'And now you are going to tell me everything about this wonderful metamorphosis,' she said merrily,—'every solitary thing. When did it dawn upon you that even a handsome man is utterly dependent on his tailor?'

There was at once rebuke and approval conveyed in this whimsical speech, which made Walter's face slightly flush.

'It dawned upon me one day, looking in at a shop window where I could see myself, that I was a most disreputable-looking object, quite eligible to be apprehended as an able-bodied vagrant.'

'How delightful! I hope the shock was very bad, because you deserved it. Now that you have come back clothed and in your right mind, I am not going to spare you, Walter, and I will say that after my last visit to Colquhoun Street I quite lost hope. It is always the darkest hour before the dawn, somebody has said.'

'If I'd thought you cared'—Walter began, but stopped suddenly; for Gladys turned from the table, where she was giving her attention to some drooping flowers, and her look was one of the keenest wonder and reproach.

'Now you are weak, Walter, trying to bring your delinquencies home to me,' she said, with the first touch of sharpness he had ever seen in her. 'It has been your own fault entirely all along, and I have never had a solitary bit of sympathy for you, and I don't know, either, what you meant by going on in any such manner.'

'I didn't understand it myself then; I seemed goaded on always to be a perfect brute when you came. But I believe I understand it now, and perhaps it would be better if I did not.'

He spoke with considerable agitation, which Gladys affected not to notice, while her white fingers touched the drooping blossoms tenderly, as if sympathising with them that their little day was over.

'Suppose you enlighten me, then?' she said, gaily still; then suddenly seeing his face, her own became very white.

'I don't dare,' he said hoarsely, 'it is too much presumption; but it will perhaps make you understand and feel for me more than you seem to do. Don't you see, Gladys, that it is my misery to care for you as happier men care for the woman they ask to marry them?'

There was a moment's strained silence, then Gladys spoke in a low, sobbing voice,—

'It is, as I said, Walter, too late, too late! I have promised to marry another man.'



CHAPTER XXXI.

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

All the eagerness died out of Walter's face, and he turned away immediately as if to leave the room. But Gladys prevented him; her face still red with the hot flush his passionate words had called up, she stood before him, and laid her hand upon his arm.

'You will not go away now, Walter, just when I hope we are beginning to understand each other. Do sit down for a little. There is a great deal left to us,—we can still be friends,—yes, a great deal.'

'It will be better for me to go away,' he said, not bitterly nor resentfully, but with a quiet manliness which made the heart of Gladys glow with pride in him, though it was sore with another feeling she did not quite understand.

'By and by, but not yet,' she said coaxingly. 'Besides, you cannot get a train just now, even if you were at the station this moment. You shall be driven into Mauchline in time for the nine-fifteen, and that is an hour hence. I cannot let you go now, Walter, for I do not know when I shall see you again.'

She spoke with all the frank, child-like simplicity of the old time, and he turned back meekly and took his seat again, though it seemed for the moment as if all brightness and energy had gone out of him. Her hands trembled very much as they resumed their delicate task among the flowers, and her sweet mouth quivered too, though she tried to speak bravely and brightly as before.

'Do tell me, Walter, what you are thinking of doing now that your business has become so prosperous. Don't you think you have lived quite long enough in that dingy Colquhoun Street?'

'Perhaps so. I had thoughts of leaving it, but it is a great thing for a man to be on the premises. Your uncle would not have approved of my leaving the place so soon. Colquhoun Street was good enough for him all his days,' said Walter, striving to speak naturally, and only partially succeeding.

'Ah, yes, poor man; but just think how much he denied himself to give me all this,' she said, with a glance round the beautiful room. 'How much happier he and I would have been with something a little lower than this, and a little higher than Colquhoun Street. It often makes me sad to think of the poverty of his life and the luxury of mine.'

'But you were made for luxurious living,' was Walter's quick reply. 'You never looked at home in the old place. This suits you down to the ground.'

'Do you think so?' Gladys gave a little melancholy smile. 'Yet so contradictory are we, that sometimes I am not at all happy nor contented here, Walter.'

'You ought to be very happy,' he replied a trifle sharply. 'You have everything a woman needs to make her happy.'

'Perhaps so, and yet'—

She paused, and hummed a little scrap of song which Walter did not catch.

'I am becoming quite an accomplished violinist, Walter,' she said presently. 'I have two lessons every week; once Herr Doeller comes down, and once I go up. Would you like to hear me play, or shall we talk?'

'I don't know. It would really be better for me to go away. I can walk to the station; the walk will do me good.'

'I will not allow you to walk nor go away, Walter, even if you are as cross as two sticks; and I must say I feel rather cross myself.'

They were playing with edged tools, and Gladys was keenly conscious of it. Her pulses were throbbing, her heart beating as it had never beat in the presence of the man to whom she had plighted her troth that very day. A very little more, and she must have given way to hysterical sobbing, she felt so overwrought; and yet all the while she kept on her lips that gay little smile, and spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world that they should be together. But when Walter remained silent, she came forward to the hearth quickly, and, forgetting that what was fitting in the old days was not permissible in the new, she slipped on one knee on the rug, and suddenly, laying her head down on his knee, began to cry.

'Gladys, get up! For God's sake, get up, or I can't hold my tongue. This is fearful!'

The word was none too strong. The solitary and absorbing passion of his life, a pure and honest love for that beautiful girl, surged in his soul, and his face betrayed the curb he was putting on himself. He had had but a poor upbringing, and his code of honour had been self-taught, but he was manly enough to be above making love to another man's promised wife.

'Don't make it any harder for me,' he said hoarsely. 'I know you are sorry for me. You have been always an angel to me, even when I least deserved it; but this is not the way to treat me to-night. Let me away.'

'Let me be selfish, Walter, just this one night,' she said, in a low, broken voice. 'I don't know why I am crying, for it is a great joy to me that you are here, and that I know now, for ever, that you feel as you used to do before this cruel money parted us; there are not in all the world any friends like the old. Forgive me if I have vexed you.'

She rose up and met his glance, which was one of infinite pity and indescribable pathos. The greatest sorrow, the keenest disappointment which had ever come to Walter, softened him as if with a magic touch, and revealed to her his heart, which was, at least, honest and true in every throb.

'You can never vex me, though I have often vexed you. I need scarcely say I hope you will be happy with the one you have chosen. You deserve the very best in the world, and even the best is not good enough for you.'

A faint smile shone through the tears on the girl's face.

'What has changed you so, Walter? It is as if a whirlwind had swept over you.'

'I have never changed in that particular,' he answered half gloomily. 'I have always thought the same of you since the day I saw you first.'

'Oh, Walter, do you remember our little school in the evenings, with Uncle Abel dozing in the chimney-corner, and your difficulties over the arithmetic? Very often you asked me questions I could not answer, though I am afraid I was not honest enough always to say I did not know. Sometimes I gave you equivocal answers, didn't I?'

'I don't know; all I know is, that I shall never forget these days, though they can never come again, answered Walter. 'I am learning German this winter, and I like it very much.'

'How delightful! If you go on at this rate, in a very short time I shall be afraid to speak to you, you will have grown such a grand and clever gentleman.'

Walter gave his head a quick shake, which made the waved mass of his dark hair drop farther on his brow. A fine brow it was, square, solid, massive, from beneath which looked out a pair of clear eyes, which had never feared the face of man. He looked older than his years, though his face was bare, except on the upper lip, where the slight moustache appeared to soften somewhat the sterner line of the mouth. Yes, it was a good, true face, suggestive of power and possibility—the face of an honest man. Then his figure had attained its full height, and being clothed in well-made garments, looked very manly, and not ungraceful. Gladys admired him where he stood, and inwardly contrasted him with a certain other youth, who devoted half his attention to his personal appearance and adornment. Nor did Walter suffer by that comparison.

'Must you go away?' she asked wistfully, not conscious how cruel she was in seeking to keep him there when every moment was pointed with a sorrowful regret, a keen anguish of loss which he could scarcely endure. 'And when will you come again?'

'Oh, I don't know. I can't come often, Gladys; it will be better not, now.'

'It is always better not,' she cried, with a strange petulance. 'There is always something in the way. If you knew how often I want to talk to you about all my plans. I always think nobody quite understands us like those whom we have known in our early days, because then there can never be any pretence or concealment. All is open as the day. Is it impossible that we can still be as we were?'

'Quite impossible.' His answer was curt and cold, and he was on his feet again, moving towards the door.

'But why?' she persisted, with all the unreason of a wilful woman. 'May a woman not have a friend, though he should be a man?'

'It would not be possible, and he would not like it,' he said significantly; and Gladys flushed all over, and flung up her head with a gesture of defiance.

'He shall not dictate to me,' she said proudly. 'Well, if you will go, you will, I suppose, but you shall not walk; on that point I am determined.' She rang the bell, gave her order for the carriage, and looked at him whimsically, as if rejoicing in her own triumph. 'I am afraid I am becoming quite autocratic, Walter, so many people have to do exactly as I tell them. If you will not come, will you write to me occasionally, then? It would be delightful to get letters from you, I think.'

Never was man so subtlely flattered, so tempted. Again he bit his lip, and without answering, he took a handsome frame from the piano, and glanced indifferently at the photograph he held.

'Is this the man?' he asked at hazard, and when Gladys nodded, he looked at it again with keener interest. It was the same picture of George Fordyce in his hunting-dress which Gladys had first seen in the drawing-room at Bellairs Crescent.

'A grand gentleman,' he said, with a faint note of bitterness in his tone. 'Well, I hope you will be happy.'

This stiff, conventional remark appeared to anger Gladys somewhat, and for the first time in her life she cast a reproach at him.

'You needn't look so resigned, Walter. Just cast your memory back, and think of some of the kind things you have said to me when we have met since I have left Colquhoun Street. If you think I can forget, then you are mistaken. They will always rankle in my mind, and it is only natural that I should feel grateful, if nothing else, to those who are a little kinder and more attentive to me. A woman does not like to be ignored.'

At that moment a servant appeared to say the carriage waited, and Walter held out his hand to say good-bye. Hope was for ever quenched in his heart, and something in his eyes went to the heart of Gladys, and for the moment she could not speak. She turned silently, motioned him to follow her from the room, and then stood in the hall, still silently, till he put on his greatcoat. Woman-like, in the midst of her strange agitation she did not fail to notice that every detail of his attire was in keeping, and that pleased well her fastidious taste. When the servant at last opened the door, the cool wind swept in and ruffled the girl's hair upon her white brow.

'Good-bye, then. You will write?' she said quickly, and longing, she did not know why, to order the servant to withdraw.

'If there is anything to write about, perhaps I will,' he answered, gripped her hand like a vice, and dashed out. Then Miss Graham, quite regardless of the watchful eyes upon her, went out to the outer hall, and her sweet voice sounded through the darkness, 'Good-bye, dear Walter,' and, putting her white fingers to her lips, she threw a kiss after him, and ran into the house, all trembling, and when she reached the drawing-room she dropped upon her knees by a couch and fell to weeping, though she did not know why she wept.



CHAPTER XXXII.

THE WANDERER.

It was half-past ten before Walter alighted from the train at St. Enoch's Station. It was a fine dry evening, with a sufficient touch of frost in the air to make walking pleasant. As he made his way out of the station, and went among the busy crowd, he could not help contrasting that hurrying tide of life with the silence and the solitude he had left. The experience of the last few hours seemed like a dream, only he was left with that aching at the heart—that strong sense of personal loss which even a brave man sometimes finds it hard to bear manfully. For till now he had not realised how near and dear a part of his life was the sweet girl now lost to him for ever. Although it had often pleased him, in the bitterness of his mood, to say that an inseparable barrier had arisen between them, he had in his heart of hearts not believed it, but cherished the secret and strong hope that their estrangement was but temporary, and that in the end the old days which in their passing had often been shadowed, but which now to memory looked wholly bright and beautiful, would receive their crown. And now his dream was over, and again he felt himself alone in the world—more terribly alone than he had yet been. He was not a vain man, though he believed in his own ability, or, looking back, he might have taken no small comfort from the demeanour of Gladys towards him. He had not been untouched by it, her womanly tenderness had sunk into his soul; but he saw in it only the natural outcome of a kind heart, which felt always keenly the sorrow of others. He believed so absolutely in her singleness of heart, her honesty of purpose, that he accepted her decision as final. Since she had plighted her troth to another, it was all over, so far as Walter himself was concerned. He knew so little of women that it never occurred to him that sometimes they give such a promise hastily, accepting what is offered from various motives—very often because what they most desire is withheld. It must not be thought that in having accepted George Fordyce, Gladys was intentionally and wilfully deceiving him. His impassioned pleading had touched her heart. At a time when she was crying out for something to satisfy her need, in an unguarded moment, she had mistaken an awakened, fleeting impression for love, and passed what was now in her eyes an irrevocable word. She was no coquette, who gives a promise the one day to be carelessly withdrawn the next. George Fordyce had been fortunate in gaining the promise of a woman whose word was as her bond. There are circumstances in which even such a bond may become null and void, but Gladys did not dream of the tragedy which was to release her from her vow.

Walter felt in no haste to go home; nay, the very thought of it was intolerable to him. He saw it all before him, in sharp contrast to another home, which had shown him how lovely wealth and taste can make human surroundings, and he loathed the humble shelter of the old place, which memory hallowed only to wound, and from which the angel of hope had now flown.

With his hand in one pocket, his hat drawn a little over his brow, he sauntered, with heavy and reluctant step, up Renfield Street, in the direction of Sauchiehall Street. He did not know what tempted him to choose the opposite direction from his home. We are often so led, apparently aimlessly, towards what may change the very current of our lives. The streets, though quieter as he walked farther West, were by no means deserted, and just on the stroke of eleven the people from the theatres and public-houses made the tide of life flow again, apparently in an endless stream. Quite suddenly, under the brilliant light thrown by the illumination of a fashionable tavern, Walter saw standing on the edge of the pavement, talking to another girl, his sister Liz. He could not believe his eyes at first, for he had never credited the assertion of Gladys that she had really seen her, but believed it had been a mistake. But there she was, well dressed, stylish, and beautiful exceedingly. Even in that first startled look he was struck by the exquisite outline, of her face, the absolute purity of her colour, except where it burned a brilliant red on her cheeks.

He stepped back into a doorway, and stood silently waiting till they should separate, or move away. To his relief, they, separated at last, the stranger moving towards him, Liz proceeding westward. He followed her, keeping a few steps behind her, watching her with a detective's eye. Once a man spoke to her, but she gave no answer, and somehow that to Walter was a relief. He felt himself growing quite excited, longing to overtake and speak to her, yet afraid. At the corner of Cambridge Street she stood still, apparently looking for a car; then Walter stepped before her, and laid his hand on her arm.

'Liz,' he said, and in spite of himself his voice shook, 'what are you doing here?'

Liz gave a great start, and her pallor vanished, the red mounting high to her brow.

'I—I don't know. It's you, Wat? Upon my word, I didna ken ye; ye are sic a swell.'

'I heard you were in Glasgow, but I didn't believe it. Where have you been all this time?'

'To Maryhill; I'm bidin' there the noo,' Liz answered defiantly, though she was inwardly trembling.

'Maryhill?' Walter repeated, and his eye, sharp with suspicion, dwelt searchingly on her face. 'What are you doing there?'

'That's my business,' she answered lightly. 'I needna ask for you; I see you are flourishin'. Hoo's the auld folk? I say, here's my car. Guid-nicht.'

She would have darted from him, but he gripped her by the arm.

'You won't go, Liz, till I know where and how you are living. I have the right to ask. Come home with me.'

Liz was surprised, arrested, and the car, with its noisy jingle, swept round the corner.

'Hame wi' you!' she repeated. 'Maybe, if ye kent, ye wadna ask me, wadna speak to me,' she said, with a melancholy bitterness, and then her cough, more hollow and more racking than of yore, prevented further speech.

Walter drew her hand within his arm, and she, feebly protesting, allowed him to lead her back the way she had come. And then, as they walked, a strange, constrained silence fell upon them, each finding it difficult, well-nigh impossible, to bridge the gulf of these sad months.

'Are you not going to tell me anything about yourself, Liz?' he asked at length, and the kindness of his tone, unexpected as it was, secretly amazed and touched her.

'Naething,' she answered, without a moment's hesitation. 'An' though I've come back to Glesca, I'm no' seeking onything frae ony o' ye; I can fend for mysel'.'

Walter remained silent for a little. The subject was one of extreme delicacy, and he did not know how to pursue it. He feared that all was not with his sister as it should be, but he feared the result of further questions.

'What's the guid o' me gaun hame wi' you the nicht? I canna bide there,' she said presently, in a sharp, discontented voice. 'An' here ye've gar'd me miss the last car.'

'Where are you staying in Maryhill?'

'I have a place, me an' anither lassie,' she said guardedly. 'If ye are flush, ye micht gie me twa shillin's for a cab. I'm no' able to walk.'

At that moment, and before he could reply, a slim, slight, girlish figure darted across the street, and, with a quick, sobbing breath, laid two hands on the arm of Liz. It was the little seamstress, who had haunted the streets late for many nights, scanning the faces of the wanderers, sustained by the might of the love which was the only passion of her soul. At sight of Teen, Liz Hepburn betrayed more emotion than in meeting with her brother.

'Eh, I've fund ye at last! I said I was bound to find ye if ye were in Glesca,' Teen cried, and her plain face was glorified with the joy of the meeting. 'Oh, Liz, what it's been to me no' kennin' whaur ye were! But, I say, hoo do you twa happen to be thegither?'

'I've twa detectives efter me, it seems,' said Liz, with a touch of sullenness, and she stood still on the edge of the pavement, as if determined not to go another step. 'I say, do you twa hunt in couples?'

She gave a little mirthless laugh, and her eye roamed restlessly up the street, as if contemplating the possibility of escape.

'Come on hame wi' me, Liz,' said Teen coaxingly, and she slipped her hand through her old friend's arm and looked persuasively into her face, noting with the keenness of a loving interest the melancholy change upon it. 'Ye're no' weel, an' ye'll be as cosy an' quate as ye like wi' me.'

'Has your ship come in?' asked Liz, with faint sarcasm, but still hesitating, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of two pairs of questioning, if quite friendly, eyes.

'Ay, has it,' replied the little seamstress cheerfully. 'Shouldn't she come hame wi' me, Walter? She wad be a' richt there, an' you can come an' see us when ye like.'

Walter stood in silence another full minute. It was a strange situation, strained to the utmost, but his faith in the little seamstress was so great that he almost reverenced her. He felt that it would be better for Liz to be with a friend of her own sex, and he turned to her pleadingly.

'It's true what Teen says, you are not well. Let her take you home. I'll get a cab and go with you to the door, and I'll come and see you to-morrow. We are thankful to have found you again, my—my dear.'

The last words he uttered with difficulty, for such expressions were not common on his lips; but some impulse, born of a vast pity, in which no shadow of resentment mingled, made him long to be as tender with her as he knew how. The manner of her reception by these two, whom she had wronged by her long silence, affected Liz deeply, though she made no sign.

'I dinna see what better I can dae, if ye'll no' stump up for the cab to Maryhill,' she said ungraciously. 'A' the same, I wish I had never seen ye. Ye had nae business watchin' for me, ony o' ye. I'm my ain mistress, an' I'm no' needin' onything aff ye.'

The little seamstress nodded to Walter, and he hailed a passing cab. All the time, even after they were inside the vehicle, she never relaxed her hold of Liz, but they accomplished the distance to Teen's poor little home in complete silence. Liz felt and looked like a prisoner; Walter's face wore a sad and downcast expression; the little seamstress only appeared jubilant.

It was nearly midnight when they ascended the long stair to the little garret, and Liz had to pause many times in the ascent to recover her breath and to let her cough have vent. She grumbled all the way up; but when Teen broke up the fire and lit the gas she sank into an old basket-chair with a more contented expression on her face.

'Noo, ye'll hae a cup o' tea in a crack,' Teen said blithely. 'I've gotten a new teapot, Liz; the auld yin positively fell to bits. Wull ye no' bide an' drink a cup, Walter?'

'Not to-night; I think you would be better alone. But I'll come to-morrow and see you, Liz. Good-night; I am sure you will be comfortable here.'

'Oh ay, I dinna doot. I say, ye are a toff, an' nae mistake; ye micht pass for a lord,' she said, with a kind of scornful approbation. 'Ye're risin' in the scale while I'm gaun doon; but I've seen something o' life, onyhoo, an' that's aye something.'

She gave him her hand, which was quite white and unsoiled, languidly, and bade him a careless good-night. As Walter went out of the kitchen, she was surprised, but not more so than he was himself, that two tears rolled down his cheeks. He dashed them away quickly, however, and when the little seamstress accompanied him to the door, he was quite calm again.

'You'll take care of her and not let her away, and I'll be eternally obliged to you. I trust you entirely,' he said quickly.

Teen nodded sagaciously.

'If she gangs oot o' this hoose, she tak's me wi' her,' she said, with a determined curve on her thin lips.

'And whatever you need, come to me,' he said, with his hand in his pocket; but Teen stopped him with a quick gesture.

'I have ony amount o' money I got frae Miss Gladys.'

'Keep it for yourself. You must spend my money on Liz, and see that she wants for nothing. It strikes me a doctor is the first thing she needs, but I'll be back to-morrow. Good-night, and thank you, Teen. You are a good little soul.'

'Middlin',' replied Teen, with a jerk, and closed the door.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

A FAITHFUL FRIEND.

The little seamstress was in a quiver of happy excitement, which betrayed itself in her very step as she returned to the kitchen.

Liz lay back in the old basket-chair with her eyes closed, and the deadly paleness of her face was very striking.

'Ye arena weel, Liz,' she said brusquely. 'It's the stair; ye never could gang up a stair, I mind, withoot bein' oot o' breath. Never mind; the kettle's bilin', an' ye'll hae yer tea in a crack.'

She busied herself about the table with nervous hands, astonished at her own agitation, which did not appear to have communicated itself to Liz, her demeanour being perfectly lifeless and uninterested.

Teen's stock of household napery did not include a tablecloth, but, desirous of doing honour to her guest, she spread a clean towel on the little table, and set out the cups with a good deal of cheerful clatter.

'What'll ye tak'? I have eggs, Liz—real country eggs. I brocht them up frae the country mysel',' she said, thinking to rouse the lethargy of her companion. 'I very near said I saw them laid; onyway, I saw the hens that laid them. Ye'll hae an egg, eh?'

'Yes, if ye like. I havena tasted since eleeven this morning, an' then it was only a dram,' said Liz languidly.

Teen stood still on the little strip of rag-carpet before the fender, and regarded her friend with a mingling of horror and pity. Whatever had been the tragedy of the past few months, Liz had not thereby bettered herself. With a little choking sob, Teen made greater haste with her preparation, and put upon the table a very tempting little meal, chiefly composed of dainties from Bourhill, a very substantial basket having been sent up to the little seamstress by order of Miss Graham. Liz threw off her hat, and, drawing her chair up to the table, took a long draught from the teacup.

'Eh, that's guid,' she said, with a sigh of satisfaction. Ye're better aff than me, efter a', Teen, an' I wish I was in yer place.'

'Ye'll bide here noo ye have come, onyhoo,' said the little seamstress cheerily. 'My ship has come in; but we'll speak upon it efter. I say, isn't Walter lookin' fine? He wad pass for a lord, jist as you said.'

'His looks are a' richt—he maun be makin' money. I say, where is the lassie that used to bide there? The auld man's deid, isn't he?'

'Ay,' answered Teen; 'deid lang syne. Oh, she's turned into a graund leddy, livin' on an estate in the country. He left a fortin. See, eat up that ither egg, an' there's plenty mair tea. Look at that cream, isn't it splendid?'

'Fine,' said Liz; and as she ate and enjoyed the generous food her colour came again, and she looked a little less ghastly and ill, a little more like the Liz of old. Pen cannot tell the joy it was to the loyal heart of the little seamstress thus to minister to her friend's great need, though in the midst of her deep satisfaction was a secret dread, a vague and vast pity, which made her afraid to ask her a single question. It needed no very keen perception to gather that all was not well with the unhappy girl.

'Weel, I've enjoyed that,' she said, pushing back from the table at last. 'I've eaten ye oot o' hoose and hame, but as yer ship's come in, it'll no' maitter. Tell me a' aboot it.'

'Oh, there's no' much to tell,' answered Teen, with a touch of her natural reserve. 'I've made a rich frien', that's a'.'

'A man?' asked Liz, with interest.

'No; a lady,' replied Teen rather proudly. 'But hae ye naething to tell me aboot yersel'?'

'Oh, I have thoosands to tell, if I like, but I'm no' gaun to tell ye a thing,' replied Liz flatly; but her candour did not even make Teen wince. She was used to it in the old days, and expected nothing else.

'Oh, jist as ye like,' she answered serenely. 'But, tell me, did ye ever gang to London?'

'No,' replied Liz, 'I never went to London. Did ye think I had?'

'Yes. We—that is, some o's thocht—Walter an' me, onyway—that ye had gane to the theatre in London to be an actress. It was gey shabby, I thocht, to gang the way ye did, withoot sayin' a cheep to me, efter a' the plans we had made,' said Teen, with equal candour.

'Maybe it was,' said Liz musingly, and, with her magnificent eyes fixed on the fire, relapsed into silence again, and Teen saw that her face was troubled. Her heart yearned over her unspeakably, and she longed for fuller confidence, which Liz, however, had not the remotest intention of giving.

'I dinna think, judgin' frae appearances, that ye have bettered yoursel', said the little seamstress slowly.

'Ye think richt. I made wan mistake, Teen—the biggest mistake o' a',' she replied, and her mouth became very stern and bitter, and a dull gleam was visible in her eyes.

Teen waited breathlessly, in the hope that Liz would still confide in her, but having thus delivered herself, she again relapsed into silence.

'What way are ye bidin' at Maryhill?' she asked after a bit, and the same note of suspicion which had been in Walter's questions sounded through her voice. It made the colour rise in the sharply-outlined cheek of Liz, and she replied angrily,—

'It's news ye're wantin', an' ye're no' gaun to get it. Ye brocht me here again' my wull, but ye'll no' cross-question me. I can gang hame even yet. It's no' the first time I've gane hame in the mornin', onyway.'

Teen wisely accepted the inevitable.

'Ye're no' gaun wan fit oot o' this hoose the nicht,' she replied calmly, 'nor the morn either, unless I ken whaur ye are gaun. I dinna think, Liz, ye hae dune very weel for yersel' this while; ye'd better let me look efter ye. Twa heids are aye better than yin.'

'Ye're gaun to be the boss, I see,' said Liz, with a faint smile, and in her utter weariness she let her head fall back again and closed her eyes. 'If I wis to bide here the morn, an' Wat comes, he'd better no' ask me ower mony questions, because I'll no' stand it frae neither you nor him, mind that.'

'Naebody'll ask you questions, my dear,' said Teen, and, lifting back the table, she folded down the bed, and shook up the old wool pillows, wishing for her friend's sake that they were made of down. Then she knelt down on the old rag-carpet, and began to unlace Liz's boots, glancing ever and anon with sad eyes up into the white face, with its haggard mouth and dark closed eyes.

'Ye are a guid sort, Teen, upon my word,' was all the thanks she got. 'I believe I will gang to my bed, if ye'll let me; maybe, if ye kent a', ye wad turn me oot to the street.'

'No' me. If the a's waur than I imagine, it's gey bad,' replied the little seamstress. 'Oh, Liz, I'm that gled to see you, I canna dae enough.'

'I've been twice up your stair, Teen; once I knockit at the door an' then flew doon afore you could open't. Ye think ye've a hard time o't, but there's waur things than sewin' jackets at thirteenpence the dizen.'

Teen's hands were very gentle as she assisted her friend off with her gown, which was a very handsome affair, all velvet and silk, and gilt trimmings, which dazzled the eye.

Thus partially undressed, Liz threw herself without another word on the bed, and in two minutes was asleep. Then, softly laying another bit of coal on the fire, Teen lifted the table back to the hearth, got out pen, ink, and paper, and set herself to a most unusual task, the composition and writing of a letter. I should be afraid to say how long it took her to perform this great task, nor how very poor an accomplishment it was in the end, but it served its purpose, which was to acquaint Gladys with the rescue of Liz. Afraid to disturb the sleeping girl, Teen softly removed a pillow from the bed, and placing it on the floor before the fire, laid herself down, with an old plaid over her, though sleep was far from her eyes. A great disappointment had come to the little seamstress; for though she had long since given up all hope of welcoming back Liz in the guise of a great lady, who had risen to eminence by dint of her own honest striving, she only knew to-night, when the last vestige of her hope had been wrested from her, how absolute and unassailable had been her faith in her friend's honour. And now she knew intuitively the very worst. It needed no sad story from Liz to convince the little seamstress that she had tried the way of transgressors, and found it hard. Mingling with her intense sorrow over Liz was another and, if possible, a more painful fear—lest this deviation from the paths of rectitude might be fraught with painful consequences to the gentle girl whom Teen had learned to love with a love which had in it the elements of worship. These melancholy forebodings banished sleep from the eyes of the little seamstress, and early in the morning she rose, sore, stiff, and unrefreshed, from her hard couch, and began to move about the house again, setting it to rights for Liz's awakening. She, however, slept on, the heavy sleep of complete exhaustion; and finally, Teen, not thinking it wise to disturb her, laid herself down on the front of the bed to rest her tired bones. She too fell asleep, and it was the sunshine upon her face which awakened her, just as the church bells began to ring.

With an exclamation which awoke her companion, she leaped up, and ran to break up the fire, which was smouldering in the grate.

'Mercy me! it's eleeven o'clock; but it's Sunday mornin', so it doesna matter,' she said almost blithely, for in the morning everything seems brighter, and even hard places less hard. 'My certy, Liz, ye've sleepit weel. Hae ye ever wakened?'

'Never; I've no' haen a sleep like that for I canna tell ye hoo lang,' said Liz quite gratefully, for she felt wonderfully rested and refreshed.

In an incredibly short space of time the little seamstress had the kettle singing on the cheery hob, and toasted the bread, while Liz was washing her face and brushing her red locks at the little looking-glass hanging at the window.

They were sitting at their cosy breakfast, talking of commonplace things, when Walter's double knock came to the door. Teen ran to admit him, and, with a series of nods, indicated to him that his sister was all right within. There was a strained awkwardness in their meeting. Liz felt and resented the questioning scrutiny of his eyes, and had not Teen thrown herself into the breach, it would have been a strange interview. As it was, she showed herself to be a person of the finest and most delicate tact, and more than once Walter found himself looking at her with a kind of grateful admiration, and thinking what an odd mistake he had made in his estimate of her character.

When the breakfast was over, Teen, under pretence of going to inquire for a sick neighbour, took herself off, and left the brother and sister alone. It had to come sooner or later, she knew, and she hoped that Liz, in her softer mood, would at least meet Walter half-way.

When the door was closed upon the two there was a moment's silence, which Walter broke quite abruptly; it was not his nature to beat about the bush.

'Are you going to tell me this morning where you have been all this time?'

'No,' she answered calmly, 'I'm not.'

This was unpromising, but Walter tried not to notice her defiant manner and tone.

'Very well; I won't ask you, since you don't want to tell. You haven't been prospering, anyhow. Now, any one can see that; but we'll let bygones be bygones. I'm in a good way of doing now, Liz, and if you like to come along to Colquhoun Street and try your hand at housekeeping, I'm ready.'

Liz was profoundly amazed, but not a change passed over her face.

'Ye're no' feared,' was her only comment, delivered at last in a perfectly passionless voice.

'Feared! What for?' he asked, trying to speak pleasantly. 'You're my sister, and I need a housekeeper. I'm thinking of leaving Colquhoun Street, and taking a wee house somewhere in the suburbs. We can talk it over when you come.'

Then Liz sat up and fixed her large, indescribable eyes full on her brother's face.

'An' will ye tak' me withoot askin' a single question, Wat?'

'I can't do anything else,' he answered good-humouredly.

'But I've lost my character,' she said then, in a perfectly matter-of-fact voice.

Although he was in a manner prepared for it, this calm announcement made him wince.

'You can redeem it again,' he said in a slightly unsteady voice. 'I don't want to be too hard on you, Liz. You never had a chance.'

Liz leaned back in her chair again and closed her eyes. She was, to outward appearance, indifferent and calm, but her breast once or twice tumultuously heaved, and her brows were knit, as if she suffered either physical or mental pain.

'You'll come, won't you, Liz, either to-day or to-morrow? You know the place,' he said rather anxiously.

'No,' she answered quietly; 'I'm no' comin'.'

'Why? I'm sure I will never cast up anything. I'm in solemn earnest, Liz. I'll do the best I can for you, and nobody shall cast a stone at you when I am by. I've lived to myself too long. Come and help me to be less selfish.'

The girl's breast again tumultuously heaved, and one deep, bursting sob forced itself from her lips; but all her answer was, to shake her head wearily, and answer,—

'No.'



CHAPTER XXXIV.

WHAT WILL SHE DO?

Walter looked at her perplexedly, not knowing what to say.

'Why will you not come?' he asked at length quite gently.

'I've disgraced ye enough,' she answered, a trifle sharply. 'Ye dinna ken what ye are daein', my man, askin' me to come an' bide wi' you. I've mair respect for ye than ye hae for yersel'. I'm much obleeged, a' the same, but I'm no' comin'.'

He perceived that the highest motive prompted her, and it convinced him as nothing else could have done that, if she had erred, she had also repented sincerely.

'What will you do, then?' he asked. 'Will you,' he added hesitatingly—'will you go to the old folk?'

She gave a short, hard laugh.

'No' me. There wad be plenty castin' up there, if ye like. No; I hae nae desire to see them again this side the grave.'

It was a harsh speech; but, knowing what the past had been, Walter could not blame her. As he stood looking through the little window, beyond the forest of roofs to where the sun lay warm and bright on far-off country slopes, he thought of the sore bitterness of life. He might well be at war with fate; it had not given him much of the good which makes life worth living. It was all very well for Gladys Graham, the spoiled child of a happy fortune, to reprove him for railing at the cruelty of circumstances; her suffering, even when the days were darkest with her, had been of a gentler and less hopeless kind.

'Liz,' he said, turning to his sister again, after what had seemed to her an interminable silence, 'if you won't come to me, promise me you'll stay here. I have not asked any questions about your way of doing, but I can guess at it. Promise me that you will give it all up and stay here.'

'Sponging off Teen, like?' she asked sarcastically.

'No, no; I have plenty of money. You shall want for nothing,' he said, with a touch of irritation. 'She's a good little soul, Teen, and I won't forget her. I'm sure you and she could be quite comfortable here; you have always been good friends.'

'Yes,' answered Liz indifferently, 'that's true.'

'Will you promise, then,' he asked anxiously, 'to stay here in the meantime?'

'No,' she answered, 'I'll promise naething, because, if it comes up my back, I'll rise an' gang oot this very day.'

Walter's face flushed a little with anger. She was very perverse, and would give him no satisfaction whatever. He was at a disadvantage, because he really knew very little of her nature, which was as deep and as keen of feeling as his own.

'Then am I to go away and live in torture about you, Liz? I've a good mind to shut you up where you can't get out.'

'They wad be queer bolts and bars that kept me in,' she said, with a slight smile. 'Ye are very guid to tak' sae muckle thocht aboot me, and if it'll relieve yer mind, ye can believe that whatever I'm aboot, it's honest wark, and that if I need anything, I'll come to you.'

'You mean that, Liz?'

'Yes, I mean it; an' if I div say a thing I dinna gang back frae it,' she said, and again his mind was relieved. It was but natural that he should feel an absorbing desire to know exactly what her experience had been during the time she had been away from them, but since she seemed determined to keep silence regarding it, he could only keep silence too.

Presently Teen returned, and there was a furtive look of anxiety in her eyes as she regarded them, inly wondering what had transpired in her absence.

'Liz will bide with you in the meantime,' said Walter, affecting a cheerfulness he did not feel. 'I have been asking her to come and be my housekeeper, but she won't promise in the meantime.'

'Oh, she'll be fine here the noo,' answered the little seamstress, with a significance which did not convey anything to them, though it meant something to her. She was thinking as she spoke of the probable result of the letter she had just carried to the post, and which would be delivered at Bourhill in the morning. She was not mistaken in her calculations regarding it; for next morning, between eleven and twelve, when the two were sitting by the fire keeping up a rather disjointed conversation, during which Liz had exhibited distinct signs of restlessness, a light, quick knock came to the door.

'That's her!' cried Teen, springing up, her sallow face all aglow. 'I kent she wad come; yes, it's jist her.'

Liz sat up, her whole demeanour defiant, her face wearing its most ungracious look.

She had not the remotest idea who was meant by 'her,' and it is certain that had there been any other means of exit than the door in the building, she would have taken herself off there and then. What was her astonishment to behold presently a lissom, graceful figure and a sweet face, which seemed familiar, though she could not for the moment believe that they really pertained to Gladys Graham. And the face wore such a lovely look of gladness and wonder and sorrow all mingled, that Liz was struck dumb.

'Oh, Lizzie, I am so glad to see you. How could you stay away so long, when you must have known we were all so anxious about you? But we will forgive you quite, now that you have come back.'

She took the unwilling hand of Walter's sister in her firm, warm clasp, and, bending forward, kissed her, as she had done once before, on the brow. Then the face of Liz became a dusky red, and she started back, saying hoarsely,—

'Don't! Never dae that again. Oh, my God, if ye kent, ye wadna let yer eyes licht on me, far less that.'

'I know that we are very glad to see you again, and that you look very ill, dear Lizzie,' said Gladys, her voice tremulous with her deep compassion; 'and I have come to take you away to Bourhill. Here is somebody quite ready, I think, to go.'

She turned with a smile to the little seamstress, whose face still wore that intense, glorified look.

'Bourhill?' repeated Liz. 'Where's that?'

'That's my home now,' said Gladys gleefully. 'See what you have missed, being away so long. Has Teen not told you of all its glories? I thought she was so enthusiastic over it, she could not hold her tongue. Never mind, you shall soon see it for yourself.'

'I'm very much obleeged to ye, but I'm no' comin',' said Liz, with the same firmness which had set aside Walter's scheme concerning her.

'Why not? Nobody ever refuses me anything,' Gladys said.

'It wad be a sin for me to gang,' replied Liz quietly. 'I'm no' fit to speak to the like o' you. At least, that's what them ye belang to wad say.'

'I've nobody belonging to me to dictate to me, Liz, and I'm not afraid to trust you. You may have sinned, I don't know, but you have had many temptations. I want to show you a happier life. Tell her, Teen, how lovely it is at dear Bourhill.'

'I couldna,' answered Teen in a choking voice. 'It's like heaven, Liz.'

'Then it'll be ower guid for me,' said Liz wearily, 'an' I'll better bide whaur I am. But, I say, ye are queerer than ever, an' I thocht ye gey queer last time I saw ye.'

'Never mind what you think of me. Say you will come with me to-day. I came for the very purpose of taking you away,' said Gladys cheerfully. 'Do you remember that absurd story about "Lord Bellew's Bride" you were reading the first time I saw you? My own fortune is very nearly as wonderful as that of "Lord Bellew's Bride."'

Liz faintly smiled.

'Eh, sic lees there is in papers! It shouldna be printed. Things like yon never happen in real life—never, never!' She spoke with passionate emphasis, which indicated that she keenly felt what she said.

'Ye'll be gaun to get mairret next?' she added, looking at Gladys, who smiled and nodded, with slightly heightened colour.

'Well, what is to be done? Are you going down with me to-day?' she asked, looking from one to another, and tapping her dainty foot a trifle impatiently on the floor.

'I canna come the day, for my claes are a' at Maryhill,' said Liz.

'But I'll gang for them, Liz,' put in the little seamstress quickly. 'They can be easy got frae Maryhill afore nicht. It's only twelve o'clock the noo.'

'There need not be any such hurry; I think I shall stay in town all night,' said Gladys, 'and you can arrange it together, either to go with me or alone. Teen can manage it; she knows all about the trains, having been there before. I shall be sure to be home not later than to-morrow night, and if anything should prevent me getting down then, there is Miss Peck, Teen, who, you know, will make you very welcome.'

'Yes, I ken,' nodded Teen. 'If ye only kent what like a place it is, Liz, ye wad be jumpin'.'

'I'm sure I dinna ken what way ye want me doon there,' said Liz, relapsing into her weary, indifferent manner. 'I canna understand it.'

'Can't you?' asked Gladys merrily. 'Well, I want you, that's all. I want to have the pleasure of seeing you grow strong and well again. Nobody shall meddle with you. You shall do just as you like, and you two will be companions to each other.'

Teen looked reproachfully at her friend, wondering to see her so undemonstrative, never even uttering a single word of thanks for the kindness so freely offered. She shook hands with Gladys in silence, and allowed her to depart without further remark.

'You'll make sure that she comes down, Teen?' said Gladys, when they were outside the door. 'Poor thing, she looks dreadfully ill and unhappy. Where do you think she has been?'

Teen mournfully shook her head, and her large eyes filled with tears.

'I'll no' let her away,' she answered firmly. 'If she'll no' come doon to Bourhill, I'll see that she disna gang onywhere else withoot me.'

'You are a faithful friend,' said Gladys quickly. 'Has she—has she seen her brother?'

Teen wondered somewhat at the hesitation with which the question was asked.

'Ay; he was here yesterday.'

'And what did he say, Teen? Oh, I hope he was very gentle with her.'

'I wasna in a' the time, but I'm sure that kinder he couldna hae been. He wanted her to gang to Colquhoun Street an' bide, but she wadna.'

'Well, I hope she will come to Bourhill, and I think she will. Good-bye.'

'Weel, hae ye gotten me weel discussed?' queried Liz sarcastically, when the little seamstress returned to the kitchen. 'I canna understand that lassie by onybody.'

'Nor I a'thegither, but I ken she's guid,' she answered simply. 'Ye will gang to Bourhill, Liz?'

'Maybe; I'll see. I say, do ye ken wha she's gaun to mairry?'

'I have an inklin',' replied Teen, and said no more, though her face became yet more gravely troubled.

'Liz,' she said suddenly, 'will ye tell me wan thing afore we gang doon to Bourhill, if we gang?'

'What is't?'

'Had Fordyce onything to dae wi' you gaun awa' when you did?'

'Mind yer ain business,' replied Liz, with the utmost calmness, not even changing colour. 'I'm no' gaun to tell ye a single thing. My concerns are my ain, an' if ye're no' pleased, weel, I can shift.'

The girl's matter-of-fact, unruffled demeanour somewhat allayed Teen's burning anxiety, and, afraid to try Liz too far, lest she should insist on leaving her, she held her peace.



CHAPTER XXXV.

A REVELATION.

'Your Aunt Isabel was here this afternoon, George,' said Mrs. Fordyce to her son, when he came home from the mill that evening. 'She came over to tell me Gladys is in town. I said I thought you did not expect her.'

'No, I did not,' George replied. 'What's she up for?—anything new?'

'Oh, one of her fads. Something about one of these girls from the slums. Your aunt seemed to be rather distressed. She thinks Gladys is going quite too far, and she really took the opportunity, when the girls had all gone to a studio tea, to come over to consult me. We both think you are quite entitled to interfere.'

George shook his head.

'It is all very easy for you to say that, but I tell you Gladys won't stand that sort of thing.'

'But, my dear, she must be made to stand it. I must say her conduct is most unwomanly. If she is to be your wife, she must be taught that you are to be considered in some ways. You must be very firm with her, George; it will save no end of trouble afterwards.'

Mrs. George Fordyce was a large stout person, of imposing presence, and she delivered herself of this admirable sentiment most impressively; but though her son quite agreed with her, and wished with all his heart that the girl of his choice were a little less erratic and self-willed, he was wise enough to know that any attempt at coercion would be the very last thing to make her amenable to reason.

'What girl is it now?' he asked, with affected carelessness, but furtive anxiety. 'The same one who has been staying at Bourhill?'

'No; something far worse—a dreadful low creature, who has been missing for some time. If Gladys were not as innocent as a baby she would know that she is a creature not fit to be spoken to. Really, George, that Miss Peck is utterly useless as a chaperon. I wish we knew what to do. It is one of the most exasperating and delicate affairs possible.'

'That girl!' repeated George, so blankly that his mother looked at him in sharp amazement. 'Heavens! then it's all up, mother.'

'All up? What on earth do you mean?'

'What I say. Is it a girl called Hepburn?' he asked half desperately, afraid to tell his mother, and yet feeling that she, and she alone, might help him.

'I believe so. Yes, Hepburn was certainly the name your aunt mentioned. Well, what then?'

'Simply that if Gladys has got in tow with this girl, and takes her down to Bourhill, I'm ruined.'

'How?'

There was eager inquiry, anguish even, in the question. Mrs. Fordyce was a vain and silly woman, but she had a mother's feelings, and suffered, as every mother must, over her son's dishonour.

'This girl was one of our hands, and—and—well, you understand, she had a pretty face, and I was foolish about her. I never meant anything serious; but, you see, if Gladys gets to know about it, she is so absurdly quixotic, she is quite fit enough not to speak to me again.'

'You were foolish about her?' repeated Mrs. Fordyce slowly, and her comely face became rather pale, as she keenly eyed her son's troubled face. 'Does that mean that you were responsible for her disappearance?'

'Well, I suppose I was in the first instance,' he said frankly. 'Of course I was a fool for myself, but a man isn't always responsible, but'—

'Oh, hold your tongue, George Fordyce!' said his mother, her voice sharp with her angry pain. 'Not responsible, indeed! I am quite ashamed of you. It is a most disgraceful thing, and I don't know what your father will say.'

'There is no reason why he should say anything; he needn't be told,' said George a trifle sullenly. 'Of course I regret it, as every man does who makes such a deuced fool of himself. And the girl can't complain; it was more her fault, anyhow.'

'Oh, George, don't be a coward as well as a scoundrel,' said his mother, with more sharpness in her tone than she had ever before used towards her idolised son. 'Don't tell me it is the woman's fault. That is the poor excuse all men make when they get themselves into scrapes. I am very sorry for her, poor thing, and I think I'll go and see her myself.'

George remained silent, standing gloomily at the window, looking on the approach, with its trimly-cut shrubs and spring flowers, blooming in conventional lines. His mother had not received his information quite as he expected, and he felt for the moment utterly 'down on his luck.'

'You have indeed ruined yourself with Gladys, and with any other girl who has any respect for herself,' she said presently, with increased coldness, 'and I must say you richly deserve it.'

So saying, she left the room, and as she went up-stairs, two tears rolled down her cheeks. She was not a woman of very deep feelings, perhaps, but she had received a blow from which it would take her some time to recover. She sat down in her own room, and tried to think out the matter in all its bearings. She felt glad that her husband and daughter were not to dine at home, for after the first shock was over, worldly wisdom began to assert itself, and she pondered upon the best means of avoiding the scandal which appeared inevitable. She was not very hopeful. Had Gladys been an ordinary girl, entertaining less exalted ideas of honour and integrity, everything might have been smoothed over. Women, as a rule, are too lenient towards the follies of men, especially when the offenders are young and handsome; but Gladys was an exception to almost every rule. The only chance lay in the knowledge being kept from her, yet how was that possible, Liz Hepburn being at that very moment an invited guest at Bourhill? She made some little alteration in her dress, and went down, perfectly calm, and outwardly at ease, to a tete-a-tete dinner with her son. When they were left alone at the table she suddenly changed the subject from the commonplace to the engrossing theme occupying both their minds, and, leaning towards him, said quietly,—

'There is only one thing you can do now. It is your only chance, and if it fails, you can only retire gracefully, and accept your conge as your deserts.'

'I don't know what you mean,' he retorted a trifle ungraciously, for in his intense selfishness he had been able to convince himself that his mother had been rather hard upon him.

'I would advise you to go over to the Crescent to-night and see Gladys, and tell her what you have heard. Let her understand—as gently and nicely as you can, but be quite firm over it—that you, as her future husband, have some right to express an opinion about the people she makes friends of. You can lay stress on her own youth and ignorance, and don't be dictatorial. Do you understand me?'

'Yes, but it won't be an easy task,' he said gloomily.

'No, but it's your only chance—a very forlorn hope, I confess, it appears to me; but you can't afford to neglect it if you want to win Gladys, and it would be a most desirable marriage.'

These words were the keynote to Mrs. Fordyce's plan of action. To secure Gladys as a daughter-in-law at any price was her aim, and she had already stifled her womanly indignation over her son's fall, and even comforted herself by the cheap reflection that George had never been half so fast as dozens of other young men who were received into the best society. She had worshipped at the shrine of wealth and social position so long that all her views of life were centred upon a solitary goal, and consequently ran in a narrow and distorted groove.

'If the girl can be prevented going down to Bourhill, all may be well. Do you think she is one likely to hold her tongue?'

'I don't know anything about her. She'll speak, just as other women speak, when it comes up her own back, I suppose. The chances are, if Gladys and she have met, she's told the whole story already.'

'Oh no, she hasn't, because Gladys knew your aunt was coming here this afternoon, and sent a message that you might come over after dinner. She wouldn't have done that if she'd known that pretty story. You'd better go away to the Crescent at once.'

'I'm not very fond of the job,' said George, fortifying himself with a glass of whisky and water. 'I've a good mind to throw the whole bally thing up, and go off to the Antipodes. Marrying is an awful bore, anyhow; women are such a confounded nuisance.'

His mother listened to these lofty sentiments in silence, though she inwardly felt that it would relieve her feelings considerably to administer a sound box in the ear.

'I'm trying to help you, George, against my better judgment, but you don't appear to be very grateful,' she said severely. 'I've a good mind to let you bear the brunt of your folly, as you deserve; and you know very well that if your father knew about it, his anger would be terrific. I'm afraid you'd have to take to the Antipodes then, because the door would be shut upon you here. I would advise you to do what you can to redeem yourself, and your utmost to keep Gladys. Tell me something about the girl. Do you think she would accept a sum of money to leave Glasgow and hold her tongue?'

'No,' he answered, 'I don't.'

'Why, she must be very different from other girls of her class.'

'I don't know what are the characteristics of her class, but I know jolly well that if you offer money to her, she'll astonish you.'

Mrs. Fordyce looked with yet keener disfavour into her son's face.

'If she's that kind of girl, you must have promised her marriage.'

'Well, I daresay I did, but she might have known it was only talk,' he said, trying to speak coolly, though his mother's gaze made him decidedly uncomfortable. 'But I'm sick of the subject. I'll away over to Kelvinside, and have it either off or on. If the thing's out, I'll brazen it out; it's the only way.'

'You don't seem to realise the seriousness of the position, I'm sure I don't know what has made you go so far astray—not the training or example in this house. You have grievously disappointed me.'

'Oh, mother, don't preach. I've confessed to you, and it isn't fair to be so awfully down upon me,' he retorted irritably. 'I don't think you or the governor have had much to complain of as far as my conduct is concerned, and I'm not going to stay here to be bullied and snubbed for making a little slip. I tell you, you don't know what other fellows are. I've a good mind to open your eyes for you.'

'I don't want them opened, thank you; and if that is the spirit in which you are going to the Crescent, you deserve to fail, as you are sure to do. I am not sure whether I shall not tell your father, after all,' she said icily.

'I don't care if you do,' he retorted, and banged out in ill-humour, which, however, gradually cooled down as he walked rapidly to the station.

Finding no train for the city due for ten minutes, he threw himself into a hansom, and drove all the way, reaching his aunt's house before eight o'clock. Although he ran up the steps at once, he did not immediately ring, but even went back into the street, and took a turn up to the end of the houses, surprised and irritated at his own nervous apprehension. Glancing up to the house when he again came opposite to it, he saw the three long windows of the drawing-room lighted, and pictured the scene within. It was a new and unwelcome sensation for him to feel any reluctance in entering a drawing-room where there were three charming girls, and at last, calling himself a fool, he ran up the steps a second time, and gave the bell a furious pull.

'Is Miss Graham here, Hardy?' he asked the maid, an old servant of his aunt's, who opened the door.

'Yes, sir.'

'Anybody in the library?'

'No, sir. Mr. Fordyce is sleeping on the dining-room sofa.'

'Oh, all right. Just take my card to Miss Graham, and ask her if she would be so kind as to come down to the library for a few minutes.'



CHAPTER XXXVI.

TETE-A-TETE.

'How extraordinary!' exclaimed Gladys. 'Your cousin is in the library, why does he not come up?'

There was something so matter-of-fact in the question, that Mrs. Fordyce and her daughters could not refrain from exchanging glances.

'Well, my dear, I suppose he does not come up because he wishes to have you a little while to himself,' said Mrs. Fordyce, with a smile, 'and I must say I quite sympathise with him. Run away down, and don't stay too long; tell him not to be selfish.'

'But I don't think I want to go down. It is so strange, I think, for him not to come up here as usual. Why should there be any difference made?' inquired Gladys, as she rose with seeming reluctance to her feet.

'It is you who are strange, I think,' said Mina whimsically. 'You would require a very cool lover, Gladys, you are so cool yourself.'

'It is a pity one must have a lover,' said Gladys quite soberly, as she walked out of the room.

'Girls,' said Mrs. Fordyce, 'Gladys is an enigma, and I give her up; she is so different from any one I have ever met. Do you really think she cares anything for your cousin?'

'If she doesn't, why has she promised to marry him?' inquired Clara rather quickly. 'I think it is rather absurd to ask the question.'

'Well, I must say I should not particularly like to be in his shoes,' said Mina; and added, with light sarcasm, 'But it will do dear George good. Gladys will not fall down and worship him, like the rest of her sex. How I should like to be invisible at this moment in the library.'

But though Mina had had her wish she would not have seen anything very exciting, the greeting which passed between Gladys and her lover being remarkably cool. George Fordyce was not quite himself. Had Gladys been more absorbingly interested in him she could not have failed to observe the furtive look of anxiety with which he advanced to meet her; his demeanour was as different from the ordinary eagerness of a newly-accepted lover as could well be imagined. Nor did she betray these signs of maidenly shyness and trembling joy which in the circumstances she might have been expected to feel.

'Good-evening,' she said gaily. 'Why did you not come up, instead of sending a message to me, as if you were a person asking a subscription? I thought it so odd.'

George's courage rose. The gay unconcern of her demeanour convinced him that as yet nothing had lowered him in her estimation; with a little careful diplomacy, the dangerous currents might yet be avoided, and all go well.

'Is it so odd that I should wish to have you for a little while to myself?' he asked, and, putting his arm round her shoulders, took the kiss she could not deny him, though she almost immediately drew herself away.

'Do come up to the drawing-room. Why should we stay down here? Don't you think it rather silly?'

'I don't care whether it is silly or not,' he answered daringly. 'I don't mean to go up, or allow you to leave this room, for a good half hour at least.'

Gladys laughed a little, and dropped on one knee on a stool before the quaint fireplace, where the logs burned and crackled in a cheerful blaze.

'And I have a crow to pick with you, madam,' said the lover, made bolder by the perfect freedom of the girl's demeanour. 'I don't like second-hand messages. You might at least have sent me a nice little note by the hand of Aunt Isabel this afternoon.'

'I didn't think of it, or I might,' answered Gladys quite soberly, and the ruddy firelight lay warm and bright on her sweet face, and gave a deeper tinge to the gold of her hair. As George Fordyce stood as near to her as he dared, being deterred by a certain high dignity in her bearing, he was struck, not only by the perfect beauty of her features, but by the singular firmness mingling with the archness of her look. Twelve months had done a great deal for Gladys, and there was nothing of the child left, though the new womanliness was a most gracious and lovely thing.

'I had such a busy morning down town; and oh, I have a great deal to tell you, only you must promise to be sympathetic, because I have had a great deal to bear to-day, and have almost quarrelled with your aunt and the girls.'

'Yes?' he said, with all the fine indifference he could command. 'And what was it all about?'

He knew it must come sooner or later, and braced himself up to carry matters through with as high a hand as possible.

'About that poor girl of whom I told you, Lizzie Hepburn. She has come back, looking so very ill and unhappy, and of course I asked her down to Bourhill, and your aunt and cousins are so vexed about it, I am quite puzzled. It is so unlike them to blame one for wishing to be kind. Please, can you explain it?'

She raised her eyes to his face with something of the old child-like wistfulness in their depths, and it showed George Fordyce to be a very clever man indeed that he was able to meet that clear gaze without flinching.

'Well, you see, dear, I think it is regard for you which made Aunt Isabel appear a little harsh. She knows the world, and you do not, and, you know, a young and lovely girl, living without natural protectors, as you are, cannot be too careful.'

'Oh, that is just how they talk,' she cried petulantly, 'but it does not convey any meaning to me. Why should I not be kind to this poor girl? She can't eat me, or hurt me in the smallest degree. You must make it a great deal plainer to me before I see the smallest particle of reason in it.'

Here was a dilemma! The very irony of fate could not have devised a more trying and awkward position for any man. To say he felt himself on the brink of a volcano conveys but a faint idea of his peculiar state of mind.

'My own darling, it is extremely difficult to make it any clearer without giving offence, but I think you ought to have some idea of what is fitting. Can you not believe that we, who love you so dearly, would advise you to do nothing but what is right and best for you?'

This admirable plea, so earnestly and persuasively uttered, somewhat touched Gladys, though her face still wore a perplexed and even troubled look.

'Well, but how can it do me any harm to have these girls at Bourhill? Is it because they are poor that I must not have them?'

'Well, not exactly; though, of course, it is not customary for young ladies like you to invite such people to be your guests just in the same way as you would invite Clara or Mina; and I question very much, dear, if it is any real kindness to them, it is so apt to make them discontented with their own sphere.'

This was another clever stroke, this view of the case not having been as yet presented to Gladys. Hitherto the talk had all been of the influence such companionship was likely to have on her, and the new phase of the situation made her more thoughtful still.

'I never thought of that,' she said slowly, 'and I don't think it had that effect on Christina Balfour—in fact, I am sure of it. She is like a different creature, so much brighter and happier; and I am sure a week or two at Bourhill will do wonders for poor Lizzie Hepburn. If you saw her you would be quite sorry for her. She is such an interesting girl, so beautiful, and she has a great deal of character, quite different from Christina. I have asked them down, and of course I can't retract my invitations; they may have gone down to Miss Peck already, for aught I know. Promise to come down to Bourhill and see poor Lizzie, then I am sure you will say I have done quite right.'

A cold sweat broke over George Fordyce, and he was fain to take several turns between the window and the door to recover himself. He could almost have laughed aloud at the awful absurdity of the whole situation, only it had its tragic side too. He felt that his chance was almost over. He could not expect Liz Hepburn's visit to Bourhill to be barren of consequences the most serious; but he would wear the mask as long as possible, and make one more endeavour to save himself. He came back to the hearth, and, laying his hand hurriedly on the heart of the girl he loved with all the tenderness that was in him, he said, in that pleading, winning way so few women could resist,—

'My darling, if I ask you, won't you take Aunt Isabel's advice? I know I haven't any right yet to dictate to you, even if I wished to do it, but won't you believe that we only advise what is the very best for you? Couldn't you, instead of having the girls at Bourhill, send them to some other country place? It would only cost a very little more.'

'But that wouldn't be the same thing at all,' said Gladys wilfully. 'And if I were to retract my invitation now, they would never have the same faith in me again. I would not on any account disappoint them.'

'Even to please me?' he queried, with a slightly injured air.

'Even to please you,' she repeated, in the same wilful tone.

'And will it always be the same?' he asked then. 'Will you never allow me to have any say in your affairs?'

'I hoped you would help me to do good to people,' she said slowly, giving utterance for the first time to the feeling of disappointment and misgiving which sometimes oppressed her when she thought of her relation towards George Fordyce.

'My dear, you will get all your thanks in one day,' he said dryly. 'I know the class you have to deal with. They'll take all you have to give them, and laugh in your face. They have no such quality as gratitude in them.'

Gladys curled her lips in scorn.

'How unhappy you must be to have so little faith in humankind. That has not been my experience; but we shall never agree on that point. Shall we go up-stairs now?'

Her perfect independence of and indifference to his opinion, betrayed in the careless ease of her manner as she rose from the hearth, exasperated him not a little.

'No, I am not coming up-stairs,' he answered, as rudely as he dared.

'What shall I say to Mrs. Fordyce, then? That you are out of temper?' she asked, with a sly gaiety which became her well, though it only further exasperated him.

'You can say anything you like, I am very sorry indeed that my opinion is of so little value in your eyes, Gladys, and I ask your pardon if I have presumed too much in offering you a crumb of advice.'

'Oh, don't be cross because we don't happen to agree on that particular point,' she said sunnily. 'Each individual is surely entitled to his opinion. I am not cross because you would not agree with me. Come away up-stairs.'

'No, I'm not coming up to-night. Make my apologies to them. Gladys, upon my word, you are perfectly bewitching. I wish you knew how passionately I love you. I don't believe you care a tithe as much for me as I do for you.'

He would have held her again, but she moved away from him, and her face did not brighten as it ought to have done at such a lover-like speech.

'Will you promise me one thing, Gladys, before I go?' he pleaded, and he had never been more in earnest in his life. 'Promise me that if anybody speaks ill of me to you, you will at least give me a chance to clear myself before you condemn me.'

'Oh, I can promise that fast enough, because nobody ever speaks ill of you to me. It is quite the reverse, I assure you. I have to listen to your praises all day long,' she said, with a teasing smile. 'You ought to show your gratitude for such disinterested kindness by coming up to the ladies.'

'I'm not going up to-night,' he reiterated. 'Give them my kind regards. Are you really off?'

'I must, if you won't come.'

He held open the door for her, and as she passed out, stole another kiss with all a lover's passion, telling himself it might be the last. But it did not make her pulses thrill nor her heart beat more quickly, and she saw him depart without a regret.

'You don't mean to say that is George away?' they cried, when the outer hall door closed, and almost immediately Gladys entered the drawing-room alone.

'Yes, he has gone,' Gladys answered calmly.

'What have you been doing to him to set him off like that?' asked Mina. 'Have you had a quarrel?'

'No,' replied Gladys innocently; 'but I think he is rather cross.'

Mrs. Fordyce shook her finger reprovingly at the girl, and said regretfully,—

'My dear, you are incorrigible. I could almost regret Henrietta Bonnemain's marriage, because she is the only woman in this world who could have managed you.'



CHAPTER XXXVII.

CHUMS.

Never did mother watch more tenderly over a wayward child than the little seamstress over Liz, and though Liz was quite conscious of the espionage she did not resent it. She seemed to have no desire to leave the little house, and when Teen, in the course of that afternoon, offered to go to the house in Maryhill for her clothes, she made no demur, nor did she offer to accompany her.

'If the lassie I'm lodgin' wi' is in, Teen, ye can tell her I'm no' comin' back. I'm very gled to get quit o' her, onyway,' she said, as Teen buttoned on her shabby black jacket.

'What's her name? Had ye better no' write a line, for fear she'll no' gie me the things?'

'Oh, she'll gie ye them withoot ony bother; they wadna bring her abune ten shillin's, onyhoo. An', I say, dinna tell her onything aboot me, mind. She'd think naething o' comin' onywhere efter me.'

'Oh, I'll no' tell. Clashin' was never my sin,' said Teen. 'But her name?—ye havena telt me that yet.'

'Oh, weel, she ca's hersel' Mrs. Gordon, but I dinna believe she's a wife at a'. She's in the ballet at the Olympic the noo.'

'An' what way is she bidin' at Maryhill?'

'Oh, her man's there. She says she's mairret to yin o' the officers, but I've never set een on him.'

'Is she a nice lassie?'

'Oh, weel enough. She's no' mean, onyhoo, but she's gey fast. She was tryin' to get me ta'en on at the Olympic. If she says onything, jist tell her I've changed my mind.'

'An' are ye no' awn onything for the lodgin's?' queried Teen, who had a singular conscientiousness regarding debt, even of a microscopic kind.

'No; I paid up when I had it. I dinna owe her onything.'

Teen was silent as she put her long hat-pin through the heavy masses of her hair and pulled her fringe a little lower on her brow; but she thought a great deal. Bit by bit the story was coming out, and she had no difficulty in filling up for herself the melancholy details.

'Noo I'm ready. Ye'll no' slope when I'm oot, Liz?' she said warningly; and Liz laughed a dreary, mirthless laugh.

'I ken when I'm weel aff. I wish to goodness I had come to you when I was sick o' Brigton, instead o' gaun where I gaed.'

Teen stood still in breathless silence, wondering if full revelation was about to be made. When Liz saw this, the old spirit of contrariness entered into her again, and she said crossly,—

'What are ye waitin' on noo?'

'Naething,' replied Teen meekly. 'Weel, I'm aff. I'll be back afore dark. Ye can hae the kettle bilin', an' I'll bring in a sausage or a red herrin' for oor tea.'

It was not without some faint, excited curiosity that Teen found herself at the door of the house of which Liz had given her the address. It was a one-roomed abode, three stairs up a tall tenement, in one of these dreary and uninteresting streets which are only distinguishable from one another by their names. In answer to her knock, a shrill female voice cried, 'Come in,' an invitation which the little seamstress somewhat hesitatingly obeyed. It was now after sundown, and the freshness of the daylight had faded, leaving a kind of semi-twilight in the room, which was of a fair size, and comfortably, though not luxuriously, furnished. On the end of the fender sat the solitary occupant, in a ragged and dirty old dressing-gown of pink flannel, her feet in dilapidated slippers, and her hair in curl-papers along her forehead. Although she saw that her visitor was quite a stranger to her, she did not offer to rise, but simply raising her pert, faded, but still rather pretty face, said inquiringly,—

'Well?'

'Are you Mrs. Gordon? I've come for Lizzie Hepburn's things. She's no' comin' back here.'

'Oh, all right. Shut the door, and come in. What's up with her? Gone off with a handsomer man, eh?' queried Mrs. Gordon, as she bit her thread through, and held up a newly-trimmed dress bodice for admiration.

'No; she's gaun into the country the morn,' answered Teen, while the ballet-dancer gave several very knowing nods.

'That's a pity, for her luck's turned. You can tell her she'll be taken on if she likes to turn up at the Olympic to-morrow morning at ten sharp. I arranged it for her on Saturday night.'

'She said I was to tell you she had changed her mind aboot the theatre,' said Teen. 'She's no' weel enough for it, onyhoo. She'll be better in the country.'

'Are you her sister?'

'Oh no, only her chum.'

'Well, I say, perhaps you can tell me something about her. She was as close as the grave, though we've been pals for a while; she'd not tell me a single thing. Why is she out on her own hook? Is there a man in the business?'

'I dinna ken ony mair than you,' said Teen, looking rather uncomfortable over this cross-examination. 'An' if ye'll tell me where her box is, I maun be gaun. I promised no' to be long.'

'It's there, at the end of the bed,' said Mrs. Gordon serenely, jerking her thumb in that direction. 'I see you mean to be close too. Not that it matters a cent to me; I've no earthly interest in her affairs. You can tell her, if you like, that Captain Dent was inquiring affectionately for her this morning. I met him on my way back from rehearsal.'

Teen listened in silence, mentally deciding that she would not tell her any such thing.

'And you can tell her, if you like, that I'll be glad to see her any time before the twenty-third. The Eighty-Fifth are ordered to Ireland, and of course my husband will wish me to go with him.'

A slow smile, in which there was the faintest touch of sarcasm, was in Teen's face as she glanced at the tawdry figure sitting on the fender end.

'A' richt; I'll tell her. An' guid-nicht to ye; I'm very much obleeged,' she said, and, taking Liz's tin box in her hand, she left a trifle hastily, as if afraid she should be longer detained.

She found Liz sitting where she had left her, in the same listless attitude, and her eyes were red about the rims, as if she had had a crying fit. The fire was very low, and the kettle standing cold where Teen had left it on the hearthstone.

'I forgot a' aboot the kettle, Teen,' she said apologetically. 'I'm a lazy tyke; but dinna rage. Weel, ye've got the box. Did ye see Emily?'

'Yes, if that's her name. She's a queer yin,' said Teen, as she let the box drop, and grasped the poker to improve the condition of the fire. 'Ye dinna seem to hae telt her much, Liz, ony mair than me.'

'No; it's aye best to keep dark. I dinna mean onything ill, Teen, but naebody shall ever ken frae me whaur I've been or what I've suffered since I gaed awa'. Ay, what I've suffered!'—she repeated these words with a passionate intensity, which caused Teen to regard her with a kind of awe. 'But maybe my day'll come, an' if it does, I winna forget,' she said, more to herself than to her companion; then, catching sight of Teen's astonished face, she broke into a laugh, and said, in quite a different tone,—

'Weel, is't the morn we're gaun among the swells? An' hoo d'ye pit in the time in the country?'

'Ye'll see,' replied Teen, with quiet satisfaction. 'The days are ower short, that's the only fault they hae. Efter we get oor supper, what wad ye say to gang roond to Colquhoun Street and see Wat, to tell him we're gaun to Bourhill?'

'No, I'm no' gaun. He micht say we werena to gang. I say, Teen, he's in love wi' her. Onybody can see it in his e'e when he speaks aboot her.'

'I ken that; but it's nae use,' said Teen, 'she's gaun to mairry somebody else.'

'Is she? D'ye ken wha?'

'Ay; your auld flame,' said Teen, apparently at random, but all the while keenly watching her companion's face. She saw Liz become as pale as death, though she smiled a sickly smile, and tried to speak as indifferently as possible.

'Ye dinna mean it? Weel, I'd hae thocht she wad hae waled better. Hoo sune are we gaun the morn?'

She asked the question with eagerness, and from that moment the little seamstress observed that her whole manner changed. She suddenly began to display a new and absorbing interest in the preparations for their departure, and plied Teen with questions regarding the place and her former experiences there. The little seamstress, being a person of a remarkably shrewd and observant turn, saw in this awakened interest only another link in the chain which now appeared to her almost complete. Her former elation over their trip to Bourhill gave place to a painful anxiety lest it should hasten events to a crisis in which the happiness of Gladys might be sadly involved; but it was now too late to help matters, and, with a bit of philosophical calmness, she said within herself, 'What is to be maun be,' and went on with her preparations for the morrow's journey.

They set out, accordingly, about noon next day, carrying their belongings in the inevitable tin box, and arrived at Mauchline Station quite early in the afternoon—a lovely afternoon, when all the spring airs were about, and a voice of gladness over the spring's promise in the note of every bird singing on the bending boughs. With what keenness of interest did the little seamstress watch the effect of country sights and sounds upon Liz, and how it pleased her to see the slow wonder gather in her eyes as they wandered across the wide landscape over the rich breadths of the ploughed fields, in which the sowers were busy, to the sheltering woods glistening greenly in the sun, and the blue hills in the hazy distance seeming to shut in the world. It was her pride and pleasure to point out to her companion, as they walked, each familiar and cherished landmark, and though Liz did not say much, it was evident that she was in a manner lifted out of herself. The pure, fragrant air blowing about her, the wide and wonderful beauty of green fields and sunny slopes, filled the soul of Liz with a vague, yearning wonder which was almost pain. It brought home to her sharply a sense of all she had lost in the great and evil city; it was like a revelation of some boundless good of which she had hitherto lived in ignorance, and it awakened in her a bitter regret, which was in very truth rebellious anger, that the beauty of the earth should have so long been hid from her.