are very grand West End swells. I know their house—a big mansion looking over the Kelvin,' he said, not bitterly, but in the same even, indifferent voice.

'I don't know anything about them. If that is true, it is still kinder of them to think of such a poor girl as I.'

To the astonishment of Gladys, Walter broke into a laugh, not a particularly pleasant one.

'Six months after this you'll maybe take a different view,' he said shortly.

'Why, Walter, what has come to you? You have so many moods now I never know quite how to talk to you.'

'That's true,' he answered brusquely. 'I'm a fool, and nobody knows it better than I.'



CHAPTER XV.

HER INHERITANCE.

In the cheerful sunshine, the following afternoon, a small funeral party left the house in Colquhoun Street, and drove to the railway station. It consisted of Mr. Fordyce the lawyer, the minister of the parish, Walter Hepburn, and Gladys. It was her own desire that she should go, and they did not think it necessary to dissuade her. She was a sincere mourner for the old man, and he had not so many that they should seek to prevent that one true heart paying its last tribute to his memory. So for the first time for many years the burying-ground of the Bourhill Grahams was opened, somewhat to the astonishment of Mauchline folks. The name was almost forgotten in the place; only one or two of the older inhabitants remembered the widow and her two boys, and these found memory dim. Nevertheless, a few gathered in the old churchyard, viewing with interest the short proceedings, and with very special interest the unusual spectacle of a young fair girl standing by the grave. They did not dream how soon her name was to become a household word, beloved from one end of Mauchline to the other.

The two elderly gentlemen were very kind and tender to her, and the clergyman regarded her with a curious interest, having had a brief outline of her story from Mr. Fordyce. But it was noticeable that she preferred Walter's company, that she spoke oftenest to him; and when the lawyer and the minister went into the inn to have some refreshment while waiting for the train, the two young people walked up the road to Mossgiel. Walter was very gloomy and downcast, and she, quick to notice it, asked the cause.

'You know it quite well,' he said abruptly. 'I suppose you are going away to these grand folks to-night, and there's an end of me.'

'An end of you, Walter! What do you mean?' she asked, with a puzzled air.

'Just what I say. When you turn your back on Colquhoun Street, it's bound to be for ever. You'll be West, I East. There's no comings and goings between the two.'

'I think you are very unkind to speak like that, and silly as well,' she said quickly.

'Maybe, but it's true all the same,' he answered, with a slight touch of bitterness.

'And you deserve to be punished for it,' she continued, with her quaint dignity; 'only I cannot quite make up my mind how to punish you, or, indeed, to do it at all to-day. Look, Walter,' she stopped him on the brow of the hill, with a light touch on his arm which thrilled him as it had never yet done, and sent the blood to his face.

'See, away over there, almost as far as you can see, on yon little hill where the trees are so green and lovely, is Bourhill, where the Grahams used to live. I told you how Uncle Abel said papa had such a desire to buy it. If I were a rich woman I think I should buy Bourhill.'

'So you will. I wish I could give it to you,' cried Walter quickly.

'Do you? You are very good. You have always been so good and kind to me, Walter,' she said dreamily. 'Yes, that is Bourhill; and just think, you can see the sea from it—the real sea, which I have never seen in my life.'

'You'll get everything and see everything you want soon,' he said in a quiet, dull voice; 'and then you'll forget all that went before.'

'We shall see.'

She was hurt by the abrupt coldness of his manner, and, having her own pride of spirit, did not seek to hide it.

'See, that is Mossgiel there, and we have no time to go up. I think Mr. Fordyce said we must turn here,' she said, changing the subject, woman-like, when it did not please her. 'But when it is summer you and I will come to Mauchline for a day together, and gather some daisies from the field where Burns wrote his poem to the daisy—that is,' she added, with a smile, 'if you are not disagreeable, which I must say, Walter, you are to-day—most disagreeable indeed.'

She turned and looked at him then for a moment with an earnest, somewhat critical look, and she saw a tall, slender youth, whose figure had not attained to its full breadth and stature, but whose face—grave, earnest, noble, even—spoke of the experience of life. These two years had done much for Walter Hepburn, and she became aware of it suddenly, and with secret amazement.

'Why do you look at me like that?' he asked almost angrily. 'Is there anything the matter with my clothes?'

'No, nothing, you cross boy. I was only thinking that you had grown to be a man without any warning, and I am not sure that I did not like you better as a boy.'

'That is more than likely,' he answered, not in the least gently; but Gladys only smiled. Her faith in him was so boundless and so perfect that she never misunderstood him. In her deep heart she guessed that the shadow of the coming parting lay heavy on his soul. It lay on hers likewise, but was brightened in some subtle fashion by a lovely hope which she did not understand nor seek to analyse, but which seemed to link the troubled past and the unknown future by a band of gold. Wherever she might go, or whatever might become of her, she could never lose Walter out of her life. It was the love of the child merging into the mysterious hope of the woman, but she did not understand it yet. Had he known even in part how she felt, it had saved him many a bitter hour; but as yet that solace was denied him. That hot, rebellious young heart must needs go through the very furnace of pain to bring forth its fulness of sweetness and strength.

As the two came side by side up the middle of the village street, the lawyer and the minister stood upon the steps at the inn door.

'Is it a case of love's young dream?' asked the latter significantly.

Mr. Fordyce laughed as he shook his head.

'Scarcely. They've been companions—in misfortune, I had almost said—for a long time, and it is natural that they should feel kindly towards each other. Miss Bourhill Graham must needs aim a little higher. I like the young fellow, however. There's an honesty of purpose and a fearless individuality about him which refreshes one. Odd, isn't it, to find two such gems in such a place?'

'Rather; but I don't agree with all you say,' replied the minister, 'and I'll watch with interest the development of Miss Graham's history. If that determined-looking youth doesn't have a hand in it, I've made a huge mistake, that's all.'

Mr. Fordyce had made his plans for the day, and arranged with his wife to bring the carriage to Colquhoun Street at five o'clock. Gladys had been made acquainted with this arrangement, and acquiesced in it. It was about four o'clock when they returned to the empty house, which looked more cheerless than usual after the beauty and freshness of the country.

'Now, my dear,' said the lawyer, 'we must have a little talk before Mrs. Fordyce comes. I have a great deal to say to you. You remember you would not allow me to speak to you about business affairs until all was over?'

'Yes,' answered Gladys, and seated herself obediently, but without betraying the slightest interest or anticipation.

'I shall be as brief and simple as possible,' he continued. 'I told you that you need have no anxiety about your future, that it was assured by your uncle's will. You were not aware, I suppose, that he died a rich man?'

'No; I have heard people call him rich, but I never believed it. He spoke and acted always as if he were very poor.'

'That is the policy of many who have earned money hardly, and are loath to spend it. Well, it is you who will reap the benefit of his economy. About six months ago your uncle called upon me at my office for the first time in connection with the purchase of a small residential estate in Ayrshire. He wished to buy it, and did so—at a bargain, for there were few offers for it. That estate was Bourhill, and it was for you it was bought. You are absolutely its owner to-day.'

'I—owner of Bourhill?' she repeated slowly, and as if she did not comprehend. 'I owner of Bourhill?'

'Yes, my dear young lady; I congratulate you, not only as mistress of Bourhill, but also as mistress of what, to you, must seem a large fortune. Your uncle has left you Bourhill and the sum of ten thousand pounds.'

She received this announcement in silence, but all the colour left her face.

'Oh,' she cried at length, in a voice sharp with pain, 'how wrong! how hard! To live here in such poverty, to be so hard on others, to act a lie. It was that, Mr. Fordyce. Oh, my poor uncle!'

Her distress was keen. It showed itself in her heaving breast, her saddened eye, her drooping lips. She could not realise her own great fortune; she could only think of what it had cost. The lawyer was deeply moved, and yet not surprised. It was natural that a nature so fine, so conscientious, and so true, should see at once the terrible injustice of it all.

'My dear, I must warn you not to dwell on the morbid side. We must admit that it was a great pity, a very great pity, that your poor uncle did not realise the responsibility of wealth, did not even take some comfort for himself from it. But I may tell you it was a great, an inexpressible joy to him to leave it in your hands. I daresay he felt assured, as I do, that, though so young, you would know how to use it wisely.'

It was the right chord to touch. The colour leaped back to her cheek, the light to her eyes, her whole manner changed.

'Oh, I will, I will! God will help me. I will do the work, his work. If only he had told me how he wished it done.'

'I have a letter for you, written by his own hand the day he died; but it is not here. I will bring it when I come from my office at night; and meanwhile, my dear, I would suggest that you should get ready to go. My wife will be here very shortly.'

Immediately thought was diverted into another channel, and a great wistfulness stole over her.

'And what,' she asked in a low voice,—'what will become of Walter?'

'Has he not told you what his future is likely to be?'

'No, he has told me nothing.'

'Your uncle has left him this business to make of it what he likes, and five hundred pounds to help him to carry it on. It is a very good lift for a friendless young fellow—a waif of the streets.'

'He's not a waif of the streets,' cried Gladys hotly. 'He has a home, not so happy as it might be, perhaps, but it is a home. It is this dreadful drink, which ruins everything it touches, which has destroyed Walter's home. I am so glad for him. He will get on so quickly now, only he will be so dreadfully lonely. I must come and see him very, very often.'

'My dear, I do not wish you to turn your back on your old friend, but it might be better for you both, but more especially for him, if you let things take their course. Your life must be very different henceforth.'

'I do not understand you,' said Gladys quite calmly, 'Please to explain.'

Not an easy task for Mr. Fordyce, with these large, sorrowful, half-indignant eyes fixed so questioningly on his face. But he did his best.

'I mean, my dear, that for you, as Miss Graham of Bourhill, a new life is opening up—a life in which it will be quite wise to forget the past. Your life here, I should think,' he added, with a significant glance round the place, 'has not held much in it worth remembering. It will pass from you like a dream in the midst of the many new interests which will encompass you now.'

It was the wisdom of the world, not harshly nor urgently conveyed, but it sounded cruelly in the girl's ears. She rose to her feet, and somewhat wearily shook her head.

'You do not know, you cannot understand,' she said faintly. 'I can never forget this place. I pray I may never wish to forget it. If you will excuse me, I shall get ready now, so as not to keep Mrs. Fordyce waiting when she comes.'



CHAPTER XVI.

FAREWELL.

The carriage was at the door, and they stood face to face, the young man and the maiden, in the little office up-stairs, to say farewell.

'I am quite ready, Walter,' Gladys said in a still, quiet voice. 'I am going away.'

'Are you? Well, good-bye.'

He held out his hand. His face was pale, but his mouth was set like iron, and these apparently indifferent words seemed to force themselves from between his teeth. Sign of emotion or sorrow he exhibited none, but the maiden, who understood and who loved him,—yes, who loved him,—was not in the least deceived.

'Have you nothing else to say than that, Walter? It is very little when I am going away,' she said wistfully.

'No,' he replied in the same steady, even tone, 'nothing. You had better not keep them waiting, these grand people, any longer. They are not used to it, and they don't like it.'

'Let them wait, and if they don't like it they can go away,' she answered, with unwonted sharpness. 'I want to say, Walter, that if I could have stayed here, I would. I would rather be here than anywhere. It once seemed very dreadful to me, but now I love it. But though I am going away, I will come to see you very often, very often indeed.'

'Don't come,' he answered sharply. 'Don't come at all.'

A vague terror gathered in her eyes, and her mouth trembled.

'Now you are unkind, Walter, unkind and unreasonable. But men are often unreasonable, so I will forgive you. If I may not come here, will you promise to come to Bellairs Crescent and see me?'

Then Walter flung up his head and laughed, that laugh which always stabbed Gladys.

'To have the door slammed in my face by a footman or a smart servant? No, thank you.'

'Very well. Good-bye. If you cast me off, Walter, I can't help it. Good-bye, and God bless you. I hope I shall see you sometimes, and if not, I shall try to bear it, only it is very hard.'

She was a woman in keenness of feeling, a very child in guilelessness. She could not hide her pain.

Then Walter, feeling it all so keenly, and hating himself with a mortal hatred for his savage candour, condescended to make an explanation.

'In a week,' he began, 'you will view everything in a different light. You are going away to be a great lady, and you'll soon find that you want nothing so badly in this world as to forget that you ever knew this place, or me. It will be far better to understand and make up my mind to it at the very beginning. Perhaps some day it will be different, but in the meantime I know I am right, and you'll soon be convinced of it too, and perhaps thank me for it.'

'If that is what you think of me, Walter, it will indeed be better as you say. Good-bye.'

She scarcely touched his hand or looked at him as she turned away. She was wounded to the heart; and the poor lad, putting a fearful curb upon himself, suffered her to leave him. He did not even go down to the door to see the carriage leave, and in a few minutes the rattle of wheels across the stony street fell upon his ears like a last farewell. Then, there being none to witness his weakness, he laid his head down upon the battered old desk, and wept as he had not wept since his childhood. He had a proud spirit, and circumstances had made him morbidly sensitive. He was very young to indulge in a man's hopes and aspirations; but age is not always determined by years. Already he had dreamed his dreams, had his visions of a glorious future, in which he should build up a home for himself. Yet not for himself alone—it could be no home unless light was given to it by her who had been the day-star of his boyhood. The very loneliness and bitterness of his experience had caused his heart, capable of a strong and passionate affection, to centre with greater tenacity upon the gentle being who had shown to him the lovelier side of nature and life, and had awakened in him strivings after all that was highest and best. But this morbid sensitiveness, which is the curse of every proud spirit, and turns even the sweets of life to ashes in the mouth, had him in bitter bondage. He lashed himself with it, reminding himself constantly of his origin and his environment, and magnifying these into insuperable barriers which would for ever stand blankly in his way. Although common-sense told him that there was no other course open to Gladys than to accept the kindness offered her by the lawyer and his wife, and though in his inmost better heart he did not doubt her, it pleased his harder mood to regard himself as being despised and trampled on; there was a certain luxury in the indulgence which afforded him a melancholy pain. By and by, however, better thoughts came, as they always will if we give them the chance they seek. Out of his fearful dejection arose a manlier, nobler spirit, which betrayed itself in his look and manner. He rose from the stool, walked twice across the narrow office floor out to the warehouse, and finally down-stairs. In a word, he took an inventory of the whole place, and it suddenly came home to him, with a new accession of hope and strength, that it was his—that he was absolutely monarch of all he surveyed, and could make or mar it as he willed. It was not a stupendous heritage, but to one nameless and unknown it was much. Nay, it was his opportunity—the tide in his affairs which might lead him on to fortune. Wandering the length and breadth of his kingdom—only a drysalter's warehouse, but still his kingdom—hope took to herself white wings again, and, fluttering over him, built for him many a castle in the air—castles high enough to reach the skies. Then and there Walter Hepburn took courage and began to face his life—laid his plans, which had for its reward a maiden's smile and a maiden's heart. And for these men have conquered the world before, and will again. Love still rules, and will, thanks be to God, till the world is done.

Meanwhile Gladys, all unconscious alike of his deep dejection and his happier mood, sat quite silently in the corner of the luxurious carriage, her eyes dim with tears. Her kind friend, noticing that she was moved, left her in peace. Her sympathy was true, and could be quiet, and that is much.

'Suppose you sit up and look out, my dear?' she said at last. 'We are crossing Kelvin Bridge. Have you been as far West before?'

Gladys sat up obediently, and looked from the carriage window upon the river tumbling between its banks.

'Is this Glasgow?' she asked, wondering to see the trees waving greenly in the gentle April breeze.

'Yes, my dear, of course; and we are almost home. I am sure you will be glad, you look so tired,' said Mrs. Fordyce kindly. 'Never mind; you shall have a cup of tea immediately, and then you shall lie down and sleep as long as you like.'

'Oh, I never sleep in the day-time, thank you,' said Gladys; and as the carriage swept along a handsome terrace and into Bellairs Crescent, where the gardens were green with all the beauty of earliest summer, her face visibly brightened.

'It is quite like the country,' she said. 'I cannot believe it is Glasgow.'

'Sometimes we feel it dingy enough, my love. We are talking of the Coast already, but perhaps we shall fall in love with the Crescent a second time through you. Eh, my dear?' she said, with a nod. 'Well, here we are.'

The carriage drew up before the steps of a handsome house, the door was opened, and a dainty maid ran down to take the wraps. Gladys looked at her curiously, and thought of Walter. Well, it was a great change. Gladys had an eye for the beautiful, and the arrangement of the hall, with its soft rugs, carved furniture, and green plants, with gleams of statuary here and there, rested and delighted her.

'We'll just go to the drawing-room at once. My girls will be out of all patience for tea,' said Mrs. Fordyce. 'Nay, my dear, don't shrink. I assure you they are happy, kind-hearted girls, just like yourself.'

Gladys long remembered her first introduction to the brighter side of life. She followed Mrs. Fordyce somewhat timidly into a large and handsome room, and saw at the farther end, near the fireplace, a dainty tea-table spread, and a young girl in a blue serge gown cutting a cake into a silver basket. Another knelt at the fire. Gladys was struck by the exceeding grace of her attitude, though she could not see her face.

'My dears,' said Mrs. Fordyce quickly, 'here we are. I hope tea is ready? We are quite ready for it.'

'It has been up an age, mamma; Mina and I were thinking to ring for some fresh tea. Is this Miss Graham?'

It was the one who had been kneeling by the fire who spoke, and she came forward frankly and with a pleasant smile, though her eyes keenly noted every detail of the stranger's appearance and attire.

'This is Clara, my elder daughter, my dear; and this is Mina. Is Leonard not home?'

'Yes, but he won't come up. Leonard is our brother,' Clara explained to Gladys,—'rather a spoiled boy, and he is mortally afraid of new girls, as he calls them. But you will see him at dinner.'

In spite of a natural stateliness of look and manner, Clara had a kind way with her. She took off their guest's cloak, and drew a comfortable chair forward to the tea-table, while her sister made out the tea.

'Where's papa? Did he not come with you?' she asked her mother, leaving Gladys a moment to herself.

'No; he went off at St. Vincent Street. He has been away from business all day, you know.'

'Oh yes. This has been a sad day for you,' said Clara sympathetically, turning to Gladys. 'Mamma has told us how lonely you are, but we shall try to cheer you. Won't we, Mina?'

'Suppose you begin by giving her some tea?' said Mrs. Fordyce. 'Then she must have a little rest. She has very long cared for others, she must have a taste of being cared for now.'

Gladys could not speak a word. She felt at home. A vague, delicious sense of rest stole over her as she listened to these kind words, and felt the subtle, beautiful influences of the place about her. It was only a pleasant family room, which taste and wealth had appointed and adorned, but it seemed like a king's palace to the girl who had long walked in the darker places of the earth. Seeing her thus moved, mother and daughters talked to each other, discussing the pleasant gossip of the day, which always seems to gather round the table at five-o'clock tea.

'Now, Clara, you will take Miss Graham up-stairs. I think you must allow us to call you Gladys, my dear,' said Mrs. Fordyce. 'I am going to leave you in charge of Clara. When you know us better, you will find out that it takes Mina all her time to take charge of herself.'

Mina shook her finger at her mother, and a slight blush rose to her happy face.

'Too bad, mamma, to prejudice Miss Graham against me. The difference between my sister and me,' she added, turning to Gladys, 'is that Clara is always proper and conventional, and I am the reverse. You can never catch her unawares or in an untidy gown, she is always just as immaculate as you see her now; while I am—well, just as the spirit moves me.' She swept a little mocking courtesy to her sister, who only smiled and shook her head, then taking Gladys by the arm, led her from the drawing-room.

'You must not mind Mina. She often speaks without thinking, but she never wishes to hurt any one,' she said. 'We have both been so sorry for you since papa told us about you, and we hope you will feel happy and at home with us here.'

'Oh, I am sure I shall, you are all so kind,' cried Gladys impulsively. It was natural that she should exaggerate any little courtesy or kindness shown to her, she had known so little of it in her life.

'It is such a romance! To think you are an heiress, and that beautiful Bourhill is all your own,' continued Clara.

'Do you know it?' interrupted Gladys, with more interest than she had yet betrayed.

'Yes; I have been there. We have a house at Troon, and of course when we are there we drive a good deal. Papa pointed it out to us one day, and said it was sad to see it going to decay. We had no idea then that we should ever know you. This is your room; it is quite close to Mina's and mine. See, the river is just before the windows. I always think the Kelvin looks so pretty from here, because one cannot see its impurity.'

'It is beautiful—a great change for me,' said Gladys dreamily, as her eyes roamed round the spacious and elegant guest-chamber. 'How pleasant it must be always to live among so many beautiful things! I have loved them all my life, but I have seen so few since I came from the fen country with my uncle.'

'It was very strange that he, so rich, should keep you in that wretched place,' said Clara. 'How much better had he shared it all with you while he lived.'

'Yes; but I think he was happier as it was, and it pleased him at the end, I know, to think that he had given me Bourhill.'

'I am sure it did. Well, I shall go now, dear, and leave you to unpack. You will find the wardrobe and all the drawers empty. Mamma will be coming to you immediately, likely.'

With a nod and a smile, Clara took herself off to the drawing-room again.

'What do you think of Miss Graham of Bourhill?' asked Mina, with her mouth full of cake. 'Quite to the manner born. Don't you think so?'

'Quite. And isn't she lovely? Wait till mamma has taken her to Redfern, and then you and I may retire, my dear; we shall be eclipsed.'

'If so, let us be resigned. One thing I know, you don't believe in presentiments, of course, you matter-of-fact young person, but I feel that she is to be mixed up with us in some mysterious way, and that some day, perhaps, we may wish we had never seen Miss Graham of Bourhill.'



CHAPTER XVII.

THE WEST END.

Now Gladys had her opportunity of seeing the beautiful side of life. Her taste being naturally refined and fastidious, found a peculiar satisfaction in the beauty of her surroundings. It was a very real pleasure to her to tread upon soft carpets, breathe a pure air, only sweetened by the breath of flowers, and to rest her eyes with delicate combinations of colour and the treasures of art to be found in the lawyer's sumptuous house. Never had she more strikingly betrayed her special gift, of which Abel Graham had spoken on his death-bed, 'ability to adapt herself to any surroundings;' she seemed, indeed, as Mina Fordyce had said, 'to the manner born.'

She endeared herself at once by her gentleness of manner to every inmate of the house, and very speedily conquered the boy Leonard's aversion to 'new girls.' In less than a week they were chums, and she was a frequent visitor to his den in the attics, where he contrived all sorts of wonderful things, devoting more time to them than to his legitimate lessons, which his soul abhorred. But though she was invariably cheerful, ever ready to share and sympathise with all the varied interests of the house, there was a stillness of manner, a 'dreamy far-offness,' as Mina expressed it, which indicated that sometimes her thoughts were elsewhere.

The three girls were sitting round the drawing-room fire one wet, boisterous afternoon, chatting cosily, and waiting for tea to come up. Between Clara and Gladys there seemed to be a peculiar understanding, although Mr. Fordyce's elder daughter was not the favourite of the family. Her manner was too stiff, and she had a knack at times of saying rather sharp, disagreeable things. But not to Gladys Graham. In these few days they had become united in the bonds of a love which was to stand all tests. Clara was sitting on a low chair, Gladys kneeling by her side, with her arm on her knee. So sitting, they presented a contrast, each a fine foil to the other. The stately, dark beauty of Clara set off the fairer loveliness of the younger girl; neither suffered by the contrast. These days of peace and restful, luxurious living had robbed Gladys of her wearied listlessness, had given to her delicate cheek a bloom long absent from it. Her simple morning gown, made by a fashionable modiste who had delighted to study her fair model, seemed part of herself. She was a striking and lovely girl, of a higher type than the two beside her.

'Oh, girls,' cried Mina, with a yawn, and tossing back her brown unruly locks with an impatient gesture, 'isn't it slow? Can't you wake up? You haven't spoken a word for half an hour.'

'Do you never want to be quiet, Mina?' asked Gladys, with the gleam of an amused smile.

'No, never. I'm not one of your pensive maidens. One silent member in a family is enough, or it would stagnate. Clara sustains the dignity, I the life, of the house, my dear. Oh, I wish somebody would come in. I guess half a score of idle young women in the other houses of this Crescent are consumed with the same desire. But nobody ever does come in, by any chance, when you want them. When you don't, then they come in in shoals. I say, Clara, isn't it ages since we saw any of them from Pollokshields?'

'Yes; but you know we ought to have gone to ask for Aunt Margaret long ago.'

'I suppose so. We don't love our aunt, Gladys. It's the misfortune of many not to love their relations. Can you explain that mystery?'

'Perhaps they are not very lovable,' suggested Gladys.

'That's it exactly. Aunt Margaret is—Well, you'll see her some day, and then you'll admit that if she possesses lovable qualities she doesn't wear them every day. They are so rich, so odiously rich, that you never can forget it. She doesn't allow you to. And Julia is about as insufferable.'

'Really, Mina, you should not speak so strongly. You know papa and mamma wouldn't like it,' protested Clara mildly; but Mina only laughed.

'It is such a relief on a day like this to "go for" some one, as Len would say, and why not for one's relations? It's their chief use. And you know Julia Fordyce has more airs than a duchess. George is rather better, and he is so divinely handsome that you can't remember that he has a single fault.'

Was it the firelight, or did the colour heighten rapidly in Clara's cheek?

'Such nonsense you talk, Mina,' she said hastily.

'It isn't nonsense at all. Have we never exhibited the photograph of our Adonis, Gladys?'

'I don't think so,' answered Gladys, with a smile. 'Suppose you let me see it now?'

'Of course. That was an unpardonable oversight, which his lordship would never forgive. He is frightfully conceited, as most handsome men unfortunately are. It isn't their fault, poor fellows; it's the girls who spoil them. Here he is.'

She brought a silver frame from a cabinet, and, with an absurd assumption of devotion, dropped a kiss on it before she gave it to Gladys. Gladys sat up, and, holding the photograph up between the light, looked at it earnestly. It was the portrait of a man in hunting dress, standing by his horse, and certainly no fault could be found with his appearance. His figure was a model of manly grace, and his face remarkably handsome, so far as fine features can render handsome a human face; yet there was a something, it might be only a too-conscious idea of his own attractions, which betrayed itself in his expression, and in the eyes of Gladys detracted from its charm.

'It is a pretty picture,' she said innocently. 'The horse is a lovely creature.'

Then Mina threw herself back in her chair, and laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks—a proceeding which utterly perplexed Gladys.

'Oh, Clara, isn't that lovely? If I don't tell George Fordyce that the first time I see him! It'll do him all the good in the world. Only, Gladys, he will never forgive you.'

'Why? I have not said anything against him.'

'No, you have simply ignored him, and that is an unpardonable offence against my lord. You must let me tell him, Gladys. It is really my duty to tell him, and we should always do our duty by our relations, should we not?'

'I am sure I don't mind in the least if you do tell him,' replied Gladys serenely. 'Do you think I said anything very dreadful, Clara?'

'Not I. Never mind Mina, dear. You should be learning not to mind anything she says.'

'There's the bell. That's mother, I hope. We never miss mother more than at tea-time,' said Mina, jumping up. Love for her mother was the passion of her soul. It shone in her face, and betrayed itself in a hundred little attentions which touched Gladys inexpressibly. Clara was always more reserved, but though her feelings found slower expression they were not less deep and keen; and though Gladys felt at home and happy with every member of that singularly united household, it was to Clara, who was so seldom the favourite outside, that her heart went out in love.

'It is not mother. It's callers, I do believe,' cried Mina, giving her hair a tug before the mirror, and shaking out her skirts, while her face brightened with expectation.

'Mr. and Miss Fordyce.'

Clara rose and went hastily forward to receive her cousins, while the irrepressible Mina strove to hide her laughter, though her eyes danced in the most suspicious manner. It was with rather more than ordinary interest that Gladys regarded the new-comers. They were certainly a handsome pair, and so closely resembling each other that their relationship was at once apparent.

'To what do we owe this unexpected felicity?' inquired Mina banteringly. 'On such a day, too.'

'Yes, indeed; we quite expected to see you in the house we have just left,' said Julia a little stiffly.

'Where, where?'

'Evelyn Stuart's. Have you forgotten this is her first reception day?'

'So it is, and we forgot all about it. Clara, whatever shall we do? Was there a crowd?'

'Yes, an awful crowd.'

While answering Mina, Miss Julia inclined her head in recognition of Gladys, to whom Clara introduced her. The slightest possible surprise betrayed itself in the uplifting of her straight brows, as her keen, flashing eyes took in every detail of the girl's appearance. Needless to say, the new inmate of the lawyer's household had been freely discussed by the Pollokshields Fordyces, and it was in reality curiosity to see her which had brought them to Bellairs Crescent that afternoon.

'I should just say it was a crowd,' added George, giving his immaculate moustache a pull. 'I was sorry for Stuart, poor beggar. Really, though a fellow marries, he should not be subjected to an ordeal like you. I don't see anything to hinder a fellow's wife from receiving folks herself. It's an awful bore on a fellow, you know.'

He spoke languidly, and all the time from under his drooping lids surveyed the slender figure and fair face of Gladys. She was so different from the brilliant and showy young ladies he met in the society they moved in, that he was filled with a secret admiration.

'So the unfortunate young woman who marries you, George, may know what to expect. Do you hear that, girls? Be warned in time,' cried Mina. 'Won't you take off your cloak, Julia, and stay a little? Mother and tea will be here directly.'

'I daresay we have half an hour—have we, George? You are not going back to the mill, are you?'

'Not I; my nose has been pretty much at the grindstone for the last month. And now, girls, what's the best of your news? We're waiting to be entertained. How do you like the West End of Glasgow, Miss Graham?'

'Very much, thank you,' answered Gladys, and somehow she could not help speaking distantly. There was something about the young man she did not like. Had she looked at Clara just then she would have seen her eyes filled with a lovely, wavering light, while a half-trembling consciousness was infused into her whole appearance. These signs to the observant are not difficult to read. Clara loved her handsome cousin, and unfortunately he was not blind to the fact.

'We are going to Troon first week in May, Julia,' she said quickly. 'Has Aunt Margaret thought or spoken of your going yet?'

'She has spoken of it, but we haven't encouraged it,' replied Julia languidly, as she drew off one of her perfectly-fitting gloves, and displayed a long firm white hand, sparkling with diamonds. 'I know she has written to the housekeeper to have Seaview aired, but I suppose it depends on the weather.'

'If you are all going down, it wouldn't be half bad, Julia. We must see what the mater says. Does Miss Graham go with you?'

'Of course,' replied Clara, with a smiling glance at Gladys.

She replied by an answering smile, so swift and lovely that George Fordyce looked at her with a sudden access of admiration. Gladys shrank just a little under the continued persistence of his gaze; and when he saw it, it added a new zest to his interest in her. He was accustomed to find his admiration or attention always acceptable to the young ladies of his acquaintance, and the demeanour of Gladys was at once new and interesting to him. He determined to cultivate her acquaintance, and to awaken that fair, statuesque maiden into life.

Just then tea came up, and, rising lazily, he began to make himself useful to his cousin Clara, murmuring some nonsense to her over the tea-table, which deepened the lovely light in her eyes. He enjoyed seeing the delicate colour deepening in her face, and excused himself for bringing it there on the ground of cousinship. But when he carried her cup to Gladys, he remained by her side, while Julia entertained the other two with a description of the bride's drawing-room and reception gown.

'It's an awful romance, Miss Graham, upon my word it is,' began George, standing with his back to the others, and looking down most impressively into the girl's face,—'your story, I mean, of course. Uncle Tom has told us how you, the heiress of Bourhill, have lived in the slums—positively the slums, wasn't it?'

Now, though his words were not particularly well chosen or in good taste, his manner was so impressively sympathetic that Gladys felt insensibly influenced by it. And he was very handsome, and it was quite pleasant to have him standing there, looking as if there was nobody in the world half so interesting to him as herself. For the very first time in her life Gladys felt the subtle charm of flattery steal into her soul.

'I suppose you would call it the slums,' she answered. 'My uncle lived in Colquhoun Street.'

'Don't know it, but I guess it was bad enough, and for you, too, who look fit for a palace. And did you live there all alone with the old miser?'

'Don't call him that, please; he was very kind to me, and I cannot bear to hear him hardly spoken of, she said quickly. 'There were three of us, and we were very happy, though the place was so small and poor.'

'Who was the third?'

He managed to convey into his tone just sufficient aggressiveness as to suggest that he resented the idea of a third person sharing anything with her.

'Walter Hepburn, my uncle's assistant.'

Had she looked at him then, she must have been struck by the strange expression, coupled with a sudden flash, which passed over his face.

'Ah yes, just so. Well, I'm glad the fates have been kind, and brought you at last where there's a chance of being appreciated,' he said carelessly. 'Nice little girls my cousins—awfully good-hearted little souls, though Mina's tongue is a trifle too sharp. Yes, miss, I'm warning Miss Graham against you,' he said when Mina uttered his name in a warning note.

'Now, to punish you, I shall tell you my latest anecdote,' Mina said; and, heedless of the half-laughing, half-eager protest of Gladys, she related the incident of the portrait, with a little embellishment which made him appear in rather a ridiculous light.

In the midst of the laughter which the relation provoked, Mrs. Fordyce entered the room.



CHAPTER XVIII.

'THE DAYS THAT ARE NOT.'

The last days of April came, the family in Bellairs Crescent were making preparations for an immediate departure to the Ayrshire coast, and as yet Gladys had not seen or heard anything of Walter. She had a longing to revisit the old home, and yet a curious reluctance held her back. She felt hurt, and even a trifle irritated against Walter; and though she understood, and in a measure sympathised with his feelings, she thought him needlessly morbid and sensitive regarding their new relation towards each other.

'Gladys,' said Clara one day, when she had watched in silence the girl's sweet face, and noticed its half-sad, half-wistful expression, 'what is the matter with you? You are fretting about something. Tell me what it is. Do you not wish to go to Troon with us, or would you rather go to Bourhill? Do tell us what you would like best to do?'

They were quite alone in the little morning-room, which had been given up to the girls of the house to adorn as they liked. It was a pretty corner, dainty, home-like, cosy, with a long window opening out to the garden, which was as beautiful as it is possible for a city garden to be.

Gladys gave a little start, and coloured slightly under Clara's earnest gaze.

'I am quite happy at the idea of going to Troon; remember I have never seen the sea,' she answered quickly. 'What makes you think I am unhappy?'

'My dear, you look it. You can't hide it from me, and you are going to tell me this very moment what is vexing you.'

Clara knelt down on the rug, and, with her hands folded, looked up in her friend's face. Gladys passed her hand lightly over the smooth braids of Clara's beautiful hair, and did not for a moment speak.

'Did you ever have a great faith in any one who after a time disappointed you?' she asked suddenly.

'No, I don't think so. I am not naturally trusting, Gladys. I have to be very sure before I put absolute faith in any one.'

'I cannot believe that of you, Clara. How kind you have been to me, an utter stranger! You have treated me like a sister since the first happy day I entered the house.'

'Oh, that is different. You know very well, you little fraud, that your very eyes disarm suspicion, as somebody says. You are making conquests everywhere. But now we are away from the point. What is vexing you? Shall I make a guess?'

'Oh, if you like,' answered Gladys, with interest.

'Well, you are thinking of past days. You have not forgotten the companions of the old life, and it is grieving you, because it would appear that they have forgotten you.'

'He might have come, only once,' cried Gladys rebelliously, not for a moment seeking to deny or admit in words the truth of Clara's words. 'We were a great deal to each other. It is hard to be forgotten so soon.'

'Gladys dear, listen to me.'

Clara's voice became quite grave, and she folded her hands impressively above her companion's.

'You must not be angry at what I am going to say, because it is true. Has it not occurred to you that this young man, in thus keeping a distance from you, shows himself wiser than you?'

'How?' asked Gladys coldly. 'It can never be wise to wound the feelings of another.'

'My dear, though your simplicity is the loveliest thing about you, it is awfully difficult to deal with,' said Clara perplexedly. 'You must know, must admit, Gladys, that everything is changed, and that while you might be quite courteous, and even friendly after a fashion, with this Mr. Hepburn, anything more is quite out of the question. He must move in his own sphere, you in yours. People are happier in their own sphere. To try and lift them out of it is always a mistake, and ends in disaster and defeat. Would you have liked mamma to invite him here?'

'He would not come,' said Gladys proudly. 'He would never come. He said so again and again.'

'Then it seems to me that it is you who are lacking in proper pride,' said Clara calmly.

'What is proper pride?'

Gladys smiled with the faintest touch of scorn as she asked the question.

'You know what it is just as well as I can tell you, only it pleases you to be perverse this morning,' said Clara good-humouredly, 'and I am not going to say any more.'

'Yes you are. I want to understand this thing. Is it imperative that the mere fact that my uncle has left me money and a house should make me a different person altogether?'

'It affects your position, not necessarily you. Don't be silly and aggravating, Gladys, or I must shake you,' said Clara, with the frank candour of a privileged friend. 'And really I cannot understand why you should be anxious to keep in touch with that old life, which was so awfully mean and miserable.'

'It had compensations,' said Gladys quickly. 'And I do think, that if it is all as you say, there is more sincerity among poor people than among rich. There is no court paid, anyhow, to money and position.'

'My dear, you are not at all complimentary to us,' laughed Clara. 'Your ingenuousness is truly refreshing.'

'I am not speaking about you, and you know it quite well,' answered Gladys. 'But if the world is as fond of outward things as you say, I do not wish to know anything of it. I could not feel at home in it, I am sure.'

'My dear little girl, wait till your place is put in order, and you take up your abode in it, Miss Graham of Bourhill, the envied and the admired of a whole county, and you will change your mind about the world. Just wait till the next Hunt Ball at Ayr, and we'll see what changes it will bring.'

There was no refuting Clara's good-natured worldly wisdom, and Gladys had to be silent. But she pondered many things in her heart.

'When do we go to Troon? Isn't it next week?'

'Yes, on Tuesday.'

'Do you think,' she asked then, with a slight hesitation, 'that Mrs. Fordyce would allow me to pay a little visit to my old home before I go, for the last time?'

There was all the simplicity and wistfulness of a child in her manner, and it touched Clara to the quick.

'Gladys, are you a prisoner here, dear? Don't vex me by saying things like that. Do you not know that you can go out and in just as you like? Of course you shall go. I will take you myself, if mamma cannot, and wait for you outside.'

True to her promise, Clara ordered the brougham on Monday afternoon, and carried Gladys off to Colquhoun Street. Clara was, like most quiet people, singularly observant, and she noted with interest, not unmixed with pity, how nervous Gladys became as they neared their destination. Mingling with her pity was a great curiosity to see the young man whose image seemed to dwell in the constant heart of Gladys. It was a romance, redeemed from vulgarity by the beauty and the sweet individuality of the chief actor in it.

'I shall not knock. Don't let James get down,' cried Gladys, when the carriage stopped at the familiar door. 'I shall just run in. I have a fancy to enter unannounced.'

Clara nodded, and Gladys, springing out, opened and closed the familiar door. Her very limbs shook as she went lightly along the dark passage and pushed open the kitchen door. It was unchanged, yet somehow sadly changed. A desolateness chilled her to the soul as she looked round the wide, gaunt place, saw the feeble fire choking in the grate, and the remains of a poor meal on the uncovered table. The light struggling through the barred windows had never looked upon a more cheerless picture. All things, they say, are judged by contrast. Perhaps it was the contrast to what she had just left which made Gladys think she had never seen her old home look more wretched and forlorn.

So lightly had she entered, and so lightly did she steal up the warehouse stair, that the solitary being making out accounts at the desk was not aware of her presence until she spoke. And then, oh how timid her look and tone, just as if she feared greatly her reception.

'Excuse me coming in, Walter. I wanted so much to see you, I could not help coming. I will not hinder you long.'

He leaped up in the greatness of his surprise, in his agitation knocking over the stool on which he had been sitting. His face was dusky red, his firm mouth trembling, as he touched for a moment the outstretched, daintily-gloved hand.

'Oh, it is you? Won't you sit down? It is a battered old chair, but if you wait a moment I'll bring you another,' he said awkwardly.

'No, don't. I have often sat on this box. I can sit on it again,' she said unsteadily. 'I won't sit on ten chairs, Walter, though you should bring them to me this moment.'

She sat down, and her movement sent a faint whiff of perfume about her, dainty as herself. And then there was just a moment's painful silence. The awkwardness of the moment dwelt with them both; it would be hard to say which felt it more.

'I suppose,' said Walter stiffly, 'you are getting on all right?'

'Yes. I thought you would have come to see me before this, Walter,' said Gladys quietly.

'You need not have thought so. I said I wouldn't come, that nothing would induce me to come,' he answered shortly.

'We are going away into Ayrshire, so I thought I must come to say good-bye,' Gladys said then.

'To your estate?'

'No; to Troon, where the sea is.'

'Oh, and will you stay long?'

'Perhaps all the summer. How are you getting on here all alone, Walter? You must tell me that.'

'Oh, well enough.'

'Does Mrs. Macintyre come to work for you?'

'Yes, morning and night she looks in. I'm going to make this thing pay.'

He looked as if he meant it. His square jaw was firmly set, his whole look that of a man determined to succeed.

'I hope you will, Walter. I feel sure of it,' she said brightly.

'It'll be awful drudgery for a while,' he continued, almost in the confidential tones of yore. 'To have so much money, your uncle had the poorest way of doing business. He had the customers all under his thumb, and made them fetch and carry what they wanted themselves; in that way he saved a man's wages. I'm not giving anything on credit, and after they've once freed themselves, and can pay cash for what they get, they'll want it delivered to them, and quite right. Then I'll get a man and a horse and cart, and when I once get that, the thing will grow like a mushroom.'

'How clever you are to think of all that!' said Gladys admiringly. 'I am quite sure you will succeed.'

'I mean to,' he said soberly, but with a quiet determination which convinced Gladys how much in earnest he was.

'But don't let success make you hard, Walter,' she said gently. 'Remember how we used to plan what we should do for the poor if we were rich.'

'Your opportunity is here, then,' he said sharply; 'mine is only to come.'

The tone, more than the words, wounded her afresh. Oh, this was not the Walter of old! She rose from the old box a trifle wearily, and looked round her with slightly saddened air.

'Have you heard anything of your sister?' she asked him.

'No, nothing.'

'She has never written to any one?'

'No. I think she has gone to London to join a theatre. The girl who was her chum thinks so too.'

'Are your father and mother well?'

'As well as they deserve to be. They wanted to come here and live. Had they been decent and respectable, it wouldn't have been a bad arrangement. As they are, I simply wouldn't have it; I'd never get on. Of course they cast my pride in my teeth, but God knows I have little enough to be proud of.'

His mood cast its dark spell over the girl's sensitive heart, and she turned to go.

'It is all so different,' she said in a low voice, 'but the difference is not in me. Shall we never meet now, Walter?'

'It will be better not. If I ever succeed, and I have sworn to do it, we may then meet on more equal ground,' he said steadily, and not a sign of the unutterable longing in his heart betrayed itself in his set face. His pride was as cruel as the grave.

'Till then it is good-bye, then, I suppose?' she said quietly.

'Yes, till then; the day will come, or I shall know the reason why.'

'But it may be too late then, Walter, for us both.'

With these words, destined to ring their warning changes in his ears for many days, she left him, without touch of the hand or other farewell.

'Well, dear,' said Clara, with a slightly quizzical smile, 'has it made you happier to revive the ghosts of the past?'

'No; you were right, and I wrong,' said Gladys, as she sank into the cushioned seat. 'It was a great mistake.'

But even Clara did not know how dark was the shadow which had settled down on the girl's gentle soul.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE SWEETS OF LIFE.

From that day a change was observed in Gladys Graham. It was as if she had suddenly awakened from a dream, to find herself surrounded by the realities of life. Her listlessness vanished, her pensive moods became things of the past. None could be more interested in every plan and project, however small, in which the Fordyce household were concerned. She became lively, merry, energetic; it seemed impossible for her to be still.

'Now, what do you suppose is the matter with Gladys, Clara?' said Mina, the morning of the day they were to leave town. 'You who pretend to be a philosopher and a reader of character ought to be able to solve that mystery.'

'What do you see the matter with her?' inquired Clara, answering the question by another, as was her way when she did not want to commit herself to an expression of opinion.

'Why, she is a different girl. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it. She carries that Len to outrageous lengths, and if you don't call her behaviour at Aunt Margaret's last night the most prominent flirtation, I don't know what it is.'

'Just put it to Gladys, Mina. If she ever heard the word flirtation, I am positive she doesn't know what it means.'

'Oh, fiddle-de-dee!—every woman, unless she is a fool, knows intuitively what flirtation means, and can put it in practice. But it struck me last night that Aunt Margaret rather encouraged George to pay attention to Gladys. Of course it was quite marked.'

'Why should she encourage it?' asked Clara, with a slight inflection of huskiness in her voice.

'Clara, really you are too obtuse, or pretend to be. Of course it would be a fine thing for them. She belongs to an old Ayrshire family, and poor Aunt Margaret adores lineage. If she could with any effrontery assume it herself, she would; but, alas! everybody knows where the Fordyces came from. They'll angle for our dear little ward this summer, and bait the hook with gold.'

'Really, you are vulgar, Mina,' said Clara a trifle coldly, and, bending over an open trunk, busied herself with some of the trifles in the tray. 'We are sure to forget a thousand things. Do you think everything is here which ought to go?' she said, deliberately changing the subject.

'Oh, I don't know. We shall be glad of any excuse to come up in a week. If it is fearfully slow I'm coming back to keep Leonard company. Well, I suppose we must make haste. The cabs will be here directly.'

'Not till after breakfast, surely. There is the gong. Are you ready?'

'Yes; just put in this stud for me, like a dear. How elegant you look, just as if you had stepped from a bandbox. How do you manage to be so tidy, and yet always so graceful? When I am tidy I am stiff as a poker.'

Clara laughed, and, having fastened the refractory collar-button, bent her stately head, and gave her sister a kiss.

'Don't attempt to be too tidy, it will spoil your individuality.'

'"They were two sisters of one race, She was the fairest in the face,"'

sang Mina, as she bounded down-stairs—not disdaining, in spite of her eighteen years, to slide down the last few feet of the banisters; only she took care to see that nobody but Clara was in sight.

It was a very happy breakfast-table, though Leonard, whose classes kept him in town, affected a melancholy mood.

'I have only one piece of advice to give you, Gladys, in addition to my parting blessing,' he said teasingly. 'How much will you give for it?'

'How much is it worth?' she flashed back in a moment, her eyes dancing with fun.

'Untold gold, as you will find if you take it.'

'I can't buy it at the price,' she answered demurely.

'Well, I'll give it for nothing, in gratitude for the peace I shall enjoy this evening. Mamma, mayn't I come down Wednesday nights as well as Fridays?'

'No, my dear, you mayn't,' replied Mrs. Fordyce, shaking her head. 'If you work hard all week, you will enjoy your Saturdays all the more.'

'All right. Papa and I will have high jinks; see if we don't,' said the lad, with a series of little nods towards the newspaper which hid his father's face.

Mr. Fordyce did not hear this remark, though he looked up in mild surprise at the laughter it provoked.

'You seem very merry, Len, my boy. It is time you were off.'

'Yes, I know. That's the way a fellow's treated in this house—not allowed five minutes to eat a decent breakfast. Well, I'm off. Good-bye, all.'

'The advice, Leonard?' asked Gladys, when he came round to her chair.

He bent down, whispered something in her ear, and ran off.

'What did he say, Gladys. Do tell us?' cried Mina, in curiosity.

'I must, because I don't understand it,' answered Gladys. 'He said, "Don't let them take you for a walk on the Ballast Bank." What did he mean?'

'Oh, the Ballast Bank is the only promenade Troon can boast of, and Len has a rooted aversion to it,' replied Mina. 'He is a most absurd boy.'

In spite, however, of Leonard's advice, many a delightful blow did Gladys enjoy on the Ballast Bank.

The spring winds had not yet lost their wintry touch on the Ayrshire coast. Sweeping in from the sea, they made sport with the golfers on the Links, and taxed their skill to the utmost. The long stretch of grey sand upon which the great green waves rolled in and broke with no gentle murmur, the wide expanse of the still wintry-looking sea, the enchanting pictures to be seen in the clear morning light, where the Arran hills stood out so bold and rugged against the sky, and at sunset, when the tossing waters were sometimes stilled into an exquisite rest, all these were revelations to the girl who had the soul and the eye of an artist, and she drank them in with no ordinary draught of enjoyment. She lived out of doors. Wind and weather could not keep her in the house. When the rain-drops blew fierce and wild in the gale, she would start across the garden, out by the little gate to the beach, and, close by the edge of the angry sea, watch the great waves rolling in to her feet, and as she looked, her eyes grew large and luminous, and she would draw great breaths of delight; the wideness of the sea satisfied her, its wildest moods only breathed into her soul an ineffable calm.

In the course of a week the Pollokshields Fordyces also arrived at their Coast residence, and there began to be a quite unprecedented amount of friendly coming and going between the two families. It became evident before long that George Fordyce appeared to find some great attraction at The Anchorage, though in former years he had only presented himself at rare intervals during the months his people were at the sea-side. And those who looked on saw quite well how matters were drifting, and each viewed it in a different light. The most unconscious, of course, was Gladys herself. She knew that everybody was kind to her—George Fordyce, perhaps, specially so. He could be a very gallant squire when he liked. He was master of all the little attentions women love, and in his manner towards Gladys managed to infuse a certain deference, not untouched by tenderness, which she found quite gratifying. She had so long lived a meagre, barren existence that she seemed almost greedy of the lovely and pleasant things of life. She enjoyed wearing her beautiful gowns, living in luxurious rooms, eating dainty food at a well-appointed table. In all that there was nothing unnatural, it was but the inevitable reaction after what she had gone through. She began to understand that life has two sides, one for the rich and one for the poor, and she was glad, with an honest, simple gladness, that she had been permitted to taste the best last. She retained her simple, genuine manner; but her soul had had its first taste of power, and found it surpassing sweet. Beauty and riches had proved themselves valuable in her eyes, and there were times when she looked back upon the old life with a shudder. In the intoxication, of that first summer of her new life, memory of Walter grew dim in her heart. She thought of him but seldom, never of her own free will. Unconsciously she was learning a lesson which wealth and power so arrogantly strive to teach—to put away from her all unpleasant thoughts. Let us not blame her. She was very young, and experience has to lead the human heart by many tortuous ways to full understanding. So Gladys lived her happy, careless, girlish summer by the sea, enjoying it to the full.

'Tom,' said Mrs. Fordyce to her husband one afternoon, as they sat at the drawing-room window watching the young folks in the garden, 'do you think there is anything serious between Gladys and George Fordyce?'

'Eh, what? No, I don't think so.'

'Well, I do. Just look at them at this moment.'

They were sauntering arm in arm on the path within the shadow of the garden wall, Gladys with a bunch of pink sea daisies in her hand, a pretty bit of colour against her white gown. There was a tint as delicate in the fair cheek under the big sun hat, brought there, perhaps, by some of her companion's words. His attitude and bearing were certainly lover-like, and his handsome head was bent rather nearer the big sun hat than Mrs. Fordyce altogether approved.

'Well, I must say, my dear, it looks rather like it, only I've heard the girls say that George is a great flirt.'

'He is, but I don't think it's flirting in this case,' said Mrs. Fordyce seriously. 'I am afraid we, or at least I, have been very indiscreet.'

'You wouldn't approve then, Isabel? George is a trifle vain and silly, but I never heard anything against his character.'

'I suppose not. We would be the last to hear any such rumours. But it isn't fair to the girl; she has not had a chance. Do you know what people will say of us, Tom? That we took her away down here and shut her up among ourselves for the very purpose of matchmaking. It is a blessing our Leonard is only a boy, but it is bad enough that it should be our nephew.'

'There's a good deal of truth in what you say, but the world must just wag its stupid tongue. If the thing is to be, we can't prevent it.'

'We can, we must. She is only a child, Tom. I feel quite convicted of my own sinful want of observation. I have been thinking of it all day, and my mind is made up, provided you, as her guardian, will give your consent. She must go abroad. Do you remember Henrietta Duncan, who married the French officer? She is living in Bruges now, taking a few English ladies into her house. Gladys must go there.'

Mr. Fordyce looked at his wife in profound astonishment. He had not often heard her speak in such a very determined manner.

'Why, of course I can't have any objections, if the child herself is willing to go,' he said. 'Not that I believe it will do an atom of good. If there is a love affair in the matter, opposition is the very life of them. Don't you remember our own case?' he asked, referring, with a smile, to the old romance which had kept them true through years of opposition and discouragement.

'I haven't forgotten it,' she said, with an answering smile, 'only it is impossible these two in so short a time can be seriously involved. I'll find out this very day.'

'You are not in favour of it, Isabel, and a wilful woman must have her way.'

'It's not altogether fear of the world's opinion, Tom; there's something about George I don't—nay, can't like. He is very handsome, and can be very agreeable, but I never feel that he is sincere, and he is profoundly selfish. Even his mother says that.'

'Ay, well, she would need kind dealing, Isabel; she is a highly-strung creature,' said the lawyer thoughtfully, and the subject dropped.



CHAPTER XX.

PLANS.

While these golden days were speeding by the sea, Bourhill was being put in order for its young mistress. Her interest in the alterations was very keen; there were very few days in which they did not drive to the old house, and Mrs. Fordyce was surprised alike at the common-sense and the artistic taste she displayed in that interest.

'Do you think, dear Mrs. Fordyce,' she asked one day, when they happened to be alone together at Bourhill,—'do you think the house could be ready for me by the end of September, when you return to Glasgow?'

'It will be ready, of course; there is really very little to do now,' replied Mrs. Fordyce. 'But why do you ask?'

'Why, because if it is ready, then I need not go up with you. You have been very kind—I can never, never forget it; but, of course, when I have a home of my own it would not be right of me to trespass any longer on your kindness,' said Gladys thoughtfully.

Mrs. Fordyce could not forbear a smile.

'How old are you, my dear? I do not know that I have ever heard your age exactly.'

'I shall be eighteen next month.'

'Eighteen next month?—not a very responsible age. Is it possible, my dear, that you feel perfectly fit to take possession here, that you would have no tremors regarding your lonely position and your responsibility?'

'I have no such feeling, Mrs. Fordyce. I could live here quite well. Is there any reason why I should not?' she asked, observing the doubtful expression on the face of her kind friend.

'It is quite impossible, my dear, whatever your feelings may be,—altogether out of the question that you should live here alone.'

'But tell me why? I am not a child. I have always seemed to occupy a responsible position, where I have had to think and act for myself.'

'Yes, you have; but your position is entirely altered now. It would not be proper for you to live in this great house alone, with no company but that of servants. Mr. Fordyce would but poorly fulfil his promise to your poor uncle if he entertained such an idea for a moment. If you are to live at Bourhill at all, you must have a responsible person to live with you. But we had other plans for you.'

'Tell me what plans, please,' said Gladys, with that simple directness which made evasion of any question impossible to her, or to any conversing with her.

'Mr. Fordyce and I have thought that it would be to your advantage to winter abroad. I have an old school-friend, who married a French officer, and who is now left widowed in poor circumstances in Bruges. You would be most happy and comfortable with Madame Bonnemain. She is one of the sweetest and most charming of women, musical and cultured; her companionship would be invaluable to you.'

'I do not think I wish to go abroad, meanwhile. Would you and Mr. Fordyce think it ungrateful if I refused to go?'

'Well, no,' replied Mrs. Fordyce, though with a slight accent of surprise. 'But can you tell me what is your objection?'

'I want to come here and live just as soon as it is possible,' said Gladys, looking round the dismantled house with wistful, affectionate eyes. 'I want to have my very own house; I can never feel that it is mine until I live in it; and I have many plans.'

'Would you mind telling me some of them?' said Mrs. Fordyce rather anxiously. She was a very practical person—attentive to the laws of conventionality, and she did not feel at all sure of the views entertained by her husband's ward.

'I want to be a help to people, if I can,' said Gladys, 'especially to working girls in Glasgow—to those poor creatures who sew in the garrets and cellars. I know of them. I have seen them at their work, and it is dreadful to me to think of them. Sometimes this summer, when I have been so happy, I have thought of some I know, and reproached myself with my own selfish forgetfulness. You see, if I do not help where I know of the need, I am not a good steward of the money God has given me.'

'But tell me, my dear child, how would you propose to help?' asked Mrs. Fordyce, inwardly touched, but wishing to understand clearly what Gladys wished and intended to do. There seemed no indecision or wavering about her, she spoke with all the calm dignity of a woman who knew and owned her responsibilities.

'I can help them in various ways. I can have them here sometimes, especially when they are not strong; so many of them are not strong, Mrs. Fordyce. Oh, I have been so sorry for them, and some of them have never, never been out of these dreadful streets. Oh, I can help them in a thousand ways.'

Mrs. Fordyce was silent, not knowing very well how to answer. She saw many difficulties ahead, yet hesitated to chill the girl's young enthusiasm, which seemed a beautiful and a heavenly thing even to the woman of the world, who believed that it could never come to fruition.

'There is something else which might be done. What would you say to Madame Bonnemain coming here to live with you as housekeeper and chaperon?'

'If you, knowing us both, think it would be a happy arrangement, I shall be happy,' Gladys said; and the wisdom of the reply struck Mrs. Fordyce. Certainly, in many respects Gladys spoke and acted like a woman who had tasted the experience of life.

'My love, anybody could live with you, and unless sorrow and care have materially changed Henrietta Bonnemain, anybody could live with her,' she said cheerfully. 'Suppose we take a little trip to Belgium, and see what can be done to arrange it?'

'Oh yes, that would be delightful. I shall know just at once whether Madame Bonnemain and I can be happy together. Is she a Scotch lady?'

'To the backbone. She was born at Shandon, on the Gairloch, and we went to Brussels to school together. She never came back—married at eighteen, Gladys, and only a wife five years. She has had a hard life,' said Mrs. Fordyce, and her eyes grew dim over the memories of her youth.

'Can we go soon, then?' asked Gladys fervently; 'just when they are finishing the house? Then we could bring Madame back with us.'

'My dear, you will not let the grass grow under your feet, nor allow any one else to loiter by the way,' said Mrs. Fordyce, with a laugh. 'Well, we shall see what Mr. Fordyce has to say to-night to these grand plans.'

Some days after that conversation, Mrs. Macintyre was labouring over her washing-tub in her very limited domain in the back court off Colquhoun Street, when a quick, light knock came to her door.

'Come in,' she said, not thinking it worth while to look round, or to lift her hands from the suds.

'Good-morning, Mrs. Macintyre. How are you to-day?' she heard a sweet voice say, and in a moment she became interested and excited.

'Mercy me, miss, is't you? an' me in a perfick potch,' she said apologetically. 'No' a corner for ye to step dry on, nor a seat to sit doon on. Could ye no' jist tak' a walk the length o' the auld place or I redd up a wee?'

'No, no, Mrs. Macintyre,' replied Gladys, with a laugh. 'Never mind, I'll get a seat somewhere. I have come to see you very particularly, and I'm not going to take any walks till our business is settled. And are you quite well?'

''Deed, I'm jist middlin',' said the good woman, and then, with one extraordinary sweep of her bare arm, she gathered all the soiled linen off the floor and pushed it under the bed, then vigorously rubbing up a chair, she spread a clean apron on it, and having persuaded Gladys to sit down, stood straight in front of her, looking at her with a species of adoring admiration.

'Ye micht hae let a body ken ye were comin'. Sic a potch,' she said ruefully. 'My, but ye are a picter, an nae mistak'.'

Gladys laughed, and the sound rang through the place like sweetest music.

'Have you not been quite well? I think you are thinner,' she said kindly.

'No, I've no' been up to muckle; fair helpless some days wi' rheumatics. The washin's no' extra guid for them, but a body maun dae something for meat. I've anither mooth to fill noo. My guid-brither, Bob Johnson, is deid since I saw ye, an' I've been obleeged to tak' Tammy—no' an ill loon. He's at the schule, or ye wad hae seen him.'

'I don't suppose you would be sorry to leave this place and give up the washing if you could get something easier?' said Gladys.

'No' me; a' places are the same to me. Hae ye been up by?' asked Mrs. Macintyre significantly.

Gladys shook her head.

'I came to see whether you would come and live in the lodge at my gate. It is a nice little house, and I would like to have you near me; you were such a kind friend in the old days.'

Mrs. Macintyre drew her rough hand across her eyes, and turned somewhat sharply back to her wash-tub, and for the moment she gave no answer, good or bad.

'What aboot Tammy?' she asked at length.

'Oh, he could come with you, of course. He could go to school in Mauchline just as well as in Glasgow. Just say you'll come. I've set my heart on it, and nobody refuses me anything just now.'

'I'll come fast enough,' said Mrs. Macintyre, rubbing away as for dear life at her wash-board, upon which the big salt tears were dropping surreptitiously. 'Me no' want to leave this place? I'm no' that fond o't. Sometimes it's a perfect wee hell in this stair; it's no' guid for Tammy or ony wean. 'Deed, it's no' guid for onybody livin' in sic a place; but if ye are puir, an' tryin' to live decent, ye jist have to pit up wi' what ye can pay for. Ay, I'll come fast enough, an' thank ye kindly. But ye micht get a mair genty body for yer gate. I'm a rough tyke, an' aye was.'

'It is you I want,' replied Gladys; then, in a few words, she explained the very liberal arrangement she had in view for her old friend. After that, a little silence fell upon them, and a great wistfulness gathered in the girl's gentle eyes.

'So ye hinna been up by?' said Mrs. Macintyre. 'Are ye gaun?'

'Not to-day. Is Walter well?'

'Ay, he is weel. He's a fine chap, an' he's in terrible earnest aboot something,' said Mrs. Macintyre thoughtfully, as she shook out the garment she had been rubbing. 'There's a something deep doon in thon heart no' mony can see. But the place is no' the place it was to him or to me. What way wull ye no' gang up? Eh, but he wad be fell glad to see ye, my lady'—

'I am not going to-day,' replied Gladys quietly, and even with a touch of coldness. 'You can tell him, if you like, that I was here, and that I hoped he was well.'

'Ay, I'll tell him. And are ye happy, my doo?'

It was a beautiful and touching thing to see the rare tenderness in the woman's plain face as she asked that question.

'Yes, I—I think so,' Gladys replied, but she got up suddenly from her seat, and her voice gave a suspicious tremor. 'Money can do a great deal, Mrs. Macintyre, but it cannot do everything—not everything.'

'Aweel, no. I dinna pray muckle,—there's no' muckle encouragement for sic releegious ordinances this airt,—but I whiles speir at the Lord no' to mak' siller a wecht for ye to cairry. Weel, are ye awa?'

'Yes; good-bye. When you come down to Bourhill, after I come back, we'll have long talks. I shall be so glad to have you there.'

'Aweel, wha wad hae thocht it? Ye'll no' rue'd, my doo, if I'm spared, that's a' the thanks I can gie. An' wull ye no' gang up by?'

There was distinct anxiety in her repetition of the question. But Gladys, with averted head, hastened towards the door.

'Not to-day. Good-bye,' she said quickly; and, with a warm hand-shake, which anew convinced the honest woman that the girl in prosperity remained unchanged, she went her way.

But instead of going back through the lane to Argyle Street, she continued up the familiar dull street till she reached the warehouse door. She stopped outside, and there being no one in sight, she laid her slender hand on the handle with a lingering—ay, a caressing touch, and then, as if ashamed, she turned about and quickly hurried out of sight.

And no one saw that tender, touching little act except a grimy sparrow on the leads, and he flew off with a loud chirp, and, joining a neighbour on the old stunted tree, made so much noise that it was just possible he was delivering his opinion of the whole matter.



CHAPTER XXI.

ACROSS THE CHANNEL.

For the first time in her life Gladys tasted the novelty of foreign travel. It was quite a lady's party, consisting of Mrs. Fordyce and her daughters, though Mr. Fordyce had promised to join them somewhere abroad, especially if they remained too long away; also, there were vague promises on the part of the Pollokshields cousins to meet them in Paris, after the main object of their visit to Belgium was accomplished.

They stayed a week in London—not the London Gladys remembered as in a shadowy dream. The luxurious life of a first-rate hotel had nothing in it to remind her of the poor, shabby lodging on the Surrey side of the river, which was her early and only recollection of the great city. At the end of a week they crossed from Dover to Ostend, and in the warm, golden light of a lovely autumn evening arrived in quaint, old-world, sleepy Bruges. Madame Bonnemain herself met them at the station, a bright-eyed, red-cheeked, happy-faced little woman, on whom the care and the worry of life appeared to have sat but lightly during all these hard years. She was visibly affected at meeting with her old school-friend.

'Why, Henrietta, you are not one bit changed; you actually look younger than ever,' exclaimed Mrs. Fordyce, when the first agitation, of the meeting was over. 'Positively, you look as young as you did in Brussels eight-and-twenty years ago. Just look at me. Yes, these are my daughters; and this is Gladys Graham, whom I am so anxious to see under your care.'

The bright, sharp eyes of Madame Bonnemain took in the three girls at one comprehensive glance, then she shook her head with a half-arch, half-regretful smile.

'A year ago such a prospect would have seemed to lift me to paradise. Times have been hard with me, Isabel—never harder than last year; but it is always the darkest hour before the dawn, as we used to say in Brussels, when the days seemed interminably awful just before vacation. Two carriages we must have for so many women. Ah, I am so glad my house is quite, quite empty.'

Beckoning to the drivers of two rather rickety old carriages, somewhat resembling in form the old English chaise, she put all the girls in one, and seated herself beside Mrs. Fordyce in the other.

'Now we can talk. The children will be happier without us. How good, how very good, it is to see you again, Isabel, and how my heart warms to you even yet.'

'It was your own fault, Henrietta, that we did not meet oftener. You have always refused my invitations—sometimes without much ceremony,' said Mrs. Fordyce rather reproachfully.

'Pride, my dear—Scotch pride; that is what kept me vegetating in this awful place when my heart was in the Highlands. Tell me about Gairloch and Helensburgh, and dear old Glasgow. I have never forgotten it, though I was too proud to parade my poverty in its streets.'

'I will tell you nothing, Henrietta, till I hear what all this means. Have you really been worse off lately?'

'My dear, for twelve months I have not had a creature in my house,' said Madame Bonnemain, and her face grew graver and older in its outline,—'positively not a creature. Bruges has gone down as a place for English residents, and I don't wonder at it.'

'It is very beautiful, Henrietta,' said Mrs. Fordyce quickly,—'so quaint; everything about it a picture.'

'People can't live on quaintness, my love, and the narrowness and tyranny of it is intolerable. I hate it. When I go away from Bruges I never want to set eyes on it again as long as I live.'

Her eyes shone, her cheeks grew red, her little mouth set itself in quite a determined curve. Mrs. Fordyce perceived that she had some serious umbrage against the old Flemish town—a grudge which would never be wiped away. And yet it was very picturesque, with its grey old houses, its quaint spires, its flat fields spreading away from the canal, its rows of stately poplar trees.

'There is nothing really more terrible, Isabel, than the English life in a foreign town. It is so narrow, so petty—I had almost said so degraded. I should not have taken your pretty ward into my house here suppose you had prayed me to do it. Nothing could possibly be worse for a young girl; she could not escape its influence. No, I should never have taken her here.'

'Why have you stayed so long, then, Henrietta, among such undesirable surroundings?'

'Because it is cheap. There is no other reason in this world would keep anybody in Bruges,' replied Madame promptly.

'But you have not yet told me why you cannot take the position offered you.'

Then Madame turned her bright eyes, over-running with laughter, to her friend, and there was a blush, faint and rosy as a girl's, on her cheek.

'Because, my dear, I have accepted another situation—a permanent one. I am going to marry again.'

'Oh, Henrietta, impossible!'

'Quite true, my dear.'

'Another foreign gentleman, of course?'

'Why of course? No, I am going to rise in the world. I am going to marry an English colonel, Isabel, and return to my own land. I believe I told him that was my chief reason for accepting him at first.'

'But not at last?' hazarded Mrs. Fordyce, with a teasing smile.

'Well, no; romance is not dead yet, Isabel. But I shall tell you my story by and by. Here we are.'

The carriages rattled across the market-place, and drew up before one of the quaint, grey, green-shuttered houses. The concierge rose lazily from his chair within the shadow of the court, and showed himself at the door. The ladies alighted, and were ushered into the small plain abode where Madame Bonnemain had so long struggled for existence. All were charmed with it and with her. She made them feel at home at once. Often Gladys looked at her, and felt her heart drawn towards her. Yes, with that bright, sympathetic little woman, she could be happy at Bourhill. But somewhat late that night Mrs. Fordyce came into her room and sat down by her bed.

'My dear, are you asleep? We have come on a fruitless errand; Madame Bonnemain cannot come to you. She is going to be married almost immediately, so what are we to do now?'

'It is a great disappointment,' said Gladys. 'I like her so much. Yes, what are we to do now?'

'You must just come to us for another winter, Gladys; there is nothing else for it.'

Gladys lay still a moment, revolving something in her mind.

'Would it be proper for me to have an unmarried lady to live with me, Mrs. Fordyce?' she asked suddenly.

'Quite, if she were old enough.'

'How old?'

'Middle-aged, at least.'

'Then I know somebody who will do; it is a beautiful arrangement,' cried Gladys joyfully. 'In the little fen village where we lived, my father and I, there is a lady, Miss Peck—we lived in her house. She was very kind to us, and yet so poor; yes, I think she would come.'

'Is she a lady, Gladys?'

'If to be a lady is to have a heart of gold, which never thinks one unselfish thought, she is one, Mrs. Fordyce,' said Gladys warmly.

'These are the attributes of a lady, of course, Gladys, but there are other things, my dear, which must be considered. If this Miss Peck is to sit at your table, help you to guide your household, and be your constant companion, she must be a very superior person.'

'She was well brought up. I think her father was a surgeon in Boston,' said Gladys; and these words at once relieved the lawyer's wife.

'If that is so, she may be the very person for whom we are seeking. You are sure she is still there?'

'Yes,' replied Gladys reluctantly. 'I wrote to her in the summer. Mr. Fordyce allowed me to send her some money,—not in charity, it was the payment of a just debt,—and when she replied I knew by her letter that she was still very poor. I have always meant to have her come to me at Bourhill, but it will be delightful if she can come altogether.'

'You have a good heart, Gladys; you will not forget those who have befriended you.'

'I hope not, I pray not; only sometimes I am afraid it is harder for some reasons to be rich than poor.'

These words slightly surprised Mrs. Fordyce, though she did not ask an explanation of them.

'Try to sleep, my child, and don't worry your dear brain with plans,' she said, and, with a motherly kiss, returned to the little salon to enjoy the rare luxury of recalling old memories she had shared with the friend of her youth. They sat far on into the night, and before they parted Mrs. Fordyce was in full possession of the whole story of these weary and sordid years through which Henrietta Bonnemain had uncomplainingly borne her burden of poverty and care.

'Then the Colonel turned up,' she concluded, with a curious little tender smile; 'just when my affairs were at the lowest ebb he came here to visit an old regimental friend who lives over the way. So we met, and both being unattached, we drew to each other, and next month we are to be married.'

'Tell me about him, Henrietta, tell me all about him. I declare I am as silly and curious as a school-girl—far more curious about this new lover of yours than I ever was about the old.'

'There is no comparison between the two, Isabel—none at all. Captain Bonnemain was a good man, and he loved me dearly, but it is nearly always a mistake to marry a foreigner. It seems a cruel thing to say, but I never felt to poor Louis as I felt to the noble Englishman who has done me so great an honour.'

Her eyes were full of tears. Mrs. Fordyce saw that she was deeply moved.

'I do not know what he sees in me. He is so handsome, so noble, and so rich, he might marry whom he willed. He has no relatives to be angry over it; and he says, if it pleases me, we can buy a place in Scotland, on the very shores of the Gairloch. Think of that, Isabel; think of your exiled Henrietta returning to that. God is too good, and I am too happy.'

She bent her head and wept, and these tears betrayed what her exile had been to the Scotchwoman's heart. Mrs. Fordyce was scarcely less moved. It was a pathetic and beautiful romance.

The Scotch travellers spent a happy week in the old Flemish town; and Gladys, who had the artist's quick eye for beauty of colour and picturesqueness of detail, carried away with her many little 'bits,' to be finished and perfected at home.

Madame Bonnemain journeyed with them to Brussels many times, but declined their invitation to accompany them to Paris. They would all meet, she said, after a certain happy event was over, in the dear land over the sea.

George Fordyce alone joined them in Paris, and, somewhat to his aunt's distress, constituted himself at once as cavalier to Gladys. Often, very often, the good lady was on the point of speaking plainly to him, but, remembering her husband's warning, decided to let matters take their course. She watched Gladys narrowly, however, but could discover nothing in her demeanour but a frank kindliness, almost such as she might have displayed towards a brother. George Fordyce, who had really learned to care for the girl, felt that the close companionship of these days in Paris had not advanced his cause. He did not know that her mind was so engrossed by great plans and high ideals for the life of the coming winter that she had no time to bestow on nearer interests. He was a prudent youth, and decided to bide his time.

After a month's pleasant loitering abroad, they returned to London. George took his cousins home, and Mrs. Fordyce went with Gladys into Lincolnshire.

And they found the fen village as of yore, in no wise changed, except that a few new graves had been added to the little churchyard. The little spinster still abode in her dainty cottage, not much changed, except to look a trifle more aged and careworn. The fastidious eye of the lawyer's accomplished wife could detect no flaw in the demeanour of Miss Peck, and she added her entreaties to those of Gladys. In truth, the poor little careworn woman was not hard to persuade. She had no ties save those of memory to bind her to the fen country, so she gave her promise freely, accepting her new home as a gift from God.

'I shall come one more time here only,' Gladys said, 'to take papa away. Mr. Fordyce promised to arrange it for me. He must sleep with his own people; and when he is in the old churchyard I shall feel at home in Bourhill.'

All these things were done before the year was out; and Christmas saw Gladys Graham settled in her new home, ready and eager to take up the charge she believed God had entrusted to her—the stewardship of wealth, to be used for His glory.



CHAPTER XXII.

A HELPING HAND.

All this time nothing had been heard of Liz. She was no longer known in her old haunts—was almost forgotten, indeed, save by one or two. Among those who remained faithful to her memory was the melancholy Teen, and she thought of her hour by hour as she sat at her monotonous work—thought of her with a great wonder in her soul. Sometimes a little bitterness intermingled, and she felt herself aggrieved at having been so shabbily treated by her old chum. She had in her quiet way instituted a very thorough inquiry into all the circumstances of her flight, and had kept a watchful eye on every channel from which the faintest light was likely to shine upon the mystery, but at the end of six months it was still unsolved. Liz was as irrevocably lost, apparently, as if the earth had opened and swallowed her.

Teen had come to the conclusion that Liz had veritably emigrated to London, and was there assiduously, and probably successfully, wooing fame and fortune. Sometimes the weary burden of her toil was beguiled by dreams of a bright day on which Liz, grown a great lady, but still true to the old friendship, should come, perhaps, in a coach and pair, up the squalid street and remove the little seamstress to be a sharer in her glory. In one particular Teen was entirely and persistently loyal to her friend. She believed that she had kept herself pure, and when doubts had been thrown on that theory by others who believed in her less, she had closed their tattling mouths with language such as they were not accustomed to hear from her usually reticent lips. These gossip-mongers, who flourish in the quarters of the poor and rich alike, speedily learned that it was just as well not to mention the name of Liz Hepburn to Teen Balfour. One day a visitor, in the shape of a handsomely-dressed young lady, did come to the little seamstress's door. Teen gave a great start when she saw the tall figure, and her face flushed all over. In the semi-twilight which always prevails on the staircases of these great grim 'lands' of houses, she had imagined her dream to come true.

'Oh, it's you, miss?' she said, recognising Gladys Graham at last. 'I thought it was somebody else. Ye can come in, if ye like.'

The bidding was ungracious, the manner of it as repellent as of yore; but Gladys, not easily repulsed, followed the little seamstress across the threshold, and closed the door. The heavy, close smell of the place made a slight faintness come over her, and she was glad to sink into the nearest chair.

'Do you never open your window? It is very close in here.'

'No, I never open it. It takes me a' my time to keep warm as it is. There's a perfect gale blaws in, onyhoo, at the chinks. Jist pit yer hand at the windy, an' ye'll see.'

Gladys glanced pitifully round the place, and then fixed her lovely, compassionate eyes on the figure of the little seamstress, as she took up her position again on the stool by the fire and lifted her work.

'You look just as if you had been sitting there continuously since I saw you last,' Gladys said involuntarily.

'So I have, maistly,' replied Teen dully, 'an' will sit or they cairry me oot.'

'Oh, I hope not; indeed, you will not. Have you had a hard summer?'

'Middlin'; it's been waur. Five weeks in July I had nae wark; but I've been langer than that—in winter, too. In summer it's no' sae bad. When ye're cauld, ye feel the want o' meat waur.'

'Have you really sometimes not had food?' asked Gladys in a shocked voice.

'Whiles. Do you ken onything aboot Liz?' she asked, suddenly breaking off, and lifting her large sunken eyes to the sweet face opposite to her.

'No; that is one of the things I came about to-day. Have you not heard anything of her?'

'No' a cheep. Naebody kens. I gaed up to Colquhoun Street one day to ask Walter, but he didna gie me muckle cuttin'. I say, he's gettin' on thonder.' She flashed a peculiar, sly glance at Gladys, and under it the latter's sensitive colour rose.

'I always knew he would,' she replied quietly. 'And he has not heard anything, either? Do you ever see her father and mother?'

'No; but it's the same auld sang. They're no' carin' a button whaur Liz is,' said Teen calmly.

'Have you no idea?' asked Gladys.

'Not the least. I may think what I like, but I dinna ken a thing,' replied the girl candidly.

'What do you think, then? You knew her so intimately. If you would help me, we might do something together,' said Gladys eagerly.

Teen was prevented answering for a moment by a fit of coughing—a dry, hacking cough, which racked her weary frame, and brought a dark, slow colour into her cadaverous cheek.

'Well, I think she's in London,' she replied at length. 'But it's only a guess. She'll turn up some day, nae doot; we maun jist wait till she does.'

'I am very sorry for you. Will you let me help you? I am living in my own home now in Ayrshire. It is lovely there just now—almost as mild as summer. Won't you come down and pay me a little visit? It would do you a great deal of good.'

Teen laid down her heavy seam and stared at Gladys in genuine amazement, then gave a short, strange laugh.

'Ye're takin' a len' o' me, surely,' she said. 'What wad ye dae if I took ye at yer word?'

'I mean what I say. I want to speak to you, anyhow, about a great many things. How soon could you come? Have you any more work than this to do?'

'No; I tak' this hame the nicht,' replied Teen. 'I can come when I like.'

'If I stay in town all night, would you go down with me to-morrow?'

'Maybe; but, I say, what do ye mean?'

She leaned her elbows on her knees, and, with her thin face between her hands, peered scrutinisingly into her visitor's face. There was a great contrast between them, the rich girl and the poor, each the representative of a class so widely separated that the gulf seems well-nigh impassable.

'I don't mean anything, except that I want to help working girls. I so wished for Liz, she was so clever and shrewd; she could have told me just what to do. You can help me if you like; you must take her place. And at Bourhill you will have a rest—nothing to do but eat and sleep, and walk in the country. You will lose that dreadful paleness, which has always haunted me whenever I thought of you.'

A curious tremor was visible on the face of the little seamstress, a movement of every muscle, and her nerveless fingers could not grasp the needle.

'A' richt,' she replied rather huskily. 'I'll come. What time the morn?'

'What time can you be ready? It is quite the same to me when I go. I have nothing to do.'

'Well, I can be ready ony time efter twelve; but, I say, what if, when I come back, they've gi'en my wark to somebody else? That's certain; ye should see the crood waitin' for it—fechtin' for it almost like wild cats.'