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Un d«s symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbole — ► signifie "A SUIVRE ", le symbole V signifie "FIN ". Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre film^s d des taux de reduction diff6rents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clich6, il est film6 A partir de Tangle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images n6cessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m6thode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 1 THE GUINEA STAMP B Znk of nDo&crii (Blasoow BY ANNIE S. SWAN 'MRS. BURNETT-SMnil) AUTHOR or AI.DF.RSVDE,' « ACROSS HER PATH.' < THE GATES op k,.Pn" HIK AVRES OF STUDLKIGH/ < WHO SHALL SKKVE?' • Tie rnnk is but the f^uinea stamp. The mans the gowd for a' that.' TORONTO, CANADA VV^ILLIAM BRIGQS KDINBURGH and LONDON OLIPHANT. ANDERSON & FERRIER 260473 Is;. ; ■ MD, arcordinK t<> Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year on« thousand ci>fht hundred and ninety-two, by William Briqob, Toronto, in the Office of the Minister of Airriculture, at OtUwa. CONTENTS. CIUP. iA<;r I. FATHEKI.KSS, .... 7 11. wiiAi" TO 1)1) wnn iiKi:, . 16 III. THK NKW IIOMK, .... 2(5 IV. A KAY OF I.lCin, .... 3i V. LIZ, ...... 4:5 VI. I'lCTtTllKS OF LIFK, r>i VII. LIZ Sl'KAKS IIF.R MIND, GO Vm. KDfJKl) TOOLS, .... U8 IX. AN IMl'F.NDINd CHANoK, . 77 X. IN AVItSllli!!:, .... 86 XI. I)AKKEN1N(; DAYS, .... 95 Xri. SETTING HIS llolsK IN OUDKU, . . 104 XIII. THE LAST SUMMONS, . 113 XIV. THOSE LEKF BEHIND, . 1'22 XV. HER INHERITANCE, lai XVI. FAREWELL, ..... . 1^9 XVII. THE WEST END, .... . 148 XVI IL 'THE DAYS THAT AUK No ,' . l.';7 XIX. THE SWEETS OF LIFE, . . . . . 166 XX. PLANS, ...... . 174 r, COi\T/:XTS. • MAP. xxr. ACHOHH TIIK fllANNKI,, . XXM. A IIKI.I'INIJ HAM), XXIII. IlKAI, AND IltKAL, XXIV. TIIK UNKXI'ICTKI), XXV. TIIK FlltST WuOKIl, XXVI. r.NDKK DISCUSSION, xxvn. ai.ADVS AND WAI.TI C, XXVIII. A TKOUDI.KD IIKAKT, XXIX. AN AWAKKNINO, XXX. TOO I.AIK I XXXI. ' WHAT MICIIT IIAYK III XXXII. TIIR WANDKKKU, XXXIII. A KAITIIKUI, KKIIIM). . XXXIV. WHAT WILL SIIK |mi ( . XXXV. A KKVKLATION, . XXXVI. TfclKA-TETK, XXXVII. CHUMS, . XXXVIII. IN VAIN, XXXIX. GONE, XL. THE MATItONS ADVISK, XLI. A ORKAT RELIEF, XLII. A DI.S'JO\ KUY, . XLIII. A woman's HKALT, XLIV. THE magdalkni;, XI,V. THE HOLT FALLS, XLVI. THE WORLD WELL L(>>r KN. I'.K) 198 200 214 222 2'J9 230 243 2.'".0 2:>9 200 274 283 291 299 307 315 323 331 338 345 352 301 309 377 TiiH gui\i:a stamp. CIIAITKU I. FATIIKKLKSS. T was an artist's studio, a [K)or, shal»bv littl(3 place, with a lattiicil window fa('in<' till! nctrth. There was nothin;' i!i tiie fuiiiishin^' or arwmjfenient of the room to sii^i^est successful work, or even artistic taste. A few tarnished gold frames leaned against the gaudily-papered wall, and the only picture stood on the dilapidated easel in the middle of the floor, a small canvas of a woman's head, a gentle Madonna face, with large supplicating eyes, and a sensitive, sad mouth, which seemed to mourn over the desolation of the place. The palette and a few worn l)rushes were scattered on the iloor, where the artist had laid them down for ever. There was one living creature in the room, a young girl, not more than sixteen, sitting on a stool by the open window, looking out listlessly on the stretch of dreary fenland, shrouded in the cold and heavy mist. It was a day on which the scenery of the riih: ci'ixi'iA srA.up. fen country lonkiMl (Icsolnlc, cIumtIcss, niid cliill. These f^rccn iMcadows and Hal strclche.s liav(! iiccmI of tlio sun- sliiiu? to warm thciii always. Sittin«^ tluTo in the soft ^ray lij^ht, (Jladys (Iraliam h)(»Ueil more of a woman than u chiM, thou^^ii hei ;,'own did not roacli her ankles, and her hair hiin^' in a tliick golden j)lait down her b;:ck. Her face vas very careworn and very sad, her eyes red and dim with long wec^ping. There was not on the faee of the earlh a more desolate creatnn^ tluin the gentle, slende'r girl, the orphan of a day. At nn age when lil'e should be a joyous and lovely thing to the maiden child, (Hadys Graham found herself faee to faee with its grinunest reality, certain of only one thing, that somewheie and somehow she must earn her bread. She v/as thiiddng of it at that moment, with her white brows perplexedly knitted, her mouth made stern by doubt and a))prehensioii and despair ; conning in her mind her few meagre accomplisliments, asking herself how much they were likely to bring in the world's great mart. She could read and write and add a simple sum, finger the keys of the piano and the violin strings with a musicianly touch, draw a little, and dream a great deal. That was the sum total of her acquirements, and she knew very well that the value of such things was nil. \Vhat, then, must become of her? The question had become a problem, and she was very far away yet from its solution. The house was a plain and primitive cottage in the narrow street of a little Lincolnshire village — a village which was a relic of the old days, before the drainage system was introduced, transforming the fens into a fertile garden, which seems to bloom and blossom summer <'nd winter through. Its old houses reminded one of a Dutch picture, which the quaint bridges across FAriii'.in.i'iss, Thfse lio sun- tlie soft woman ' ankles, »wn licr sad, Ikt s not on lian the an aj^'e T to the 5 to faoe n;,', tliat d. She :e brows y doubt (lind her w much ,t mart. n, fin,i,'er with a at deal. [\nd she was nil. ion had et from ) in the , village rainage into a blossom minded across i the waterways served to enlmnee. There are many surh in the fen country, d* iir to the arliNl's soul. JidiM (Iraluim was not al<>ne in his love for the wide reaches, lt!vel as the sea. across which every villn^e sj)ire c'iMild be seen tor many a mile. Not very far away, in dear weather, the j^reat tower of Boston, not ungraceful, st girl's ised to er any lat liur jrtaiuty on the g-room, refuUy- osphcre a very vercoat, 1 in the I a soft:, (deemed remark- as grey, 3 heavy f repul- to show ked — a bU from almost ot. * and Drella ? ' I can yself — t away, first — m have are the % economics poor people have to stu 'y. I guess you are no stranger to them ? ' Gladys again faintly smiled. She was not in the least surprised. Poverty had long heen her companion, slie expected nothing but to have it for her com- jtanion still. She took lier uncle's hat and overcoat, hung them in the litth; hall, and returned to the room, closing the door. ' Perhaps you are cold, uncle ? ' she said, and, grasping the poker, was about to stir up the fire, when he hastily took it from her, with an expression of positive pain on his face. * Don't ; it is quite warm. We can't afford to be extravagant ; and I daresay,' he added, with a back- ward jerk of his thumb towards the door, ' like the rest of her tribe, she'll know how to charge. Sit dov n there, and let us talk.' Gladys sat down, feeling a trifle hurt and abashed. They had always been very poor, she and her father, but they had never obtruded it on their own notice, but had tried cheerfully always to accept what they had with a thankful heart. P)Ut Love dwelt with them always, and she can make divine her humblest fare. Mr. Abel Graham fumbled in the inner pocket of his very shabby coat, and at last brought out a square envelope, from which he took the curate's letter. ' I have come,* he said quite slowly, ' in answer to this. I suppose you knew it had been written ? ' ' If it is ^Ir. Courtney's letter, yes,' answered Gladys, unconsciously adopting her uncle's business-like tone and manner. ' Of course he told me he had written.* * And you expected me to come, of '-ourse ? ' 14 THE GUINEA STAMP. I i; * I don't think I thought about it much,' Gladys answered, with frankness. ' It is very good of you to come so soon.' ' I came because it was my duty. Not many people do their duty in this world, but though I'm a very poor man, I won't shirk it — no, I won't shirk it.* He rubbed liis hands together slowly, and nodded across the hearth to his niece. Instead of being i»luased, as she ought to have been, with this announcement, she gave a quick little shiver. * My brother John — your father, I mean — and I have not met for a good number of years, not since we had the misfortune to disagree about a trifle,' continued the old man, keeping his eyes fixed on the girl's face till she found herself made nervous by them. * Time has proved that I was right, quite right ; but my brother John was always, if you will excuse me saying it, rather pigheaded, and ' — ' Don't let us speak about him if you do not feel kindly to him ! ' cried the girl, her great eyes flashing, her slender frame trembling with indignation. ' I will not listen, I will go away and leave you, Uncle Abel, if you speak harshly of papa.' ' So ' — Abel Graham slapped his knee as he uttered this me -Utative monosyllable, and continued to regard his niece with keener scrutiny, if that were possible, than before. *It is John's temper — a very firebrand. My dear, you are very young, and you should not be above taking advice. Let me advise you to control that fiery passion. Temper doesn't pay — it is one of the things which nothing can ever make pay in this world. "Well, will you be so kind as to give me a little insight into the state of your affairs ? A poor enough state they appear to be in, if this parson writes truly — only parsons are accustomed to draw the long bow, for the purpose of FATJIKHLESS. 15 ferreting money out of people's j»ockets. Well, my dear, liave you nothing to tell me ? ' Gladys continued to look at hiiu with dislike and distrust she made no attempt to disguise. If only he would nut call her ' my dear.' She resented the familiarity. He had no right to presume on such a short ac4uaiutance. ' I have nothing to tell you, T think,' she said very coldly, ' except that papa is dead, and I have to earn my own living.* iiti CHAPTER II. WHAT TO DO WITH HER. OUK own living ? I am glad to hear you put it so sensibly. I must say I hardly expected it,' said the old man, with engaging frankness. ' Well, but tell me first what your name is. I don't know what to call you.* ' Gladys,' she answered ; and her uncle received fho information in evident disapproval. ' Gladys ! Now, what on earth is the meaning of such a name ? Your father and mother ought to be ashamed of themselves ! Why can't people name their children so that people won't stare when they hear it ? Jane, Susan, Margaret, Christina, — I'm sure there are hundreds of decent names they might have given you. I think a law should be passed that no child shall be named until he is old enough to choose for himself. Mine is bad enough, — they might as well have christened me Cain when they were at it, — but Gladys, it beats all ! ' * I have another name, Uncle AbeL I was baptized Gladys Mary.' • Ah, that's better. Well, I'll call you Mary ; it's not li i f WHAT TO DO WITH HER. 17 hoar you '■ 1 hardly mil, with it tell me m't know eived the eaning of It to be e name tien they I'm sure ght have that no )0 choose as well it, — but baptized : it's not i 80 heathenish. And tell me what you have thought of doing for yourself ? ' ' I have thought of it a great deal, but I have not been able to come to any decision,' answered Gladys. ' Both papa and Mr. Courtney thought I had better wait until you came.* ' Your father expected me to come, then ? ' ' Yes, to the last he hoped you would. He had something to say to you, he said. And the last morn- ing, when his mind began to wander, he talked of you a great deal.' These details Gladys gave in a dry, even voice, which betrayed a keen ellbrt. She spoke almost as if she had set herself a task. * I came as soon as I could. The parson wrote urgently, but I know how parsons draw the long bow, so I didn't hurry. Business must be attended to, what- ever lappens. You don't know what it was your father wished to j. \y ? He never asked you to write it, or anything ?' ' No, but in his wandering he talked of money a great deal, and he seemed to think,' she added, with a slight hesitation, * that you had taken some from him. Of course it was only his fancy. Sick people often think such things * ' He could not possibly in his senses have thought so, for I never had any money, or he either. "We could not rob each other when there was nothing to rob,' said the old man, but he avoided slightly his niece's clear gaze. ' Well, Mary, I am willing to do what I can for you, as you are my brother's only child, so you had better prepare to return to Scotland with me.' Gladys tried to veil her shrinking from the prospect, but her sweet face grew even graver as she listened. B if] I 18 THE GUINEA STAMP, iii I I I ' I am a very poor man/ he repeated, with an emphasis whicli left no doubt tliat he wished it to be impressed lirndy on her nnnd, — ' very poor ; but I trust I know my duty. 1 don't suppose, now, that you have been tiuij^dit to work with your hands — in the house, I mean — tlie woman's kingdom ? * This sentimental phrase fell rather oddly from the old man's lips. He looked the very last man to enter- tain any high and chivalrous ideal of womanhood. Gladys could not forbear a smile as she answered, — ' I am afraid I am rather ignorant. Uncle Abel. I have never had occasion to do it.' ' Never had occasion ; hear her ! ' repeated the old man, quite as if addressing an audience. ' She has never had any occasion. She has been born and cradled in the lap of luxury, and I was a born fool to ask the question.' The desolate child felt the keenness of the sarcasm, and her eyes filled with hot tears. ' You don't under- stand, Uncle Abel, you never can understand, and there is no use trying to make you,' she said curiously. ' I think I had better call Miss Teck to get tea for us.' ' Not yet ; we must settle everything, then we needn't talk any more. I am your only relation in the world, and as I have been summoned, perhaps unneces- sarily, on this occasion, I must, and will, do my duty. I have not taken the long and expensive journey from Scotland for nothing, remember that. So sit down, Mary, and tell me exactly how matters stand. How much money have you ? ' The colour mounted high to the girl's white brow, and her proud mouth quivered. Never had she so felt the degradation of her poverty ! Now it seemed more than she could bear. But she looked straight into her -ft V WHAT TO DO WITH HER. 19 uncle's unlov(>ly countenance, and made answer, with a calmness wliicli surprised herself, — ' Tiiere is no money, none at all — not even enough to pay all that must he paid.' Ahel Graham almost gasped. ' All that must be ])aid ! And, in Heaven's name, how much is that ? Try to he practical and dear- l aded, and remember I am a poor man, thougli willing to do my duty.' ' Mr. Courtney and I talked of it this morning, when we arranged that the funeral should be to-morrow,' (Jladys answered in a calm, straight, even voice, ' and we thought that there might be five i)ounds to jtay when all was over. Tapa has some i)ictures at the dealers' — two in P)OSton, and three, I think, in London. Perhaps there might be enough from these to jiay.' •You liave the addresses of these dealers, I hope?' said the old man, with undisguised eagerness. ' Yes, 1 have the addresses.' ' Well, I shall apply to them, and put on the screw, if possible. Will you tell me, if you please, how long you have lived in tiiis place ? ' ' Oh, not long, — in this village, I mean, — only since summer. We have been all over the fens, 1 think ; but we have liked thio place most of all.' * Heathens, wandering Jews, vagabonds on the face of the earth,' said the old man to himself. ' So you have arranged that it will be to-morrow — you and the parson ? 1 hope he understands that he can get nothing for his pains ? * ' I don't know what you are talking about,' said Gladys, and her mouth grew very stern — her whole face during the last ht»ur seemed to have taken on the stamp and seal of age. . . 20 THE GUINEA STAMP, ' And what hour liave you annuu''' 1 it for?' ' Klcven, I think — yv.s, clevon,' answi'icd (Jladya, and gave a quick, ' wn worst if tliat is I at once.' n, and, to sat down the table, Deen good d ; better stay. I said very must go must go. d Gladys. brother. est dift'er- »Iiss Peck meditatively. ' V>\\i now you must have soinetliing to eat, and I su|>i>(>se lie must be huii<,'ry too' — ' If you would get tea, please, \v(? shituld be much (il)li^('d ; and oil, Miss Peck, do you think you could give him a bed ? ' 'There is nothing but the little attic, but I daresay it will do hiiu very well. He doesn't look as if he wtire accustomed to anything much better,' said Mi.ss IVck, with frank candour. So it was arranged, and ^T?| (lladys, drying her eyes, offered to help the little wonuin as best she could. Abel Graham looked keenly and critically at his niece when she returned to the room and laid the cloth for tea. His eye was not trained to the admiration or appreciation of beauty, but he was struck by a singular grace in her every movement, by a certain still and winning loveliness of feature and expression. It was not the beauty sought for or beloved by the vulgar eye, to which it would seem ])ut a colourless and lifeless ■^ thing ; but a pure soul, to which all things seemed I lovely and of good report, looked out from her grave eyes, and gave an expression of gentle sweetness to her lips. With such a fair and delicate creature, what should he do ? The question suggested itself to hiui naturally, as a picture of his home rose up before his vision. When he thought of its meagre comfort, its ugly environment, he confessed that in it she would be quite out of jtlace. The house in which he had found her, though only a hired shelter, was lu'at and comfort- able and homelike. He felt irritated, perplexed; and this irritation and perplexity made him quite silent during the meal. They ate, indeed, without exchanging a single word, though the old man enjoyed the fragrant tea, the sweet, home-made bread, and firm, wholesome H THE GUINEA STAMP. I!) 'i\' butter, and ate of it without stint. He was not, Indeed, accustomed to such dainty fare. Gladys attended quietly to his wants, and he did not notice that she scarcely broke bread. When the meal was over, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and rose from the table. * Now, if you don't mind,' he said almost cheerfully, the good food having soothed his troubled mind, * I would like to take a last look at my brother. I hope they have not screwed down the coffin ?' Glady.^ give a violent start. The word was hideous; how hideous, she had never realised till it fell from her uncle's lips. But she controlled herself ; nothing was to be gained by exhibitions of feeling in his presence. 'No, they will come, I think, to-morrow, quite early. 1 did not wish it done sooner,' she answered quietly. If you come now, I can show you the door.' She took the lamp from the table, and, with a gesture of dignity, motioned him to follow her. At the door of the little room where the artist had suffered and died she gave him the lamp, and herself disappeared into the studio. Not to sit down and helplessly weep. That must be over now ; there were things to be thought of, things to do, on the threshold of her new life, and she was ready for action. She found the matches, struck a light, and began at once to gather together the few things she must now sacredly cherish as mementoes of her father. First she took up with tender hand the little canvas from the easel, looked at it a moment, and then touched the face with her lips. It was her mother's face, which she remembered not, but had been taught to love by her father, who cherished its memory with a most passionate devotion. She wrapped it in an old silk handkerchief, and then began a trifle dreamily to gather i WJ/A2' TO DO WITH HEU. S5 ot, Indeed, ed quietly i scarcely w^iped his from the heerfully, mind, ' I I hope hideous ; from her ihing was esence. ite early. I quietly. She took ■ dignity, he little she gave studio. must be ', things she was truck a the few entoes of land the lent, and mother's iaught to with a old silk o gather 1 if. together the old brushes with which John Graham had done so )uuch good, if unappreciated, work. Tvleawhile the old man was alone in the chamber of death. He had no nerves, no fine sensibilities, and little natural affection to make the moment trying to him. He entered the room in a perfectly matter-of-fact manner, set the lamp on the washhand-stand, and approached the bed. As he stood there, looking on tlie face, calm, restful, beautiful in its last sleep, a wave of memory, unbidden and unwelcome, swept over his selfish and hardened heart. The years rolled back, and he saw two boys kneeling together in childish love at their mother's knee, lisping their evening prayer, unconscious of the bitter years to come. Almost the white, still outline of the dead face seemed to reproach him ; he could have anticipated the sudden lifting of the folded eyelids. He shivered slightly; took an impatient step back to the table for the lamp, and made haste from the room. m II ! CHAPTEE III. THE NEW HOME. ^EXT day at noon tliat strangely-assorted pair, the sordid old man and the gentle child, set ont in a peasant's waggon, which he had hired for a few pence, to ride across the meadows to Boston. The morning was very fair. In the night the mist had flown, and now the sun shone out warm and cheerful, giving the necessary brightness to the scene. It lay tenderly on tlie quaint fen village, and the little gilt vane on the church steeple glittered proudly, almost as if it were real gold. Gladys sat with her back to the old horse, quite silent, never allowing her eyes for a moment to wander from that picture until distance made it dim. She had no tears, though she was leaving behind all that love had hallowed. She wondered vaguely once or twice whether it would be her last farewell, or whether, in other and happier years, she might come again to kneel by that nameless grave. Abel Graham paid small attention to her. He tried to engaoe in a conversation with the peasant who sat on the front of the waggon, holding the reins loosely in his sunburnt hands ; but that individual was stolid, and when he did vouchsafe 26 i I sev( TJiE NEW HOME. 27 ly-assorted the gentle s waggon, r pence, to ton. The mist had cheerful, It lay little gilt almost as rse, quite ;o wander She had that love or tv/ice lether, in to kneel id small versation waggon, nds ; but vouchsafe a remark, Abel did not understand him, not being familiar with fen vernacular. Tliey reaciied I'oslon in ample time for the train, even leaving half jin hour to spare. This half hour the old man improved by hunting up the dealer in whose hands were two of liis brother's pictures, leaving Gladys at the station to watch their meagre luggage. He drove a much better bargain than the artist himself could have done, and returned to the station inwardly elated, with four pounds in his pocket ; but he carefully concealed from his niece the success of his transaction — not that it would have iifcatlv concerned her, she was too listless to take interest in anything. At one o'clock the dreary railway journey began, and after many stoppages and changes, late at night (rladys was informed that their destination was reached. She stepped fron.i the carriage in a half -da zed manner, and perceived that they were in a large, brilliantly-lighted, but deserted, city station. All her worldly goods were in one large, shabby portmanteau, which the old man weighed, first in one hand 'ud then in the other. ' I think we can manage it between us. It isn't far, and if I leave it, it will cost tuppence, besides taking Wat Hepburn from his work to-morrow to fetch it.' ' Can't we have a cab ? ' asked Gladys innocently. ' No, we can't ; you ought to know, if you don't, that a cab is double fare after midnight,' said the old man severely. ' Just look in the carriage to make sure nothing is left.' Gladys did so, then the melancholy pair trudged off out from the station into the (juiet streets. Happily the niglit was line, though cold, with a clear, star- begemmed sky, and a winter moon on the vv^ane above the roofs and spires. A great city it seemed to Gladys, m vM hill 28 THFl GUINEA STAMP, with miles and miles of streets ; tall, heavy houses set in monotonous rows, but no green thing — nothing to remind her of heaven but the stars. She had tlie soul of the poet-artist, therefore her destiny was doubly hard. But the time came when she recognised its uses, and thanked God for it all, even for its moments of despair, its bitterest tears, because through it alone she touched the great suffering heart of humanity which beats in the dark places of the earth. In the streets after mid- night there is always life — the life which dare not show itself by day, because it stalks in tlie image of sin. Gladys was surprised, as they slowly wended their way along a wide and handsome thoroughfare, past the closed windows of great shops, to meet many ladies finely dressed, some of them beautiful, with a strange, wild beauty, which half-fascinated, half-terrified her, ' Who are these ladies, Uncle Abel ? ' she asked at length. * Why are so many people in the streets so late ? I thought everybody would be in bed but us.' ' They are the night-birds, child. Don't ask any more questions, but shut your eyes and hold fast by me. We'll be hom^ in no time,' said the old man harshly, because his conscience smote him for what he was doing. Gladys again became silent, but she could not shut her eyes. Soon they turned into another street, in which were even more people, though evidently of a different order. The women were less showily dressed, and many of them had their heads bare, and wore little shawls about their shoulders. As they walked, the crowd became greater, and the din increased. Some children Gladys also saw, poorly clad and with hungry faces, running barefoot on the stony street. But she kept silence still, though growing every moment more frightened and more sad THK NEW HOME. 29 ' houses set -notliing to iful the soul loubly hard, s uses, and of despair, she touched :h beats in I after mid- 'e not show xge of sin. I their way > the closed dies finely 'ange, wild sr, asked at streets so but us.' any more 5t by me. ti harshly, ivas doino-. t shut her in which different and many le shawls le crowd children fry faces, she kept tit more ' Surely this is a terrible place. Uncle Abel,* she said at la>t. ' I have never seen anything like it in my life.' ' It isn't savoury, I admit ; but I warned you. This is Argyle Street on a Saturday night ; other nights it is (luieter, of course. Oh, he won't harm you.' A lumber- inu carter in a wild state of intoxication had pushed him- self against the frightened girl, and looked down into her face with an idiotic leer. (iladys gave a faint scream, and clung to her uncle's arm ; but the next moment the man was taken in cliarge by the policeman, and went to swell the number of tlie drunkards at Monday's court. ' Here we are. This is Craig's Wynd, or The "^"^ ynd, as they say. We have only to go through here, and then we are in Colquhoun Street, where I live. It isn't far.' In the AVynd it was, of course, rather quieter, but in the dark doorways strange fii^ures were huddled, and sometimes the feeble wail of a child, or a smothered oath, reminded one that more was hidden behind the scenes. Gladys was now in a state of extreme mental excitement. She had never been in a town larger than Boston, and there only on bright days with her father. It seemed to her that this resembled the place of which the l)ible speaks, where there is weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. To the child, country born and gently reared, whom no unclean or wicked thing had ever touched, it was a revelation which took away from her her childhood for ever. She never forgot it. When years had passed, and these dark days seemed almost like a shadow, that one memory remained vivid and most painful, like a troubled dream. ' Xow, here we are. We must let ourselves in. Wat Hepburn will be away long ago. He goes home on m 30 TITK GUINEA STAMP. Saturday night,' said the old man, j^ropin^j; in liis pocket fo?' a key. It was some minutes before lie found it, and (Jhidys had time to look about her, which slie did witli fearful, wondering eyes. It was a very narrow street, with tall houses on each side, which seemed almost to touch the sky. Gladys wondered, not know- ing that tliey were all wareliouses, how people lived and breathed in such places. She did not know yet that this place, in comparison with others not many streets removed, was paradise. It was quiet — quite deserted ; but through the Wynd came the faint echo of the tide of life still rolling on through the early hours of the Sabbath day. * Here now. Perhaps you had better stay here till I bring a light,' said the old man at length. ' Oh no, I can't ; I am terrified. I will come in, cried Gladys, in afiVight. ' Very well. But there's a stair ; you must stand there a moment. I know where the matches are.' Gladys stood still, holding in to the wall in silent terror. The atmosphere of the place depressed her — it smelt close and heavy, of some disagreeable oily odour. She felt glad to turn her face to the door, where the cool night air — a trifle fresher — could touch her face. Her uncle's footsteps grew fainter and fainter, then became louder again as he began to return. Presently the gleam of a candle appeared at the farther end of a long passage, and he came back to the door, which he carefully closed and locked. Then Gladys saw that a straight, steep stair led to the upper Hoor, but the place Abel Graham called his home was on the ground floor, at the far end of a long wide passage, on either side of which bales of goods were piled. He led the way, and soon Gladys found herself in a large, low -ceiled THE M£W HOME. 31 his pocket J funiid it, ;li she did ry iiiirrow ch seemed not know- ; lived and V yet that my streets \ deserted ; )f the tide urs of the )' here till come in, lUst stand are/ in silent d her — it )ily odour, where the her face. ter, then Presently end of a which he aw that a but the le ground on either led the ow-ceiled room, quite cheerless, and poorly furnislied like a kitchen, tliough a bed stood in one corner. The fireplace was very old and (quaint, having a little grate set quite unattached into the open space, leaving room enough for a stool on either side. It was, however, choked with dead ashes, and presented a melancholy spectacle. ' Now,' said the old man, as he set the })ortmanteau down, ' here we are. One o'clock in the morning — Sunday morning, too. Are you hungry ? ' ' No,' said Gladys, * not very.' ' Or cold, no ? That's impossible, we've walked so fast. Just take ofl' ^•our things, and I'll see if there's anytliing in the press. There should be a bit of bread and a morsel of cheese, if that rascal hasn't gobbled them up.' Gladys sat down, and her eyes wandered over all the great wide room into its shadowy corners, and it was as if the frost of winter settled on her young heart. The old man hung up his coat and hat behind the door, and, opening the press, brouglit therefrom the half of a stale loaf, a plate on which reposed a microscopic portion of liighly-coloured butter, and a scrap of cheese wrapped in paper. These he laid on the bare table, where the dust lay white. ' Eat a mouthful, child, and then we'll get to bed,' he said. ' You'll need to sleep here in my bed to-night, and I'll go to the back room, where there's an old sofa. On Monday I'll get some things, and you can have that room for yourself. Tired, eh ? ' Uncle Abel's spirits rose to find himself at home, and the child's sank lower at the prospect stretching out before her. ' No — that is, not very. It seems very long since morning.' %. !l 32 THE GUINEA STAMP. 11 ! ' Ay, it's been a lonj,'ish day. Never mind ; to- morrow's Sunday, and we needn't get up before ten or eleven.' ' Don't you go to church, Uncle Abel ? * * Sometimes in the afternoon, or at night. Oh, there are plenty of churches ; they grow as thick as mush- rooms, and do al)out as mucli good. Won't you eat ? ' The fare was not inviting ; nevertlieless, Gladys did her best to swallow a few morsels, because she really felt faint and weak. It did not occur to the miser that he might kindle a cheerful spark of fire to give her a welcome, and to make her a cup of tea. He was not less cold and hungry himself, it may be believed, but he had long inured himself to such privation, and bore it with an outward semblance of content. When they had eaten, he busied himself getting an old rug and a pillow from the chest standing across one of the windows, and carried them into the otlier room, then he bade Gladys get quickly to bed, and not burn the candle too long. He went in the dark himself, and when Gladys heard his footsteps growing fainter in the long passage a great terror took possession of her, the place was so strange, so cold, so unknown. For some time she was even afraid to move, but at last she rose and crossed the floor to the windows, to see whether from them anything friendly or familiar could be seen. But they looked into the street, and had thick iron bars across them, exactly like the windows of a gaol. It was the last straw added to the burden of the unhappy child. Her imagination did not lack in vivid- ness, and a thousand unknown terrors rose up before her terrified eyes. If only from the window she might have looked up to the eyes of the pitying stars, she had been less desolate, less forlorn. A sharp sense of 4 I m THE NEW HOME, 88 Oh, there : as niush- fo\x eat ? ' jrladys did she really the miser tire to give i tea. He je believed, vation, and t. getting an across one ►tlier room, not hum imself, and ter in the of her, the For some t she rose ;e whether Id be seen. hick iron of a gaol, en of the I in vivid- up before she might stars, she 3 sense of I physical cold was the first thing to arouse her, and she took the candle and approached the bed. Now, though they had ever been poor, the artist and his child had kept their surroundings clean and wholesome. In her personal tastes Gladys was as fastidious as the highest liidy in the land. She turned down the covering, and when she saw the hue of the linen her lip curled, and she hcTstily covered it up from sight. In the end, she laid herself down without undressing above the bed, spreading a clean handkerchief for her head to rest upon ; and so, worn-out, she slept at last an untroubled and dreamless sleep, in which she forgot for many hours her forlorn and friendless state. :''% ■1 i;i» CHArTER IV. A RAY OF LIGHT. loll J UN DAY was a dreary day. It rained again, III and the fo<' was so thick that it seemed dim twilight all day long in Gladys's new home. Her uncle did not go out at all, but dozed in the chimney-corner between the intervals of preparing the meagre meals. On Sunday Abel Graham attended to his own housekeep- ing, and took care to keep a shilling oft' Mrs. Macintyre's pittance for the same. Gladys, though unaccustomed to perform household duties except of the slightest kind, was glad to occupy herself with them to make the time pass. The old man from his corner watched with much approval the slender figure moving actively about the kitchen, the busy hands making order out of chaos, and adding the grace of her sweet young presence to that dreary place. On the morrow, he told himself, he should dismiss the expensive Mrs. INIacintyre. Yes, he had made a good investment, and then the girl would always be there, a living creature, to whom he might talk when so disposed. ' It isn't at all a bad sort of place, my dear,' he said quite cheerfully. * At the back, in the yard, there's a tree and a strip of grass. In spring, if you like, 34 1 I If * 1 A HAY OF LIGHT, 35 ined again, it seemed idys's new out at all, jr between eals. On loiisekeep- lacintyre's ccustomed itest kind, the time led with i^ely about of chaos, resence to imself, he Yes, he ?irl would he might r,' he said •d, there's you like, you might put in a pennyworth of seeds, and have a llowcr.' This was a tnniu'ndou.s concession. (Jladys felt "rati'ful for the kindly thought which proiiii)tcd it. ' One tree, growing all by itself. Poor thing, how lonely it must be ! ' The old man looked at her curiously. 'That's an odd way to look at it. Who ever heard of a tree being lonely ^ You have a great many ([ueer fiincies, but they won't liourish here, (ilasgow is given U[) to business; it has no time for foolish fancies.' (lladys gravely nodded. ' I'iil)a told me so. Is it very far to Ayrshire, Uncle Abel ? • The old man gave a quick start. 'To Ayrshire! "Wliat makes you ask the question ? What has put such a thing into your head ?' ' Vi\\ni spoke of it so often, of that beautiful village where you and he were born. He was so sorry I could not ])ronounce it right, Mauchline.' As tliat sweet voice, wilii its pretty English accent, uttered the fiimiliar name, again a strange thrill visited the old man's withered heart. ' No, you d(jn't sav it right. But I wonder that he s])(»ke of it so much ; we were poor enough there, herd boys in the fields. We couldn't well have a humbler origin, eh ? ' ' I)Ut it was a beautiful life — papa said so — among the fields and trees, listening to the birds — the same songs Burns used to hear. I seem to know every step of the way, all the lields in Mossgiel, and e^'ery tree in ihe woods of Ballochmyle. Just before he died, he tried to sing, — oh, it was so painful to hoar his dear, trembling voice, — ami ii was "The i'ounie Lass o* ■H THE GUINEA STAMP. Bttllochmyle." If it is not very far, will you tnko me one (lay, vvliun you have time, Undo Abel, to see Mauoliiiue and Mossgiel and Bullochniylo ?' She looked at him fearlessly as she made her request, and her coura*^e pleased him. ' We'll see. Terhaps at the Fair, when fares are eheap. IJut it will only be to please you ; I never want to see the place aj,'ain.' ' Oh, is not that very strange, Uncle Abel, that papa and you should think of it so dineiently ? He loved it all so nmch, and he always said, when we were rich, we should come, he and I together, to Scotland.' ' He was glad enough to turn his back on it, anyhow. If he had stayed in (Glasgow, and attended to business, he might have l)een a rich man,* said he incautiously. * YoiL are not rich, though you have done so,' said Gladys quickly, looking at him with her young, fearless eyes. ' I tliink papa was better oil" than you, because he could always be in the country, and not here.' The undisguised contempt on the girl's face as she took in her surroundings rather nettled the old man, and he ^nve her a snappish answer, then picked him- self up, and went off to his warehouse. Next day Gla', I'm going home.* Liz Voked up, with annoyance, at the clock. * It's too bad ; aichteenpence awa' for naething, but I suppose we maun gang. I've to leave mysel', onyway, at nine. Ye'll bide. Teen, yersel' ? ' *No' me. There's no' nmch th3 nicht, onyway,* pnswered Teen ; and her weird black eyes wandered restlessly through the hall, as if looking in vain for an absent face. So the three quitted the place in less than half an hour after they had entered it. One of the audience watched their movements, and left the hall immediately behind them by another door. As they moved along the busy street some one touched Liz on the shoulder, and Gladys felt her hand tremble as it lay on her arm. ' I maun say guid-nicht here, Gladys,' she said hurriedly, and her cheeks were aflame. ' I'm vexed ye didna like the play. I meant it weel. Ye'll see her hame. Teen ? ' * Ay,* answered Teen, and next moment Liz was gone. Gladys, glancing back, saw her cross the street beside a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome-looking man, though she could not see his face. * That's her beau,* said Teen, with a nod. * He's a swell; that's what for she has her best claes on. They're awa' for a walk noo. He was in the hall, but I didna see him.* EDGED TOOLS. 75 * Is she going to be married to him ? ' inquired Gladvs, vvitli interest. 'She hojjes sae ; but — but — I wad n a like to p A( er by it. He's a shppery customer, an' aye was. I nen 51 lassie in Dennistoun he carried on as far as Liz, but I'm no' feared for Liz. She can watch hersel'.* A strange feehng of weariness and vague terror came over Gladys. Day by day more of life was revealed to her, and added to her great perplexity. She did not like the phase with which sh«^ had that night made acquaintance. Conversation u. i )t flourish between them, and they were glad to )art t the corner of the Lane. Gladys ran up to '" "^ \ouse, feeling almost as if somebody pursued her, ant si e was out of breath when she reached the d r. Walter had returned from his first evening lesson, and great had been his disappointment to find Gladys out. He was quick to note, when she entered the kitchen, certain signs of nervous excitement, which made him wonder where she had been. ' It's nearly half-past nine,' said the old man crossly ; ' too late for you to be in the streets. Get to bed now, and be up to work in the morning.' ' Yes, uncle,' said Gladys meekly, and retired to her own room thankfully, to lay off her bonnet and cloak. Walter hung about by the dying fire after the old man went up to take his nightly survey of the premises, and at last Gladys came back. * Did you have a good lesson, Walter ? ' she asked, with a slight smile. ' Oh, splendid. What a thing it is to learn ! I feel as if I could do anything now I have begun,* he cried enthusiastically. * Mr. Kobertson was so kind. He will give me Euclid as well for the same money. He says ¥ 1 1 I i ! i i i 76 THE GUINEA STAMP. he sees I am in earnest. Life is a fine thing after all, sometimes.' * Yes.' Gladys looked upon his face, flushed witli the fine enthusiasm of youth, with a slight feeling of envy. She felt very old and tired and sad. * And you've been out with Liz ? ' he said then, see- ing that for some unexplained reason slie was not so interested as usual in his pursuits. * Wliere did she take you ? ' *To a music hall — not a nice place, Walter,' said Gladys almost shamefacedly. His colour, the flush of quick anger, leaped in his cheek. ' A music hall ! I should just say it isn't a nice place. How dared she ? I see Liz needs me to talk to her plainly, and I will next time I see her,' he began hotly ; but just then the old man returned, and tliey kept silence. But the evening's * ploy ' disturbed them both all night, though in a different way. CIIArTKU IX. AN IMPENDING CHANGEi T was an uneventful year. Spring succeeded the fogs and frosts of winter, sunny skies and warmer airs came again, bringing comfort to tliose who could buy artificial heat, so making gladness in cities, and a wonder of loveliness in country places, where Nature ivigns supreme. The hardy flowers Gladys planted in the little yard grew and blossomed ; the solitary tree, in spite of its loneliness, put forth its fresh green buds, and made itself a thing of beauty in the maiden's eyes. In that lonely home the tide of life flowed evenly. The old man made his bargains, cutting them perhaps a tritle less keenly than in former years. The lad, approaching young manhood, did his daily work, and drank yet deeper of the waters of knowledge, becoming day by day more conscious of his power, more full of hope and higli ambition for the future. And the child Gladys, approaching womanhood also, contentedly performed her lowly tasks, and dreamed her dreams likewise, sometimes wondering vaguely how long this monotonous, grey stream would How on, yet not wishing it dist':irbed, lest greater ills than she knew might beset her way. Again winter came, and just when spring was gtilier- '77 II . 1 1 78 THE (WIMIA STAMP. irig up her sldrts to spread tliem boni,L,'nly over the eartli, a ^rcat chango came, a very groat change imlecd. It V7as a Marcli day — cold, bitter, blustering east winds tearing througli the streets, catching the breath with a touch of ice — when the old man, who to the observant eye had become of late decrepit and very frail- looking, came shivering down from his warehouse, and, creeping to the tire, tried to warm his chilled body, saying he felt himself very ill. ' I think you should go to bed, uncle, and Walter will go for tlie doctor,' said Gladys, in concern. ' Shall I call him now V ' ' No ; I'll go to bed, and you can give me some toddy. There's my keys ; you'll get the bottle on the top shelf of the press in the oilice. I won't send for the doctor yet. You can't get them out when once they get a foot in, and their fees are scandalous. No, I'll have no doctors here.* Gladys knew very well that it was useless to dispute his decision, and, taking his keys, ran lightly up-stairs to the wareliouse. * I am afraid Uncle Abel is quite ill, Walter,' she said, as she unlocked the cupboard. ' He shivers very much, and looks so strangely. Do you not think we should have the doctor ? ' ' Yes ; but he won't have him. I think he looks very bad. He's been bad for days, and his cough is awful, but he won't give in.' * If he is not better to-morrow, you will just go for the doctor yourself, Walter. After he is here, uncle can't say much,' said Gladys thoughtfully. ' I will do what I can for him to-day. I am afraid he looks very like papa. I don't like his eyes.' She took the bottle down, and retired again, with a AN IMl'I'lShlNO CHANGE. 79 iiofi and a sniili; — tlu; only inspiration known to the vsoul of Wallur. It was not of the old man ho thought as li(^ husii'd himsL'lt' among the goods, but of the fair girl who had eomc to him in his desolation as a revelation of everything lovely and of good report. Tiie hot fumes of the toddy sent the old man off into a heavy sleep, during which he got a respite from his nicking cough. It was late afternoon when he awoke, and (lladys was sitting by the fire in the fading light, idle, for a wonder, though he/ work lay on her lap. It was too dark for her to see, and she feared to move lest she should awaken the sleeper. He was awake, however, some time before she was aware, and he lay looking at her intently, his face betokening thought of the most .serious kind. She was startled at length by his utter- ance of her name. ' Yes, uncle, you have had a fine sleep, so many hours. See, it is almost d. ia, and Walter will be down presently,' she said brightly. 'Are you ready for tea now ? ' She came to his bed-side, and looked down upon him as tenderly as if he had been the dearest being to her on earth. xou are a good girl, a good girl,' he said quickly, — ' the best girl in the whole world.' Her face flushed with pleasure at this rare praise. ' I am very glad, uncle, if you think so,' she said gently. ' And now, what can the best girl in the world do to keep up her reputation ? Is the pain gone ? ' ' Almost ; it is not so bad, anyhow. Do you think I'm dying, Gladys ? ' She gave a quick start, and her cheek Manrhed sliglitly at this sudden question. ' Oh no. Why do you ask tuch a tiling, uncle ? I '! I I 80 THE GUINEA STAMP. You have only got a very bad cold — a chill caught in that cold place up there. I wonder you have escaped so long.* 'Ay, it is rather cold. Tve been often chilled to the bone, and I've seen Walter's fingers blue with cold,' he said. ' You'll run up soon and tell him to haul all the soap-boxes out of the fireplace, and build up a big fire to be ready for the morning, lighted tlie first thing.' * Very well, uncle ; but I don't think I'll let you up-stairs to-morrow.' 'It's for Walter, not for me. If I'm better, I've something else to do to-morrow.' ' W ell, we'll see,' said Gladys briskly. ' Now I must set on the kettle. Wouldn't you like something for tea ? ' ' No, nothing. I've no hunger,' he answered, and his eyes followed her as she crossed the floor and busied herself with her accustomed skill about the fireplace. ' You're an industrious creature. Nothing comes amiss to you,' he said musingly. ' It's a poor life for a young woman like you. I wonder you've stood it so long ? * ' It has been a very good life on the whole, uncle,' Gladys replied cheerfully. ' I have had a great many blessings ; I never go out but I feel how many. And I have always tried to be contented.' ' Have you never been very angry with me,' he asked unexpectedly. ' No, never ; but ' — ' But what ? ' ' Sorry for you often.' ' Why ? ' ' Because you did not take all the good of life you might.' ' How could I ? A poor man can't revel in the AN IMP E.\ DING CHANGE. 61 (rood things of life/ he said, with a slight touch of iiTJtation. ' No, quite true ; but some poor people seem to make more out of sinali things. That was what I meant,' said Gladys meekly. ' But we must not talk anything disagreeable, nncle ; it is not good for you.' ' But I want to talk. I say, were you disappointed because I never took you into Ayrshire in the suHHuer ? ' ' Yes, uncle, a little, but it soon pnssed. When summer comes aj^ain, you will take me, 1 am sure.' ' You will go, anyhow, whether I do or not,' he said pointedly. ' Will you tell me, child, what you think of Walter ? ' ' Of Walter, uncle ? ' Gladys paused, with her hand on the cupboard door, and looked back at him with a slightly pnzzled air. ' Yes. Do you think him a clever chap ? ' ' I do. I think he can do anything, Uncle Abel,' she replied warmly. 'Yes, Walter is very clever.' ' And good ? ' ' And good. You and I know that there are few like him,' was her immediate reply. ' And you like him ? ' ' Of course I do ; it would be very strange if I did not,' she replied, without embarrassment. * Do you think he would be capable of filling a much higher post than he has at present ? ' ' Of course I do ; and if you will not be angry, I will say that I have often thought that you do not pay him enough of money.' * There's nothing like going through the hards in jouth. It won't do him any harm,' siiid the old man. * He won't suffer by it, I promise ycui that,' i\ I i 82 THE GUINEA STAMP, * Perhaps not ; but when he has educated liiniself, — which won't be long now, Uncle Abel, he is getting on so fast, — he will not stay liere. We could not expect it.' * Why not, if there's money in it ? ' * Is there money in it ? ' A shrewd little smile wreathed her lips, and her whole manner indicated that her sense of humour was touched. ' There's money in most things if they are attended to,' he said, with his usual evasiveness ; ' and a young, strong man can work up a small thing into a paying concern if he watches liis opportunity.' * Money is not everything,' Gladys repHed, as she began to spread the cloth, ' but it can do a great deal.' ' Ay, you are right, my girl ; this is a poor world to live in without it. Suppose you were a rich woman, what would you do with your money ? ' ' Help people who have none ; it is the only use money is for.' ' Now you speak out of ignorance,' said the old man severely. * Don't you know that there's a kind of people — Walter's parents, for instance — whom it is not only useless, but criminal, to help with money ? Just think of the poor lad's case, He has only had a small wage, certainly ; but if it had been three times bigger it would have been the same thing.' Gladys knit her brows perplexedly. ' It is hard, uncle, certainly. The plan would be, to help them in a difi'erent way.' * But how ? There are plenty rich and silly women in Glasgow who are systematically fleeced by the undeserving poor — people who have no eartlily business to be poor, who have hands and heads wliicn can give them a competence, only they are moral idiots. No GIjkji when sight tc his con she ran was le sat up import 'Ho^ Vou arc fipph'ca 'It's getting 'Old 'How AN IMPENDING CHANGE. 83 to rive No wcman should be allowed full use of large sums of UKiuey. She is so soft-hearted, she can't say no, and she's inipos^id on half the time.' * You are very hard on women, Uncle Abel,' vsaid fUadys, still amused with his enthusiasm. She had no fear of him. Although there was not much in common between them, there was a kind of quiet understanding, and they had many discussions of the kind. ' I would rather be poor always, Uncle Abel, if I were not allowed to spend as I wished, I should just have to learn to be pruden. and careful by experience.* ' Ay, by experience, which would land you in the poorhouse. Have you no desire for the things otiier women like — fine clothes, trinkets, and such-like ? ' ' I don't know, uncle, because I have never had any,' said (iladys, with a little laugh. ' I daresay I should like them very well.' The old man gave a grunt, and turned on his pillow, as if tired of talk. Gladys busied herself with the evening meal, and when it was ready called Walter down. It was a pretty sight to see her waiting on the old man, attending to his comforts, and coaxing him to eat. In the evening she ran out to get some medicine for him, and when he was left with Walter, busy at his books at the table, he sut up suddenly, as if he had something interesting and important to say. ' How are you getting on with your learning, Wat ? You are pretty constant at it. If there's anything in application, you should succeed.' * It's pretty tough work, though, when a fellow's getting older.' ' Older,' repeated the old man, with a quiet chuckle. * How old are you ? ' \\ ii III H 84 THE GUINEA STAMP, * Nineteen.* ' Nineteen, are you ? Well, you look it. You've vap*"ly improved of late. I suppose you think yourself rather an ill-used sort of person — ill used oy me, I mean ? ' * I don't think you pay me enough, if you mean that,' said Walter, with a little laugh ; ' but I'm going to ask a rise.' ' Why have you stayed here so long, if that is your mind ? Nobody wis compelling you.' ' No ; but I've got used to the place, and I like it,' returned Walter frankly ; but he bent his eyes on his books, as if there v^as something more behind his words which he did not care should be revealed. * I see — it's each man for himself in this world, and deil tak' the hindmost, as they say ; but I don't think you'll be hindmost. Suppose, now, you were to find yourself the boss of this concern, what would you do ? ' * Carry it on as best I could, sir,' answered Walter, in surprise. ' Ay, biit how ' T suppose you think you'd reorganise it all ? ' said J-^ M man rather sarcastically. * Well, 1 V ouiu,' admitted Walter frankly. * In what way ? Just tell me how you'd do it ? * ' Well, I'd be off, somehow or other, with all these old debts, sir, and then I'd begin a new business on different principles. I couldn't stand so much carrying over of old scores to new accounts, if I were on my own hook. You never know where you are, and it's cruel to the poor wretches who are always owing ; they can't have any independence. Its a poor way of doing business.' ' Oh, indeed ! You are not afraid to speak your mind, my young bantam. And pray, where did you pick up all these high and mighty notions ? ' AN IMPENDING CHANGE. 85 'They may be high and miglity, sir, but they're coninion-sense,' responded Walter, without perturbation. ' You know yourself how you've been worried to death almost, and what a watching these slippery customers need. It is not worth the trouble.' ' Is it not ? Pray, how do you know that ? ' inquired the old man, his eyes glittering as he asked the question. ' I don't know, of course, but you always say you are a poor man,' replied Walter, a^s he put down the figures of a sum on his slate. 'But you don't believe it, f^^ ? Perhaps that's why you've stuck to me like a Veech so long,' he said, with his most disagreeable smile , hut Walter never answered. They had been together now ftjr »)me years, and there was a curious sort of under'-nanniiiiier — ;- liking, even — between them ; and of late I'aiter nad taken several opportunities of «tpeakiug his i&uud wrtli i candour v/liich really pleased his strange old waffs^--, i ugl; he always appeared to be in a cate of v&&i:rsesKMm. ' The only thing I am anxioras aboir ih tlie gLi ' hf; muttered, more to himself than to the lad. ' Bi ' she'll find friends — more of them, perhaps, than she'ii wnnt, poor thing, poor thing ! ' These words gave Walter som hing of a shock, and he looked round in quick wondei .iient. But the return of Gladys just then prevented him asking the question trembling on his lips. CHAPTER X. IN AYUSIIIRE. [he olci man passed a quiet night, and was so much better in the morning that he insisted on getting up. * What kind of a morning is it ? ' was the first question he put to Gladys when she entered the xdtchen soon after six o'clock. * A lovely morning, uncle, so balmy and soft. You can't think what a difference from yesterdi-.y, and theio's a bird smging a spring song in my tree.' Often yet she said such things. The grey monotony of her life had not quite destroyed the poetic vein, nor the love of all things bea Uiful. ' Warm, is it ? Have you been out ? * * Not yet ; but I opened my window and put my head out, and the air was qu:te mild. A spring morn- ing, Uncle Abel, the first we have had this year.* * Any sun ? ' '* Eot; yet, but he will be up by and by. How have you slept ? * * Pretty well. I am better this morning — quite well, in fact, and directly you have the fire on I'll get up.' * Don't be rash, uncle. I really think you ought to stay in bed to-day.' 86 IN A YRSUIRE. 87 * No ; I have something to do. JIow soon can you be really — finished with your work, I mean ? Have you anything you can leave ready for Wat's dinner ? ' ' Wliy, Uncle Abel ? ' asked ( Jladys, in surprise. * Because I want you to go somewiiere with me.' ' You are not going out of this house one foo": to-day/ she answered quickly. ' It would be very dangerous.' The old man smiled, slightly amused, but not dis- pleased, by the decision with which she spoke. ' AVc'U see, if it keeps fine, and the sun comes oat. I'm going to-day, whatever the consequences, and you with me. It's been put off too long.' Gladys asked no more questions, but made haste to build up the fire and get him a cup of tea before he rose. ' Put on your warm clothes, and make ready for a journey in the train, Gladys,' he said after breakfast. She looked at him doubtfully, almost wondering if his mind did not wander a little. ' Uncle Abel, what are you thinking of ? You never go journeys in trains. It will not be safe for you to go to-day, with such a cold,' she exclaimed. •' I am going, my dear, as I said, and so are you, whatever the consequences, so get ready as fast as you like, so that we may have the best of the day.' ' Is it a far journey ? ' ' You'll see when you get there,' he replied rather shortly ; and Gladys, still wondering much, made haste with her work, and began to (huss for this unexpected ouLing. But she felt uneasy, and, stealing a moment, ran up to Walter, who was busy in the warehouse, and revelling in the unaccustomed luxury of a blazing fire. ' How nice it is, and what a diti'erence a fire can make, to be sure,' she said quickly. ' I say, Walter, fill 8d TJIE GUINEA STAMP, such a thing ! Uncle Abel is going a journey, — a rail- way journey, actually, — and I am going with him. Has he said anything to you ? Have you any idea what it means ? ' ' Not I. He's a queer old chap. Not off his head, I hope ? ' ' Oh no, and he says he is quite well. I don't know what to think. Perhaps I sliall understand it when I come back. You will find your dinner in the oven, Walter ; and be sure to keep up a good fire all day down-stairs, in case uncle should come back very cold and tired. I am afraid he will, but it is no use saying anything.' Walter leaned his elbows on the soap-boxes, and looked into the girl's face with a curious soberness. * Something's going to hapi)en, I feel it — something I don't like. I'm oppressed with an awful queer feeling. I hope they're not worse than usual at home.' ' Oh. no, you are letting your imagination run away with you,' she said brightly. * I hope you will have such a busy day you won't have time to think of such things ; ' and, bidding him good-morning, she ran down again to her uncle. Then, for the first time since that memorable and dreary journey from the fen country, these two, the old man and the maide:'Li, went forth together. Both thought of that journey, though it was not spoken of. She could not fail to see that there was a certain excitement in the old man ; it betrayed itself in his restless movements and in the gleam of his piercing eye. Gladys no longer feared the glance of his eye nor the sound of his voice. A quiet confidence had established itself between them, and she really loved Irm. It was impossible for her to dwell beside a ti IN AYliiSnlUE. 89 human being, not absolutely r('])ulsive, without pour- ing some of tlie riches of her allection upon him. As for him, Gladys herself had not the remotest idea how he regarded her, did not dream that she had awakened in his withered heart a slow and all-absorbing affection, the strength of which surprised himself. He bade her sttind back while he went to the booking-oftice for the tickets, and they were in tlie train before she repeated her question regarding their destination. ' I think it would only be fair, Uncle Abel, if you told me now where we arc going,' she said playfully. For answer, he held out the ticket to her, and in amazement she read ' Mauchline ' on it. The colour flushed all over her face, and she looked at him with eager, questioning eyes. ' Oh, Uncle Al)el, what does it mean ? Why are you going there to-day ? I cannot understand it.' * I have my reasons, Gladys. You will know them, perhaps, sooner than you think.* * Is it a long journey, uncle ? I am so afraid for you. Let me shut the window up quite. And are we really, really going into Ayrshire at last ? * She was full of excitement as a child. She sat close to the window, and when the train had left the city behind, looked out with eagerest interest on the wintry landscape. * Oh, Uncle Abel, it is so beautiful to see it, the wide country, and the si^y above it so clear and lovely. Oh, there is room to breathe ! ' * I am sure it looks wintry and bleak enough,' the old man answered, with a grunt. *I don't see much beauty in it myself.' ' How strange ! To me it is v? holly beautiful Is this Ayrshire yet ? Tell me when we come to Ayrshire.' \k \\ ' :! 90 TUK GVIXhlA STAMP. A slow smile was on the old man's facc^ as ho look(»(l and listened. He enjoyed her youn;^ (Mithusiusm, but; it seemed to aw.iken in him scnu^ sadder thouL,dit, for once he sif^hed hisivily, and drew himself to;^ether as if he felt cold, or some bitter memory smote him. In little more than an hour the train drew up at the quiet country station, and (Jladys was told they had reached their journey's end. It was a lovely spriufj morning; the sun shone out cheerfully from a mild, bright sky, the air was laden with the awakening odours of spring, and the spirit of life seemed to be everywhere. * Now, my girl, we have a great deal to do to-day,' said the old man, when they had crossed the footbridge. ' What do you want most to see here ? ' * Mossgiel and Ballochmyle, and the house where you lived in Mauchline.' ' We'll go to that first ; it's not a great sight, I warn you — only a whitewashed, thatched cottage in a by- street. When we've seen that, we'll take a trap and drive to the other places.' * But that will cost a great deal,' said Gladys doubt- fully, recalled for the moment to the small economies it was her daily lot to practise. ' Perhaps ; but we'll manage it, I daresay. It is impossible for us to walk, so there's no use saying another word. Give me your arm.' Gladys was ready in a moment. Never since the old fen days had she felt so happy, because the green earth was beneath her feet, the trees waving above her, the song of birds in her ears instead of the roar of city streets. They did not talk as they walked, until they turned into the quaint, wide street of the old-fashioned village ; then it was as if the cloak of his reserve fell IN A rnSlllRE. 91 from Al»(*l Gialiani, and he became cjnrrnlous as a boy over these (jld hiiuhniiiks which he hiul never forgotten. He led (Ihidys by way of Poosio Nanei IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT~3) 1.0 I.I Ui|2^ Hi ■u Ui 12.2 ~ 1 2-0 lU lU u <- .. 11.25 nil U 1^ '/] 0> /i % / 7 /A Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 33 west MAIN STREET WnSTER.N.Y. USSO (716) S73-4S03 '^ 92 THE GUL\KA STAMP. ' But tho saiiio family ? ' ' I suppose so — yes. I see you would like to explore this place ; but we can't, it's not the most cheerful occupation, anyliow. Come on, let us to the inn.* The lavish manner in which her uncle spent his money that day amazed Gladys, but she made no remark. Immediately after their hot and abundant dinner at the inn, they drove to the places ikirns has immortal- ised, and which Gladys had so long yearned to see. Ballochmyle, in lovely spring dress, so far exceeded her expectation that she had no words wherein to express her deep enjoyment. ' Do not let us hurry away, uncle,* she pleaded, as they wandered through the wooded glades, ' unless you are very tired. It is so warm and pleasant, and it cannot be very late.' ' It is not late, half-past two only ; but I want you to see Bourhill, where our forbears lived when we bad them worth mentioning,* he said grimly. 'Did your father never speak to you about Bourhill ? * ' No, never. Uncle Abel. I am quite sure I never heard the name until I read it to-day in the churchyard.* ' I will cell you why. He had a dream — a foolish one it proved — a dream that he might one day restore the name Graham of Bourhill again. He hoped to make a fortune by his pictures, but it was a vain delusion.* A shadow clouded the bright face of Gladys as she listened to these words. ' This place, Bourhill, is it an estate, or what ? * she asked. * Not now. A hundred years ago it had some farms, and was a fair enough patrimony, but it's all squandered long syne' 'How?' IN A YliSIlIRE. 98 ' Oh, drinlc and gambling, and such-like. My grand- fatl'cr, David Graham, kent the taste of Poosie Nanciu's whisky too well to look after his ain, and it slipped through his fingers like a knotless thread.' He had become even more garrulous, and unearthed from the storehouse of his memory a wealth of remin- iscences of those old times, mingled with many bits of personal history, which Gladys Hastened to with breath- less interest. She had never seen him so awakened, so full of life and vigour ; she could only look at him in amazement. They dr ve leisurely through the pleasant spring sunshine over the wide, beautiful country, past fields where the wheat was green and strong, and others where sowing was progressing merrily — sights and sounds dear to Gladys, who had no part nor lot in cities. ' Oh, Uncle Abel, Ayrshire is lovely. Look at these low green hills in the distance, and the woods every- where. I do not wonder that Burns could write poetry licre. There is poetry everywhere.* ' Ay, to your eyes, because you are young and know no better. Look, away over yonder, as far as your eyes can see, is the sea. If it was a little clearer you would see the ships in Ayr Harbour ; and down there lies Tarbolton ; away over there, the way we have con?e, Kilmarnock. And do you see that little wooded hill about two miles alioad to the left ? Among these trees lies Bourhill.' 'It is a long drive to it, Uncle Abel. I hope it has not tired you very much ? * ' No, no ; I'm all right. We'll drive up the avenue to the liouse and back. I want you to see it.* ' Does nobody live in it ? ' ' Not ^just now.' i(j ■ii 94 THE GUINEA STAMI'. Another fifteen minutes brought them to an unpre- tending iron gateway, wliich gave entrance to an avenue of fine old trees. The gate stood open, and though a woman ran out from the lodge when tlic trap passed, slie made no demur. The avenue was nearly half a mile in length, and ended in a sharp curve, which brought them quite suddenly before the house — a plain, square, substantial family dwelling, with a pillared doorway and long wide windows, about which crept ivy of a century's giowili. It was all shut up, and the gravel sweep before the door was overgrown witli moss and weeds, the grass on the lawns, which stretched away through the shrubberies, long and rank ; yet tliere was a homely look about it too, as if a slight touch could convert it into a happy home. 'This is Bourhill, my girl ; and whatever ambitious your father may have had in later years, it was once his one desire to buy it back to the Grahams. Do you like the place ? ' * Yes, uncle ; but it is very desolate — it makes me sad.' ' It will not be long so,' he said ; and, drawing him- self together with a quick shiver, he bade the driver turn the horses' heads. But before the house vanished quite from view he cast his gaze back upon it, and in his eye there was a strange, even a yearning glance. ' It will not be long so,' he repeated under his breath, — ' not long ; and it will be a great atonement* Iff CHAPTER Xr. DAUKENING DAYS. N the night Gladys was awakened by her uncle's voice sharply calling her name, and when she hastened to him she found him in great pain, and breathing with the utmost dilliculty. Her presence of mind did not desert her. She had often seen her father in a similar state, and knew exactly what to do. In a few minutes she had a blazing fire, and the kettle on ; then she ran to awaken Walter, so that he might TO for the doctor. The simple remedies experience had taught the girl considerably eased the old man, and when the doctor came he found him breathing more freely, l^ut his face was quite grave after his examination was made. ' 1 suppose my hour's come ? ' said Abel Grahrm in a matter-of-fact way. ' I don't think much of your fraternity, — I've never had many dealings with you, — but I suppose you can tell a man what he generally knows himself, that he'll soon be in grips with death ? * The doctor looked at him with an odd smile. He was a young man, fighting his way up against fierce competition — an honest, straightforward fellow, who knew and loved his work. v^ 96 THE GUINEA STAMP, 'You don't think higlily of us, Mr. Graham, but I daresay we have our uses. This young hidy apjioars to be an accomplished nurse; slie has done the very best possible under the circumstances.' He turned to Gladys, not seeking to hide his surprise at finding such a fair young creature amid such sur- roundings. Walter Hepburn, standing in the back- ground, experienced a strange sensation when he saw that look. Though he knew it not, it was his first jealous pang. ' I had to nurse my father often in such attacks/ Gladys answered, with her quiet, dignified calm. * If there is anything more I can do, pray tell me, and I will follow your instructions faithfully.' ' There is not much we can do in such a case. I never heard anything so foolhardy as to go oft', as you say he did yesterday, driving through the open country for hours on a March day. I don't think a man who takes such liberties with himself can expect to escape the penalty, Mr. Graham.' 'Well, well, it doesn't matter. If my i>our's come, it's come, I suppose, and that's the end of it,' he retorted irritably. ' How long will I last ? ' 'Years, perhaps, with care — niter this attack is con- quered,' replied the doctor ; and the old man answered with a grim, sardonic smile. ' We'll see whether you or I am right,' he replied. ' You needn't stay any longer just now.' Gladys took the candle, and herself showed the doctor to the outer door. ' Will he really reco\'er, do you think ? ' she asked, when they were out of hearing. * He may, but only with care. The lungs are much congested, and his reserve of stren^^th is small. i DA RKEMSa DA VS. 07 What relation is he to you, may I ask ? Your grand- father ? ' ' No ; my uncle ? ' • And do you live here always V 'Yes, this is my home,* (lladys answered, and she could scarcely forb(?ar a smile at the expression on the yonn^ doctor's face. ' Indeed ! and you are contented ? You seem so,* he said, lingering at the door a moment longer th;in he need have done. ' Oh yes ; I have a great deal to be thankful for,' she answered. ' You will come again to-moiiow early, will you not ? * ' Certainly. Good-morning. Take care of yourself. You do not look as if your reserve of strength were very great either.' ' Oh, I am very strong, I assure you,' (Jladys answered, with a smile ; and as slic lookt'd into his open, honest face, she could not help thinking what a pleasant face it was. Then she went back to keep her vigil by the sick- bed, and to exercise her woman's prerogative to ease and Uiinister to pain. There was so little any one could do now, however, to help Abel Graham, the issue of his ease being in the hand of God. In obedience to the request of Gladys, Walter went back to bed. and she sat on by the fire, thoroughly awake, and watchful to be of the slightest use to her uncle. He did not talk mueli, but he appeared to watch Gladys, and to be full of thoughts concerning her. ' Do you remember that night I came, after your father died ? ' he asked once. 'Yes/ she answered in a low voice. *I remember it well* G f i'!ll 98 THE GUIXI'IA STAMP. 'You felt l)iuer and hard aj^aiiist nio, did you not?* ' If I did, Uncle AIk'1, it Ims lonj^ ])ass(Hl.' she answered. 'There is no good to be got recallin;^' what is past.' ' Perhaps not ; but, my girl, when a man conios to his dying bed it is the i)nst lie harks back on, trying to get some comfort out of it for the future he dreads, and failing always.* 'It is not your dying bed, TTnolo Abel, I hope; you are not so old yet,' she said cheei fully. 'No, I'm not old in years — not sixty — but old enough to regret my youth,' he said. 'Are you still of the .same mind about the s))ending of money, if you should ever have it to spend \ ' ' Yes; but it is so unlikely, Uncle \i,' \ that I shall ever have any nioney to spend. It is i' Jii easy saying what we can do in imaginary rircumsiances. Reality is always different, and more dillicult to deal with.* ' You are very wise for your years. How many are they ? ' ' Seventeen and three months.* ' Ay, well, you look your age and more. You'd pass for twenty, but no wonder ; and * — * I wish you would not talk so much, uncle ; it will excite and exhaust you,' she said, in gentle remon- strance. ' I must talk, if my time is short. Suppose I'm taken, what will you do with yourself, eh ? * ' The way will open up for me, I do not doubt ; there must be a corner for me somewhere,' she said bravely ; nevertheless, her young cheek blanched, and she shivered slightly as she glanced round the place — poor enough, perhaps, but which at least afforded her a peaceful and comfortable borne. These signs were not DA RKENINQ DA YS, 99 unnoticed by tlio dyinj? man, nnd a fnint, slow, nu'liin- chdly smile <,Mthert'(l about bis ba*;^anl moutb. ' Von lit'lieve, I suppose, tbat tbe Lord will provide for you ? ' be said grimly. 'Ves. I do.' 'Does lie never fail, eb ?' •Never. He does not always provide ju'^t as we expect or desire, but provision is made all tbe same,' answered tbe girl, and ber eyes sbone witb a steadfast li^lit. ' It's a very comfortable doctrine, but not practicable, \u'V, to my tbinking, bonest. Do you mean to say tbat ii is rigbt to sit down witb folded bands wailing for the Lord to provide, and living oli' oU'cr people at tbe same time ? * (iladys smiled. ' No, tbat is not rigbt, but wrong, very wrong, and punisbment always follows. Heaven belps tbose wbo helj) tbemselves ; don't you remember tbat ? ' ' Ay, well, I don't understand your tbeology, I con- fess. But we may as well tbink it out. "What do you suppose will become of me after I sbufllc ofl', eb ? ' ' I don't know, uncle. You best know what your own hope is,' she replied. ' I have no hope, and I don't see mys(df bow any- body can presume to bave any. It's all conjecture about a future life. How does anybody know ? No- body has ever come back to tell tbe tale.' * No ; but we know, all tbe same, tbat tbere are many niiinsions in heaven, and that God has prepared them for His children.' ' You would not call me one of them, I guess ? ' said the old man, witb a touch of sarcasm, yet there was something behind — a great wistfulness, a consuming W\ (■■ \W M' iff* 100 77/ a; a VIM': a stamp. anxioty, which ht'traycd itself m his very eye, as he awaited her rei»ly. It was a curious moment, a curious scene. The old, toilworu, worUl-weary man, who had spent his days in the most sordid pursuit of gold — gold for whieli he would at one time almost have sold his soul, hanging on the words of a youn^', untried nuiiden, wliose purity enabhd her to toucii the very gates of heaven. It was a sight to make the philosopher l)()nder anew on the mysteries of life, and the strange anomalies human nature presents. She turned her sweet face to him, and there was a mixture of pathos and brightness in her glance. ' Why not, uncle ? I may not judge. It is God who knows the heart.* ' Ay, maybe. But what would you think yourself ? You have shrewd enough eyes, though you are so quiet' ' But I cannot know this, uncle ; only if you believe that Christ died for you, you are one of God's children, though ' — she added, with a slight hesitation — ' you may not have served Him very well.' ' Then you think I have not served Him, eh ? ' he repeated, with strange persistence. ' Perha])s you might have done more, uncle. If you get better you will do more for others, I feel sure,* she said. ' But now you must be still and keep quiet. I shall not talk another word to you, positively not a word.* ' Ay,' he said dryly, and, turning on his pillow, closed his eyes — not to sleep, oh no, brain and heart were too full of conflicting and disturbing thought. In the dull hours of the early morning Gladys dozed a little in her chair, imagining the sick man slept. When the light grew broader she roused her- self, and began to move about with swift but noiselesa m DAHKENISG DAYS. 101 fll steps, fcnriiig to awake liiiii. l»Mt Iiu did not slcc]). \.y\\v* there, witli liis face turned to the wall, Alud (lr;diniii held counsel with himself, reviewini,' his life, which lay before liim like a tale tliat is told. None knew better tlian he what a ])oor, mean, sordid, selfisli life it had been, how littlt; it had contributed to the L,'ood or the happiness of olliers, and tliese memories tortured him now with the stings of the bitterest rcf^ret. It was not known to any save himself and his Maker what agony his awakened soul passed through in the still hours of that spring day. Seeing him lie appar- ently in such restfulness, the two young creatures spoke to each other at their breakfast only in whispers, and when Walter went up to the warehouse, (lladys con- tinued to perform her slight tasks as gently and noise- lessly as possible; but sometimes, when she looked at the face on the pillow, with its closed eyes and pinched, wan features, she wished the doctor would come again. About half-past nine a knock came to the door, and (Jladys ran out almost joyfully, expecting to see the young physician with the honest face and the pleasant eyes, but a very different-looking personage was pre- sented to her view when she opened the door. A man in shabby workman's garb, dirty, greasy, and untidy — a man with a degraded type of countenance, a ln'avy, coarse mouth, and small eyes looking out sus- picious:/ from heavy brows. She shrank away a little, and almost unconsciously began to close the door, even while she civilly inquired his business. ' Is Wat in ? I want to see my son, Walter Hepburn,' he said ; and when he opened his mouth Gladys felt the smell of drink, and it filled her with both mental and physical repulsion. So this was Walter's father ? Poor Walter ! A vast compassion, Hb 102 Tin: a U I SEA STAMP. j^reatur tlmii nny luisery 8he had before expcricnccfl, lilltMl the <,'iir.s ^(!i»tUi soul. * Yes, liij is in, up-slairs in tlie wareliouse. Will you come in, please ? ' she asked ; but before the invitation could be accepted, Wat came boundinj^ down the stairs, having heard and recoj,'nised the voice, and there was no welcoming,' li^'ht in his eye as lie «,'azcd on his father's face. ' Well, what do you want ? ' he asked abruptly ; and Gladys, slippin;^' back hastily, left them alone. And after she had returned to the kitchen she heard the hum of their voices in earnest talk for quite five minutes. Then the door was closed, and she heard Walter returning to his work. It appeared to her as if his step sounded very heavy and reluctant as it ascended the stair. Presently her uncle roused himself up, and asked for something to eat or drink. * Are you feeling better ? * she asked, as she shook up his pillows, and did other little things to nake him comfortable. ' No ; there's a load lying here,' he answered, touching his chest, ' which presses down to the grave. If they can't do something to remove that, I'm a dead man. No word of that young upstart doctor yet ? * ' Not yet. Shall I send for him, uncle ? ' ' No, no ; he'll come sure enough, and fast enough — oftener than he's wanted,' he answered. * Who was that at the door ? ' * Walter's father.' •Eh? Walter's father? What did he want? Is he smelling round too, to see if he can get anything ? ' he said querulously. 'When you've gi^'pn me that tea, I wish you to take my keys from my coat pocket hA IlKhlSISd hA rs. lo.l and go up to the safe. When you've oponod it, you'll find an old pncki't-book, tied with a red string. I want you to hring it down to me.' ' Very well.' (iladys did exactly as .she was bid, and, leaving the old man at his slender breakfast, ran up to the ware- house. To her surprise, she found Walter, usually so active anil so energetic, sitting on the oilice stool with his arms folded, and his face wearing a l«)ok of dci'pest gloom. Some new trouble had come to him, that was apparent to her at once. ' Why, Walter, how troubled you lool«l No bad news from home, I ho|)e ? ' ' Bad enough,' he answered in a kind of savage undertone. ' I knew something was going to happen. Haven't I been saying it for days ? ' ' But what has happened ? Nothing very bad, I hope ? ' ' So bad that it couldn't be worse,' he said. ' Liz has run away/ 'n ', I m. CHA1TI<:U XTT. SETTING HIS HOUSE IN OUDER '*1!- f'ili^f'' 11 I Wliere ? I don't LADYS opened her eyes. ' Run away ! How ? understand.' 'All the better if you don't,' he answered harshly. ' She's run away, any- how, and it's their blame. Then they come to me, after the mischiefs done, thinking I can make it right. I'm not going to stir a foot in the matter. They can all go to Land's End for me.' He spoke bitterly — more bitterly than Gladys had ever beard him speak before. She stood there, with the keys on her forefinger, the picture of perplexity and concern. She did not understand the situation, and was filled with curiosity to know where Liz had run to. ' Have they quarrelled, or what ? ' she asked. ' No ; 1 don't suppose there's been any more than the usual amount of scrimmaging,' he said, with a hard smile. * I don't blame Liz ; she's only what they've made her. I'll tell you what it is/ he said, suddenly clenching his right hand, his young face set with the bitterness of his grief and shame, 'if there's no punishment for those that bring children into the world and then let 104 SETTING HIS HOUSE IN ORDER. 105 them go to ruin, there's no justice in heaven, and I don't bfcdieve in it.' Gladys slirank back, paling slightly under this torrent of passionate words. Never had she seen Walter so bitterly, so fearfully moved. He got up from his stool, and paced up and down the narrow space between the boxes in a very storm of indignation ; and it seemed to Gladys that a few minutes had changed him from a boy into a man. ' Dear Walter,' she said gently, ' try to be brave. Perhaps it will not be so bad as you think.' ' It's so bad for Liz, poor thing, that it won't be any worse. She's lost, and she was the only one of them I cared for. If she'd had a chance, she'd have been a .splendid woman. She has a good heart, only she never had fuiybody to guide her.' Gladys could not speak. She had only the vaguest idea what he meant, but she knew that something terrible had happened to Liz. A curious reticence seemed to bind her tongue. She could not ask a single question. ' Just when a fellow was beginning to get on ! ' cried Walter rebelliously, ' this has to happen to throw him back. It was a fearful mistake trying to better myself. I wish I had sunk down into the mud with the rest. If I do it yet, it will be the best thing lor me.' Then Gladys intervened. Though she did not quite compiehend the nature of this new trouble which appeared so powerfully to move him, she could not listen to such words without remonstrance. ' It is not right to speak so, Walter, and I will not listen to it. Whatever others may do, though it njay grieve and cut you to the heart, it cannot take away your honour or integrity, always remember that.' ;i i ; 1 • ! I 106 THE aUL\EA UTAMR ' Yes, it can,' he said impetuously. * That kind of dis^;race hangs on a man all his days. He has to bear the sins of others. That is where the injustice comes in. The innocent must suffer for and with the guilty always. There is no escape.' Gladys sighed, and her face became pale and weary- looking. Never had life appeared so hard, so full of pain and care. I^ooking at the face of Walter, which she had always thought so noble and so good, — the index to a soul striving, though sometimes but feebly, yet striving always after what was highest and best, — look- ing at his face then, and seeing it so shadowed by the bitterness of his lot, her own simpie faith for the Uionient seerned to fail. ' You saw him, then, this morning, and I hope you admired him,' said Walter, witli harsh scorn. ' Peek- ing with drink, speaking thick through it at ten o'clock in the morning ! "What chunce lias a fellow with a father like that ? Ten to one, I go over to drink myself one of these days. Well, I might do worse. It drowns care, they say, and I know it destroys feelings, which, from my experience, seem only given for our torture.' Gladys gave a sob, and turned aside to the safe. That sound recalled Walter to himself, and in a moment his mood changed. His eyes melted into tenderness as he looked upon the pale, slight girl, whom his words in some sad way had wounded. * Forgive me. 1 don't know what I am saying ; but I had no right to vex you, the only angel I know in this whole city of Glasgow.* His extravagant speech provoked a smile on her face, and she turned her head from where she knelt before the safe, and Tfted her large earnest eyes to liis. SETTING niS noUHE Ji\ OliDKll. 107 !• i ' How you talk ! You must learn to control your- self a little 'iiore. It is self-control that makes a man,' she said (juietly. ' I do not know how to com- fort you, Walter, in this trouble, which seems so much heavier than even I think ; but in the end it will be for good. Everything is, you know, to them that love God.* She was so familiar with Scripture, and de})ended so entirely on it for comfort and strength, that her words carried conviction with them. They fell on the riven heart of Walter like balm, and restored a measure of peace to it. Before he could make any answer, a quick knocking, and the uplifting of the feeble voice from below, indicated that the old man was impatient of the girl's delay. She hastily lifted the pocket-book, relocked the sate door, and, with a nod to Walter, ran down-stairs. ' Wliat kept you so long chattering up-stairs ? ' queried the old man, with all the peevishness of a sick person. ' You don't care a penny-piece, either of you, though I died this very moment.' * Oh, Uncle Abel, hold" your tongue ; you know that is not true,' slie said quickly. ' Walter is in great trouble this morning. Something has happened to his sisk'i'.' ' Ay, what is it, eh ? * ' I don't know exactly, but she has left home.' ' Ay, ay, I'm not surprised ; she was a bold hussy, and had no respect for anything in this world. And is Walter taking on badly ? ' * Very badly. I never saw him so distressed.' ' Well, it's hard on a chap trying to do well. It's a hopeless case trying to fly out of an ill nest.' ' Uncle Abel, you must not say that. Nothing is ff 108 THE GUINEA STAMP. hopeless, if only wo are on the right side,* srtid Gladys stoutly, thoiigli inwardly her heart re-echoed sadly tliat dark creed. ' Well, well, you're young, and notliing seems im- possible,' he said good-naturedly. * Here, take off tliis string. My fingers are as feckless as a thread.' Gladys opened the pocket-book, which was stuffed full of old papers. The old man fingered them lovingly and with careful touch, until he found the one he sought. It was a somewhat long document, written on blue, official-looking paper, and attested by several seals. He read it from beginning to end with close attention, and gave a grunt «i satisfaction when he laid it down. ' Is Wat busy ? ' he asked then. ' He has not much heart for his work to-day, uncle.' ' Cry him down ; I've a message for him. Or, stop, you'd better go yourself, in case anybody comes to the warehouse. Do you know St. Vincent Street ? * ' Yes, uncle.' * You don't know Fordyce & Fordyce, the lawyers' oifice, do you ? ' ' No, but I can find it' ' Very well ; go just now and ask for old Mr. Fordyce. If he isn't in, just come back.' * And what am I to say to him ? ' ' Tell him to come here just as soon as ever he can. I want to see him, and there is not any time to lose.' The girl's lip quivered. A strange feeling of ap- proaching desolation was with her, ai d her outlook was of the dreariest. If it were true, as the old man evidently believed, that his hour had come, she would again be friendless and solitary on the face of the earth. Abel Graham saw these signs of grief, and a curious SETTING HIS HOUSE IN ORDER. 109 softness visited his heart, though he could scarce believe one so fair and sweet could really care for him. Gladys made the utnioit haste to do her errand, and to her great satisfaction was told wlien she reached the large and well-appointed chambers of that influential firm, that Mr. Fordyce senior would attend to her in a moment. She stood in the outer olfice waiting, unconscious that she was the subject of remark and speculation among the clerks at their desks, still more unconscious that one day her name would be as familiar and respected among them as that of the governor himself. After the lapse of a few minutes the ofhce boy ushered her into the private room of Mr. Fordyce senior. He was a fine, benevolent-looking, elderly gentleman, with a rosy, happy face, silver hair and whiskers, and a keen but kindly blue eye. He appeared to be a very grand gentleman indeed in the eyes of Gladys. ' Well, my dear miss, what can I do for you, eh ? ' he asked, beaming at her over the g(^ld rims of his double eyeglass in a very reassuring way. ' Please, my uncle has sent me to ask you to come and see him at once, as he is very ill.* * And who is your uncle, my dear ? It will be necessary for you to tell me that,* he said, with the slightest suggestion of a twinkle in his eye. 'My uncle, Mr. Graham, who lives ii. Colquhouu Street.* ' Abel Graham ? Oh yes. Is he ill ? And, bless me, are you his niece ? * Never was surprise so genuinely felt or expressed as at that moment by Mr. Fordyce. ' Yes, I am his niece ; and, please, could you come 1^1'" no THE GUINEA STAMP. as soon as possible ? He is vyry ill. I am afraid he thinks he is dying.' The fill's voice trembled, and a tear fell like a dew- drop from her lone,' eyelashes. These thim,'S still more amazi'd the soul of Mr. Fordyce. That anybody should shed a tear for a being so sordid and unsociable as Abel Graham struck him as one of the extraordinary things he had met with in his career ; and to see this fair young creature, fitted by nature for a sphere and for companionship so different, sincerely grieving for the ohl man's distress, seemed the most extraordinary thing of all, IVIr. Fordyce rose, and, calling the boy, bade him bring a cab to the door, then he began to get into his greatcoat. * I'll drive you back, if you have nowhere else to go. So you are his niece i AVell, there's more sense and shrewdness in the old man than I gave him crecHt for.' These remarks were, of course, quite enigmatical to Gladys ; but she felt cheered and comforted by the strong, kindly presence of the genial old lawyer. As for him, he regarded her with a mixture of lively interest, real compassion, and profound surprise. Perhaps the latter predominated. He had, in the course of a long professional career, encountered many strange experiences, become familiar with many curious and tragic life stories, but, he told him- self, he had never met a more interesting case than this. ' It's a romance,' he said loud out in the cab ; and Gladys looked at him in mild surprise, but though she did not stand in awe of him at all, she did not presume to ask what he meant. 'Now tell me, my dear, have you been happy in SETTING JUS HOUSE IN ORDER, 111 this — this place?' lie iiuiuired sitrnificaiitly, as the cab rumbled over the rough causeway of the Wynd into Colquhoun Street. ' Yes, I have been happy. I oidy know now, when I tliiuk it may not be my shelter very long.' Mr. Fordyce looked at her keenly. ' Poor girl, she knows nothing, absolutely nothing,' he said to himself. ' What a revelation it will be to lier ! Yes, it's a thrilling romance.' The greeting between the Nvell-known lawyer and his strange client was not ceremonious. It consisted of a couple of nods and a brief good- morning. Then niadys was requested to leave them {done. Nothing loath, she ran up-stairs to Walter, wiiu.so sorrow lay heavy on her heart. ' Your niece has surprised me, Mr. Graham,' said the lawyer. * Yes, ver}' much indeed.' ' Why ? What did you expect to see ? Eh ? ' 'Not a refined and V v dy young woman in a place like this, certainly,' he said frankly, and looking round with an expression of extreme disgust. * Has it never occurred to you what poor preparation Miss Graham has had for the position you intend her to fill ? ' ' That's none of your business,' retorted the old man sharply. * She doesn't need any preparation, I tell you. Cottage or palace are the same to her ; slie'U be a queen in eitiier.' This strange speech made the lawyer look at the old man intently. He perceived that underneath his Itiusque, forbidding exterior there burned the steady light of a great love for his brother's child, and here, surely, was the greatest marvel of all. ' I did not bring you here to make remarks on my niece,' he said peevishly. * Head that over, see, and m S'R IN m liil 112 T//E GUINEA STAMP. tell me if it's all riglit, if there's anything to be added or taken awuy. There's a clause I want added about the boy, Walter Hepburn. He's been with me a loiit,' time, and though he's a very firebrand, he's faithful and honest. He won't rue it.' Mr. Fordyce adjusted his eyeglass and spread out the will before him. Up-stairs the two young beings, drawn close together by a common sorrow and a common need, tried to look into the future with hope- ful eyes, not knowing tliat, in the room below, that very future was being assured for them in a way they knew not. CHAlTKIi XII: THE LAST SUMMONS. OTJ'LL look alter liei-, Mr. Fordyce, promise me that ? ' said the old man when they had gone over the contents of the will. * Why, yes, I will, so far as I can,* answered the lawyer, without hesitation. ' Slie will not lack friends, you may rest assured. This,* he added, tapping the blue pa[)er, ' will ensure her more friends than she may need,' ' Ay, it's from such I want you to guard her. I know how many sharks there are who would regard an unprotected girl like her as their lawful prey. She'll marry some day, I hope, and wisely. But it is in the interval she needs looking after.' * How old is she ? ' * Seventeen and a half, I think.' ' She looks her age — a remarkably calm and self- possessed young lady, I thought her to-day. And she has no idea of this, you say ? ' ' Positively none,' answered the old man, with some- thing like a chuckle. ' Why, this very morning we spoke of what she would do when I'm away, but it doesn't seem to be worrying her much. I never saw a person, old or young, with greater powers of adapting U i m lU r///-; GUISEA STAMP. themselves to any circumstances, — any circumstances, mind you, — so you needn't be exercised about her future deportment. She'll astonish you, I pr se you that.' ' You really believe, then, that you won't get better ? ' ' I know I won't ; a man knows these things in spite of himself,* was the calm reply. The lawyer lookinl at him keenly, almost wonderin^ly. He did not know him intimately. Only within recent years had he been engaged to manaij;c his monetary affairs, and only six months before had drawn up the will, which, it may l)e said, had considerably surprised him. Looking at him just then, he wondered whether there might not be depths undreamed of under the crust of tlie miser's soul. ' You are behaving very generously to this young fellow Hepburn,' he said then, leaving his deeper thoughts unspoken. ' He may consider himself very fortunate. Sueh a windfall comes to few in a position like his.' * Ay, ay. I daresay it depends on how you look at it,' responded the old man indifferently. ' Well, I'm tired, and tliere's no more to talk about. Everything,' is right and tight, is it ? No possibility of a muddle at the end ? ' * None,' answered Mr. Fordyce promptly, as he rose to his feet. ' Well, good-day to you. I have your promise to see that the girl doesn't fall into the hands of Philistines. I don't offer you any reward. You'll pay yourself for your lawful work, I know ; and for the rest, well, I inquired well what I was doing, and though I'm not a Christian my.self, I was not above putting myself into the hands of a Christian lawver.* A curious dry smile accompanied these words, but THE LAST SUAfMONS. ua tliey were spoken wiih the utmost sincerity. They c'uiiveyed one of the highest triljutes to his worth Tom Fordyce had ever received. He carefully gathered together the loose papers, and for a moment nothing was said. Then he bent his keen and kindly eve full on the old man's wan and withered face. ' Sir,' he said, ' if you are not a Christian, as you say, wliat is your hope for the next world ? ' ' i have none,' he answered cahnly. * I am no coward. If it be true, as they say, that a system of award and punishment prevails, then I'm ready to take my doserts.' Tiie lawyer could not reply to these sad words, because Gladys at the moment entered the kitchen. ' I have come,' she said brightly, ' because I fear yoM are talking too much, uncle. Oh, are you going awa) Mr. Fordyce ? I am glad the business is all d(»ne. See, he is quite exhausted.' Slie poured some stimulant into a glass and carried it to him, holding it to his lips with her own hand. The old man looked over her bent head significantly. Tiie lawyer's eyes met his, and he gravely nodded, under- standing that that mute sign asked a further promise. (ifladys accompanied him to the door, and the lawyer laid his hand on her shoulder with a fatherly touch. ' My dear, I am very sorry for you.' ' Do you, then, think him so very ill ? ' she asked breathlessly. * He says he will die ; but I have nursed my own father through umch worse attacks.' 'He iippears to have given up hope; but while life lasts we need not despair,' he said kindly. * Good-bye. I sliall come back perhaps to-morrow.' lie thought much of her all day, and when he rt'iuriiud to his happy home at night, told the story to I I t 116 TIIK GUINEA STAMP, 'i I iifi his wife, nnd thuro is no doubt that the strong sympathy of these two kind hearls supported Gladys through the oi(h;al of that trvin<' time. In the evening' Walter took liiinself ofT to liridgeton, reluctant to go, y(!t anxious to lu-ar furtlier particulars regarding the flight of I.iz. liearrived at the dreary house, to find his mother engaged witli the weekly wash. Now, there was no reason why the washing should be done at night, seeing she had the whole day at her dis})osal ; but it seemed to take these hours to rouse her up to sufticient energy. She was one of those unhappy creatures who have no method, no idea of planning, so that the greatest possible amount of work can be done in the shortest, and at the most fitting time. This habit of choosing unfavourable and unseasonable hours for work, which upsets *^he whole house, had, no doubt, in the first instance, helped to drive her husband outside for his company. She looked round from the tub, and gave her son a nod by way of greeting, but did not open her mouth. Her little kitchen was full of steam, the floor swimming in soapsuds, the whole appearance of the place suggestive of confusion and discomfort. Walter picked his way across the floor, and sat down on the window-box, his favourite seat. ' Always washing at night yet, mother ? ' he snid discontentedly. * Have you no time through the day?' ' No ; it's meat-makin' frae mornin' till nicht. This is the only time there's a meenit's peace,' she answered stolidly. * You'll have one less to cook for now, then,* he said gloomily. ' When did Liz go off ? and have you any idea where she's gone ? ' Mrs. Hepburn shook her head, TUK LAST SUMMONS. 117 * I wns oot a* Tuosdny nicht, nn' wlicn I cam' in, on the back o' clcuvcn, she was afV, haj^ an' ha^^'^'a^'e. Mrs. Turnhull says sl»e gaed doon the stair wi' her Sunday daes on, an' carryin' her tin box, a wee efter aicht. " Are ye for jauntin', T.iz ? " says she ; but Liz never gi'ed her an answer, ^uid or bad, an' that's a' I ken.' * Did she never j,'ive u liint that she was thinking of going ? ' Walter asked. ' No' her. Liz was aye close, as close as yersel',' said his mother rather sarcastically ' She's all", onyhoo.' * Do you think she has gone away with any one — a man, I mean ? ' asked Walter then, and his face Hushed as he asked the question. ' I couldna say, I'm sure,' answered his mother, witb a stolid indifference which astonished even him. ' Ye ken as muckle as me ; but as she's made her bed she maun lie on't. I've washed my hands o' her.' ' It's long since you washed your hands of us both, mother, so far as interest or guidance goes,* the lad could not refrain from saying, with bitterness. But the reproach did not strike home. ' If it's news ye want, I'll tell ye where ye'll get it,* she said sourly. ' At Teen's. Eh, she's an ill hizzie. If Liz comes to grief, it's her wyte. I canna bide thon smooth-faced, pookit cat. She'll no' show her face here in a hurry.* ' I've a good mind to look in at Teen's, and ask. Where's the old man to-night ? * * Oh, guid kens whaur he aye is. He's on hauf- time the noo, an' never sober. Eh, it's an ill world.' She drew her hands from the suds, wiped them on her wet apron, and, lifting a pint bottle from the chimney piece, took a long draught. 'A body needs something to keep them up when wk 118 THE GUINEA STAMP. •m iii^ they've to wash i' the niclit-time,' was her only apology ; but almost immediately she became much more talkative, and began to regale Walter with sundry minute and highly-spiced anecdotes about the neighbours' failings, which altogether wearied and disgusted him. * I'll away, then, mother, and see if Teen knows any- thing. Liz will maybe write her.' * Maybe. She's fit enough,' replied Mrs. Hepburn stolidly ; and Walter, more heavy-hearted than ever, bade her good-night and departed. Never had he felt more fearfully alone — alone even in his anxiety for Liz. He had, at least, expected his mother to show some concern, but she did not appear to think it of the slightest consequence. In about ten minutes he was rappi.ig at the door of the attic where his sister's friend Teen supported existence. * Oh, it's you ! Come in,* she said, when she recognised him by holding the candle high above his head, and looking profoundly surprised to see him. • What is't ? ' * I thought you'd know. I came to ask if you could tell me what has become of Liz.' * Liz ! ' she repeated so blankly that he immediately perceived she was in complete ignorance of the affair. * Wha^ d'ye mean ? Come in.' Walter stepped across the threshold, and Teen closed the door. The small apartment into which he was ushered was very meagre and bare, but it was clean and tidy, and more comfortable in every way than the one he had just left. A dull fire smouldered at the very bottom of the grate, and the inevitable teapot sat upon the hob. The little seamstress was evidently very busy, piles of her coarse, unlovely work lying on the floor. The last summons. lid 'Has onything happened Liz?' slie asked, in open- eyed \vond(ir and interest. '^es; T suppose it has. She's run off, lta<; and baggage, on Tuesday, my mother says, and this is Thursday.* * Oh my ! ' Teen took a large and expressive mouthful of these two monosyllables. Walter looked at her keenly. ' Don't you know where she has gone ? Did she tell you anything ? ' ' No' her. Liz was aye close aboot hersel', but maybe I can guess.' ' Tell me, then. Is anybody with her ? * ' She's no' hersel', you bet,' Teen answered shrewdly. ' My, she's ta'en the better o's a' ; but maybe I'm wrang. She's been sick o' Brigton for lang and lang, an' whiles she said she wad gang awa' to London an' seek her fortune.' Walter sprang up, an immense load lifted from his mind. If that were all, he had needlessly tormented himself. ' Did she say that ? Then it's all right. Of course that's where she's gone. Don't you think so ? ' ' Maybe. It's likely ; only I think she mieht bae telt me. We made up to gang thegither when we had saved the screw. She had a beau, but I raither think it's no' wi' him she's awa'; Liz could watch hersel'. But I'll fin' oot.' * Did you know him ? Who was he ? ' asked Walter. * Oh, fine I kent him, but I'm no' at liberty to tell. It wadna dae ony guid till we see, onyhoo.' ' If you find out anything, will you let me know ? ' * Yes, I'll dae that. Hoc are ye gettin* on yersel' ? ^ 126 fll E G VINE A ST A MP. T: liiill iiii::: An* tlion queer deil o' a lassie ? I canna mak' onything o' lier.' * I'm Lifettiiig on fine, thank you,' Walter answered rather shortly. ' Good-nigh c to you, and tliank you. Maybe Liz will write to you.' ' Very likely. I'll let ye ken, onyway. If she writes to onybody it'll be to me,' Teen answered, with a kind of quiet pride. * Slie telt me a' thing she didna keep to hersel'. But I dinna think mysel' there's a beau in this business. The theatre wad be mair like it; she had aye a desire to be an actress.' * Indeed I ' said Walter, in surprise. He had never before heard such a thing hinted at. but no doubt it was true. He really knew very little about his sister, although they had always been the best of friends. His boart was not quite so heavy as he retraced his steps to Colquhoun Street. If Liz, tired of the grey monotony and degr^^dation of home, had only gone forth into the world to seek something better for herself, all might yet be well. He took comfort in dwelling upon her strength and decision of character, and came to the conclusion that he had judged her too hastily, and that sne was a most unlikely person to throw away her reputation. What an immense relief that thought gave him was known only to himself and God. Ten was pealing from the city bells when he reached home. When he entered the kitchen, a strange scene met his view. His master was propped up by pillows, and evidently suffering painfully from his breathing, and over his pinched features had crept that grey shadow which even the unpractised eye can discern and comprehend. The young doctor stood sympathetically by, conscious that he had given his last aid and must stand aside. Gladys knelt by the bed with folded THE LAST SUMMONS. 121 hanrls, her golden head bowed in deep and bitter silence. She saw her last friend drifting towards the mystic sea, and felt as if the blackness of midnight surrounded her. ' Surely, doctor, this is a sudden and awful change ? ' Walter said to the doctor ; but he put up his hand. ' Hush ! ' he said, pointing to the dying man, who essayed through his struggling breath to speak. ' Pray,' he said at last ; and they looked from one to the other dumbly for a moment. Then the girl's sweet voice broke the dreary silence, and she prayed as one who has been long familiar with such words, and who, while praying, believes the answer will be given. Tlie words of that prayer were never forgotten by the two young men who heard them ; they seemed to bring heaven very near to that humble spot of earth. ' For Christ's sake.' Abel Graham repeated these words after her in a pp'nful whisper, and his struggling ceased. * It is all over,' said the doctor reverently. And it was. Ay, all over, so far as this world was concerned, with Abel Graham. mmi -, * K^mLlF CHAPTER XIV. THOSE LEFT BEHIND. I! ': llii* ' ^ ^ ^ Z^^^ HAT was a sad night for Gladys Graham and for Walter. Feeling that she re- quired the help and presence of a woman, Walter ran up for the kind-hearted Mrs. Macintyre, whom Gladys had occasionally seen and spoken with since she took up her abode in Colquhoun Street. It is among the very poor we find the rarest instances of disinterested and sympathetic kind- ness — deeds of true neighbourliness, performed without thought or expectation of reward. Mrs. Macintyre required no second bidding. In five minutes she was with the stricken girl, ready, in her rough way, to do all that was necessary, and to take the burden off the young shoulders so early inured to care. When their work was done, and Abel Graham lay placidly upon the pure linen of his last bed, Mrs. Macintyre suggested that Gladys should go home with her for the night. ' It's no' for ye bidin' here yersel', my doo,* she said. with homely but sincere sympathy. * My place is sma', but it's clean, an' ye're welcome to it.* Gladys shook her hf id. * I don't mind staying here, I assure you. I have seen death before. It is not dreadful to me,* she said, glanc- THOSE LEFT BEIIL\D. \n iiifT at the calm, reposeful face of her iiucle, .iiul beii)•*■;. 170 TltE GUINEA STA}n\ ill I 'M iiff m She lived out of doors. Wind and wcMither could not keep her in the liouse. When the rain -drops blow fierce and wild in the gale, she would start across the garden, out by tlie 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 breatlied into her soul an ineffable calm. In the course of a week the Pollokshields Fordyces also arrived at their Coast residence, and tliere 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 under- stand that life has two sides, one for the rich and one THE SWEETS OF LIFE. 171 for tlio poor, and she was <,fla(l, with an honest, simple gladness, that slie liad been permitted to taste the Ijest kot. She retained her simple, j,fenuine manner; bnt her soul had had its first taste of power, and found it surpassinf? sweet. Beauty and riches had proved them- selves 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 thouj^ht of him but seldom, never of her own free will. Uncon- sciously she was learning a lesson which wealth and power so arrogantly strive to teach — to put away from her all unpleasant thoughts. Let us ';ot blame her. She was very young, and experience has to lead the human heart by many tortuous ways to full under- standing. So Glad}^s lived her happy, careless, girlish summer by the sea, enjoying it to the full. 'Tom,' said Mrs. Fordyce to her husband one after- noon, 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 atti- tude 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.' Il< « 172 THE GUINEA STAMP. ! I' ■ - r 9 ' He is, but I don't think it's flirtin*,' in this case/ said Mrs. Fordyce seriously. • I am afraid we, or at least T, have been very indiscreet.' ' You wouldn't approve then, Isabel ? (Jeorj^e is a trille vain anil silly, but I never iieard anything against his character.' ' I sujjpose not. We would be the last to hear any such rumours. \h\i it isn't fair lO 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 match- making. It is a blessing our Leonard is only a boy, but it is bad enough that it should be our ne})hew.' ' 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 observa- tion. 1 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 astonish- ment. 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. THE SWEETS OF LIFE. 173 'I haven't forgotten it,' she .said, with an answering smile, ' only it is inipoasihle these two in so short a liuK can bo seriously involved. I'll find out this very (lay.' ' 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 KA that he is sincere, and he is profoundly seltish. Even his mother says that.* *Ay, well, she would need kind dealing, Isabel; she is a highly-strung creature,' said the lawyer thought- fully, and the subject dropped. It 1 1' CHAPTKR XX. PLANS. |HILE these golden days were speeding by the sea, ]jourliill was being put in oner 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 tliat 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 tc Glasgow ? ' * It will be ready, of course ; tliere 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. Fordvce could not forbear a smile. ' How old are you, my dear ? I do not know that I have ever heard your age exactly.' 174 PLANS. 175 * I shall be eighteen next month.' ' Eighteen next month ? — not a very responsible age. Is it possible, my dear, that yon feel perfectly tit to take possession here, that you would have no tremors regard- ing your lonely position and your responsibility ? ' ' I have no such feeling, i\Irs. 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 vou should live here alone.' ' But tell me why ? I am not a child. I have always seemed to occupy a responsible position, vvhere 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 ]\Iii(lame Bonnemain. She is one of the sweetest and most charming of women, musical and cultured; her companionship would be invaluable to yea.' ..JTWKfl 176 THE nulXEA STAMP. ' 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 nie 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 conven- tionality, and she did not feel at all sure of the view.s entertained by her husband's ward. ' I want to be a help to people, if I can,' said (lladys, ' 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 io 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 knoiv of the need, I am not a good steward of the money God has given rae.' ' 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 waver- ing about her, she spoke with all the calm dignity of a v/oman who knew and owned her responsibilities. ' I can help them in various v/ays. I ccn have them here sometim'^s, especially when they are not strong; PLANS, 177 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 knowint; very well how to answer. She saw many diiticulties aliead, 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 I'ruition. ' There is something else whic. .night 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 ; ai d 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 liva 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.' 178 THE GUINEA STAMP. ., ' My dear, you will not let the grass grow under your feet, nor allow nj\y 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 courf 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. ' Mer3y me, miss, is't you ? an' me in a perfick potcli,' she said apologetically. ' No' a "orner 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,' repl'^d Gladys, with a laugh. 'Never mind, F^l get u, sci.j somewhere. I have come to see you very particularly, and Fm 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 gatliered all the soiled linen oft' 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 tc i-ir dowL stood straight in front of her, looking at her with a species of adoring admiration. * Ye micht hae let .x body ken ye were comin'. Sic f pctcn, she said ruefully. ' My, but ye are a picter, ru; roe mistak'.' PLANS, 179 Ghdys laughed, and the sound rang through the place like sweet'jst music. ' Have you not been quite well ? I think you are thinner,' she said kindly. ' N'o, I've no' been up to muckle ; fair helpless some clays wi' rheumatics. The washin's no' extra guid for them, but a body maun dae something for meat. Vva imither mooth to hll noo. My guid - brither. Bt^fe Johnson, is deid since I saw ye, an' I've been obleeged to tak' Tammy — no' an ill loon. He's at the schule, '►v ye wad hae seen him.' ' I don't suppose you would be sorry to leave place and give up the washing if you could get soi*--.- thing easier?' said Gladys. ' No' me ; a' places are the same to me. Hae ye Leem up by ? ' asked Mrs. Macintyre sigrniticantly. Gladys shook her head. 'I came to see whether you would ome and live in the lodge at my gate. It is a nice little house, and I would like to have you near me ; you v/ere such a kind triend 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 lor 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* ■■ ■ 180 TIfE GUINEA STAMP. guid for Tain my or ony wean. 'Deed, it's no' guid for onybody liviii' in sic a place ; but if ye are puir, an' tryin' to live d».'ceut> ye jist have to pit up wi' what ye can pay for. Ay, I'll come fast enough, an' tliank ye kindly. r»ut yv 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 slie had in view for her old friend. After that, a little silence fell upon them, and a great wistfulaess gathered in ti>e girl's g^ ntle 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 l- fine chap, an' he's in terrible earnest abn t something,' said Mrs. ?Iacintyre thouglit- fully, as she dhook out the garment she had been rubbing. ' There's a something deep doon in thon henrt 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 icll 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 lilvc, that 1 was here, and that I hoped he was well.' ' Ay, Hi ioii hi:ii. And are ye happy, my doo ?' It was ;i beautiful and touching thing to see the rare tenderness in the woman's Dlain face as she asked that question. * Yes, I — I tliink so,' Gladys replied, but she got up suddeiiiy from her seat, and her voice gave a suspicious trenr r. ' Money can do a great deal, Mrs. Macintyre, but it cannot do everything — not everything.' * Aweel, no. i dinna pray muckle, — there's no' niuckle PLANS. 181 encoiirag(3n)cnt for sic releegious ordinances this airt, — but I whiles speir at the Lord no' to mak' siller a wccht for ye to cairry. Wed, are ye awa ? ' ' Yes ; good-bye. When you come down to Pxjurliill, after I come back, we'll have long talks. I shall be so glad to have you there.' ' Aweel, wha wad hae thocht it ? Yc'll no' rue'd, my doo,. if I'm spared, that's a' the thanks I can gie. An' Willi ye no' gang up by ? ' Tiiere was distinct anxiety in her repetition of tlie question. But Gladys, with averted head, hastened towards the door. ' Not to-day. Good-bye,' she said quickly ; and, with a warm hand-shake, wliich 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, slie 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. "C*. ^ '*l»tt*«i«W«k-| CHAPTER XXI. ACROSS THE CHANNEL. I OR the f.rst time in her life Gladys tasted the novelty of foreign travel. It was quite a lady's party, consisting of j\Irs. 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 Pollok. aields 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 droam. 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. 182 J.CIiOSS Till': CHASNEL. 183 ' Wliy, Tiuiiiietta, you are not one bit changed ; you actually look younger than ever,' exclaimed Mrs. Fordyce, when the tirst 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. Yos, these are my daugliters ; and this is Oladys Graham, whom I am so anxious to see under your care.' Tiie 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-regretfnl snulc ' 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 1 souse is quite, quite empty.' Beckoning to the drivers of two rather rickety old carriages, somewhat reseml)ling 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 invita- tions — 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 Helens- burgh, and dear old Glasgow. I have never forgotten n-n wm m ''j 184 Tlli; GUINEA STAMP. it, though T 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 oft' lately ? ' * My dear, for twelve months I have not had a creature in my house/ said Madame l>onnemiiin, and her face grew graver and older in its outline, — ' positively not a creature, l^iruges lias 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 ACROSS TIIK CIIAXXEL. 185 tins world would keep anybody in Bruges,' replied Miidnine proinptly. ' 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. ' l^ecause, 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 herj and felt her heart drawn towards her. Yes, with that bright, sympathetic little woman, she rould be happy at Bourhill. But some- what 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 a WL'll-di'cssed man is always niuch more comfortable and sell'- respecting than an ill-dressed one. When Walter Hei^burn beheld the new mr: the tailor had turned out, a strange change came over him, and he '_i ^- searcli for tlie lost and mysterious Liz. In the midst of tlie strange reverie she heard footsteps on the siair, and presently a knock came to the door. As it was opened, the silver chimes of the old brass clock rang seven. n for table When lilor hail , and he n \_;i. xji£i The voice sank Lo a grave whisper, and lier eyes grew luminous with anxiety and sympathetic concern. ' Nothing,' Walter answered, with a shake of his head, * and I have been inquiring all roi\ud, too. My father _-__ —p. with an vae very ocCiirrud saw her last night in Berkeley Street.' ' Saw Liz in P)erkeley Street ? Surely, never ! ' repeated Teen, aghast. mww he midst the si air, s it wiis )ck ran'' TOO LATE! 255 saw in himself possibilities hitherto undreamed of. He realised for the first time that he looked fitter than most men to win a woman's apjiroval, and I am quite sale in eaying that (Uadys owed this totally unlooked- for visit entirely to the St. Vincent Street tailor. ever, to return to the drawiiig-rooin, wnere ineir laiK could be (^uite unrestrained. flli.Tr. J__L_ _ . lo }i very ^su»uu•Il tjuu reti. 1 all my plans. I always think nobody quite imdeistuiids U8 like those whom we have known in our early days, it.nnd aftor spmrlfn;:' a coniparntivcly plciisuiit li«»ur with them, he went his way with u li^Miter and happier feeling iihout them than he had experienced for many a day. * W//A T MKiiir j/A i'/^: been: 2G3 forj^fet these days, th(«u.L;h ihey can never come again, answered Walter. * 1 am learning CJerinan this winter, and I like it very much.* 'How delightful! If you go on at tliis rate, in a -w- 1 111 Gladys somewhat, and for the first time in her life she cast a reproach at liim. -*" -^^ - - --*> I nm ix^rmn'r'T ~ ■ It strikes ine you will j^et iMion^'h of it if you shnitltl be sutciMstul where we wish you to l»e Hucceaslul,' .said his niotlicr, with a kmi ghniee across llie table. ' (lladyH :'ftO mmmi^mm«m^ sn-i 77//; (iUISKA STAMP. because then tliere fan nevnr l)e iniy j)ri'ti'nce or jon- eeahin'iit. All is open as the day. Is it iiiipossihlc that we (an still i)e as we were ?' ' t^nite inipossilile.' Tlis answer wms oiu't and cold, "O' room she dropped upon her knees by a couch and fell to weeping, though slie did not know why she wept. Fiis inotlier was more Ih.iii nMtotiisIu'U to sue Ins ilu'i'ic tlllHl llIH I know slie iisktMl nie to wait, and n«»t tu bother her. I believe slie'll have me in the end. W//AT MlilllT HAVE BKKN.* 265 'You necMhi't look so resigned, WulLer. Just cast your nu-niory back, and tliink of some of tbe kind tliiu'^s you luive said to niu when we have met since I liave kit (\»l(iub()im Stl'ccf IF vnii lliiiilf I <.!iii fr>...r/.f f»w.., ,,-^v. *AVW« looked wholly bright and beautiful, would receiN'e their crown. And now his dream was over, and again he 266 1 Niiil liiorj;i»; 'll «t'hl»»m \ni\H in any riitiiuiHtamx'H- ni dniliii;;H witli wimini, in»vi»r. Tlu»y ««t all ihu more 8turc by u frtlow wlio thinks a ^ood deal of hiniHclf.' eceive their d again he J J ' - - - J sn\v ii all thought of it was intolerable to him. He before him, in sharp contrast to another home, which iaini!« - III \\\v nioru iiii.Hulf.' »HM»||. M11.M I'll k hinl \n lit' I'JU K 10 UH* nil iiMnmjr lo Mi't! a i\)''\\\'A fii«*ii'l. ••inl •*»»* '•'»»"^* •''0''* ^^**' ^"*'' h«iinl nothing of Tc«.'U, who wuh imihuing iu Glu-s^ow her Tiih: \VA\j)i:i!i:n. 2G7 felt himself alone in the world — more terribly alotio than he had yet bet^ii. He was not a vain man, though ho belicn-e*! in his own ability, or, looking back, he might have taken no sm;ill comfort fiom the limb manliness and courage in his bearing, that she could ikic forbear a little cry of welcome as she ran to him with outstretched hands. It seemed as if her prayer for th'i sympathy of one who understood her was answered fiir beyond any hope or expectations she had cherished regarding it. ' Oh, Walter, I am so very glad to see you I It is so good of you to come. I have so often wished to see you here. Come away, come away ! ' The accepted lover, at that moment being wliirled back by express train to Glasgow, vvould not li;i\e a})proved of those warm words, nor of the light shining all over tlie girl's sweet face as she uttered them. But he would have been compelled to admit that in Gladys's old companion of the slums he had no mean rival. The St. Vincent Street tailor had done his duty by liis eccentric customer, and not only given him value for his money, but converted hira, so far as outward apjiear- ance goes, into a new man. Philosophers and cynics II TTTT*^ M. i 1^ I HI I T S L - I I V 1 UIIl nut (.:niiiiL;t;M, iiu r>aui uuniMij, llnl not reproach me witli that. You know nothing about the struggle it is for me here, nor wluit I have to tight agaiust. It wub you who taught ni«i Hrst to be discon- tented with my lot, to strive after something higher. \ sometimes wish now tliat we had never met.' * Wluitever happens, Walter, I shall never wish that ; 4Tid T hope one day you will be sorry for ever having sa"d such a tiling,' slie said, with a proud ring in her clca), sweet voice. ' I hope — I hope one day everything will be made right ; just now it all seems so very wrong and hard to bear.' She left him hurriedly then, just as she had left him bt^fore, at the moment when he could have tin own himsell:" at ht^r feet, and revealed to her all the surging passion of his soul. Gladys felt so saddened an^J J.isheartened that she could not bear to return to Bellairs Crescent, to tlie ineviiauie questioning wnicii auc xvucw ciyvcni/».«.i mx there. If the Fordyces were kind, they were also a trifle fussy, and sometimes nettled Gladys by their too obvious and exacting interest in her concerns. Shu ran up to the office in St. Vincent Street, and told ^Ir. Fordyce she was going off to Mauchline by the one- o'clock train, and begged him to send a boy with an explanation to the Crescent. Mr. Fordyce was very good-natured, and not at all curious ; it never occurred could not him with n' for th" vvereil far cherished I : It is led to see f whirled not lia\e .t shiuiiiLf jm. But Gladys's ral. The y by his ue for his 1 apjiear- id cyuics longer unhappy about you, fori see you have awakened at last to a sense of what you ought to be.' It was a tribute to clothes, but it sank with un- alloyed sweetness into the young man's heart, ' You are very kind to me, Gladys, and I do not deserve any such welcome. I was afraid, indeed, that you might refuse to see me, as you would be perfectly justified in doing.' ' Oh, Walter,' she said reproachfully, * how dare you say such a thing ? Iicfuse to see you, indeed ! Do sit down and tell me everything. Do you know, it is just my dinner hour, and you shall dine with me ; and how delightful that will be. I thought of sending down to say I didn't wish any dinner, it is so lonely eating alone.' ' Where is the lady who lives with you ? You had a lady, hadn't you ? ' ' Yes — Miss I'eck. She has gone back to Lincoln to see her aunt wlio is dying, and I am quite alone, though Jill iiiiii, ■ VJll 1ICUI.I ig about to tight li discou- ; higher. ish that ; r having g in her erything so very left him 1 thrown B surgmg that she t, to the e also a their too ns. She told .Mr. the one- witli an was very occurred her at Mauchlme Station, but tlie two-and-a-lialt-nule walk did not in tlie least disconcert her. It seemed as if the clear, cool sout'.i wind — the wind the huntsnian loves — blew all the city col:webs from iier l)iain, and again raised her somewhat jaded spirits. She could even think ho[)efully of Liz, and her mind was full of schemes for her redemption, when she espied, at a sliort distance from her own gates, the solitary figure of Teen, with her hand shading her eyes, looking anxiously down tin; road. She had found life at Bourhill insutleralily dull without its mistress. ' Have ye walkit a' that distance ? ' she cried breath- lessly, having run all her might to meet her. ' YeTl be deid tired. What way did ye no' send word ? ' ' Because I came off' all in a hurry this morning,' answered Gladys, with a smile ; for the warm welcome glowing in the large eyes of the little seamstress did her good. ' And how have you been — you and Miss i'eck, ana all ttie people { ' 'Fine; but, my, it's grand to see ye back,' said Teen, with a boundless satisfactioi . 'It's no' like the same place when ye are away. An' hoo's Glesca lookin' — as dreioh as ever ? * ' Quite. And oh, Teen, I have found Liz at la.-t. I saw her last night in Berkeley Street.' ' Saw Liz in Berkeley Street ? Surely, never ! * repeated Teen, aghast. longer luiliappy about you, fori see you have awakened at last to a sense of what you ought to be.' It was a tribute to clothes, but it sank with un- alloyed sweetness into the young man's heart, ' You are very kind to me, Gladys, and I do not deserve any such welcome. I was afraid, indeed, that you might refuse to see me, as you would be perfectly justified in doing.' ' Oh, Walter,' she said reproachfully, * how dare you say such a thing ? liefuse to see you, indeed ! ])o sit down and tell me everything. Do you know, it is just my dinner hour, and you shall dine with me ; and how delightful that will be. I thought of sending down to say I didn't wish any dinner, it is so lonely eating alone.' ' Where is the lady who lives with you ? You had a lady, hadn't you ? ' * Yes — Miss Peck. She has gone back to Lincoln to see her aunt who is dying, and I am quite alone, though tui y : • lier at Mauclilme Station, but the two-Jina-a-luilt-mile walk did not in tlie least disconcert her. It seemed as if the clear, cool sout'.j wind — the wind the huntsman loves — blew all the city cobwebs from iier biain, and again raised her somewhat jaded spirits. She could even tlunk hopefully of Liz, and her mind was full of schemes for her redemption, when she espied, at a short distance from her own gates, the solitary figure of Teen, with her hand s'i!iding her eyes, looking anxiously down tlu; road. She had found life at Bourhill insutleruiily dull without its mistress. ' Have ye walkit a' that distance ? ' she cried breath- lessly, having run all her might to meet her. ' Ye'U be deid tired. What way did ye no' send word ? ' ' Because I came off all in a hurry this morning,' answered Gladys, with a smile ; for the warm welcome glowing in the large eyes of the little seamstress did her good. ' And how have you been — you and Miss i'ecK, ana all the people ( ' 'Fine; but, my, it's grand to see ye back,' said Teen, with a boundless satisfactior. 'It's no' like the SHUiB place when ye are away. An' hoo's Glesca lookin' — as dreich as ever ? * ' Quite. And oh, Teen, I have found Liz at la.-t. I saw her last night in Berkeley Street.' ' Saw Liz in Berkeley Street ? Surely, never ! ' i and she isn't able to do it.' ' She may be right, though,' said Walter, and though he would have given worlds for the privilege, he dari'd not presume to take Gladys at her word and ofler lier his arm. But they went into the dining-room side by side ; and at the table, Gladys, though watching keenly, detected very little of the old awkwardness, none at all of that blunt rudeness of speech and manner which liiul often vexed her sensitive soul. For the first time for many many months Walcer permitted himself to be at ease and perfectly natural in his maimer, and the result was entirely satisfactory ; self-consciousness is fatal to comfort always. Gladys wore a black gown of some shimmering soft material, with a quaint frill of old lace falling over the low collar, a bunch of spring snow- drops at her belt, and her lovely hair bound with the black velvet band which none could wear just in tlie same way — a very simple, unostentatious home toilet, but she lookrd, Walter thought, like a queen. Possessed m we drove away from the concert hall.' 'It's queer,' said Teen mursingly, — 'very queer. I feel us if I wad like to gang back to Glesca tliis very day, and see lier.' ' You miglil go to-morrow, if you like,* said Gladys. 'I daresay you will find her much quicker than I should ; she would not be so shy of you.' Teen turned her head and gave Gladys a strange, intent look, which seemed to ask a question. The girl was indeed asking herself whether it might not be l)etU'r to let tlie whole matter rest. She sus[)ected that there mi"ht b(^ in this case wheels within wheels which might seriously involve the liappiness of her who deserved above all others the highest happiness the world can give. The little seamstress was perplexed, saddened, half-afraid, torn between two loves and two desires. She wished she knew how much or how little George Vr^r'l''^" »i'oo in rilrirli'a riroliniri vph rinrpfl not", t.O Jisk the (luestion. But so great was the al)Sorbing desire of Gladys to find menus of communication w^ith Liz that she would not let the matter rest. Next day the visit of the little seamstress to Bourhill was brought apparently to a very sudden end and she returned to town— not, however, to sue for work at the hands of the stony- visaged forewoman, but to carry out the behest of the vounc lady of Bourhill. id though , he diin.'(l I ofler her n side hy ig keenly, one at all which had J time for ' to be at the result is fatal to Q of some ill of old 'ing snow- i with the Lst in the ime toilet, Possessed disreputable-looking object, quite eligible to be appre- hended as an able-bodied vagrant.' 'How delight fid: 1 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 Coiquhoun 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 (lladys turned from the table, where she was giving her attention to some drooping Howers, and her look w;is 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 niivei- had a solitary bit of sympathy for you, and 1 don't know, either, what you meant by goiiig on in any such [\\(]VV. I this very I Gladys. r than I L strange, The girl be better hat there ich might deserved vorld can saddened, 3 desires. ,le George nt, to ask Gladys to she would it of the apparently own — not, ,he stony- est of the AN AWAKENING. KtXt ;fi;iIIE interview with (Jladys upset Walter for the day. AVIien slie was gone, lie found it impossible to fix his attention on liis g^y^' books or any of the details of his business. He could not even sit still, but wandered restlessly up and down his domain, trying to unravel his own thoughts. The subtle fragrance of her presence, like some rare perfume, seemed to pervade the place, and her words continued to haunt him, till he felt angry and impatient with her, with himself, with all the world. He had now two persons in his enqiloyment — a man who delivered goods on a hand-barrow, and a lad who filled a position similar to that which had been Walter's own in Abel Graham's days. '> TP^" v^n rf^Uirf>jy.> :irfcr inv : : , , left him in charge, and took himself into the streets, pursued by that vague restlessness he could neither understand nor shake off. Looking in at the mirrored window of a great shop in St. Vincent Street, he saw the Ullage of himself reflected, a tall, lean figure, shablnly clad — an image which filled him with a sudden loath- ing and contempt. He stood quite still, and calmly appraised himself, taking in every meagre detail of his a r»l"»£»'j mnr>n nr^firid' flui rmmir V»ii< vf fT>ri r>,Jl. rt r\ l"» II ^1 Don't you see, Gladys, that it is my misery to care for you as happier men caie for the woman they ask to marry them ? ' There was a mon^ent's strained silence, then Gladys spoke in a low, sobbing voice, — ' It is, as I said, Walter, too late, too late 1 I have promised to marry another man.' tlic door of the fashionable tailor's, and walked in. lb; was reizardcd.as was to be expected, a tritle superciliously by the inunaculately-attircd young gentlemen therein. ' I want a suit of clothes,' he said in his straij,'ht, abrupt fashion,—' a good suit ; the best you have in your shop.' The young gentlemen regarded him and each othor with such signiticance in their glances that their shabl.y- looking customer turned on his heel. ' I can be served elsewhere, I guess, without so much hesitation,' he said, and in an instant he was intercepted with profuse apologies, and patterns of the best mateiiids in the shop laid before him. ' I'll take this,' said Walter, after refusing several. * It is very expensive, sir — beautiful material, but a suit made to measure will be five guineas,' said the young gentleman suggestively. overcoat, and a hat, and some other things. Show me what you have.* The fascination of choosing new garments for personal wear was upon AValtcr Hepburn, and he spent a whole hour in the shop, selecting an ou^ fit which did credit to his taste and discernment. Before that hour was over he had risen verv considerably in the opinion of those; who served him— his choice invariably falling on what 1 J .^^ — ,.j.r^ Ki-if 11-1 fVio iwiuf, f.iiKre. care for y ask to n Gladys I have *WHAT MIGHT HA' :' BERN.' |LL 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 aim. ' You will not go away now, Walter, just when I hope WG 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 sa>id, not bittarly 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 set a train iust now. even if vou 1. He iliously !rein. trait^'ht, in your h other shabhy- 10 much irceptcd lateiials eral. 1, but a said the Ihow nie personal a whole credit to was over of thost! on what i.Kte. [xK-Ket ; ana when tiu! bill was presi'iiicd ne ran nis eye over it without a change of face. 'Twelve pounds eight shillings and twopence,' he said sldwlv, and counted out the bank notes carelessly, iis if the handl'ng of them was his daily work. Ther, having made arrangements for fitting, he went liis vvay, leaving a very odd impression on tlie minds of the shop jicople. Had he heard tlieir surmises and comments, he would have felt at once amused and chagriiUMl. From St. Vincent Street he sauntere^ like a heavy weight, and he li\ed in di\ad of some calamity ha])])en- ' Perhaps so. I bad thoughts of leaving it, but it is a great thing for a man to be on the premises. Your uncle would not ha\ e approved of my leaving the place so soon. Colquhouu 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 woidd have been with something a little lower than this, and a little higher than Cokiuhoun Strei-t. 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 ncAcr looked at home in the old place. This suits you down to the ground.' ' Do you think so ? ' Clladys gave a little melancholy smile. 'Yet so contradictory are we, that sometimes T am not at all happy nor contented here, Walter.' "TTTTn ill"; liVii V in- W'ri '^i \ Til 5ii5 ■ I I I ■"• TV' ' I 'r< I ^ it(i I. I'- ll- iy^: hatdn' ss of heart. It is a comnuni smyiiig lliaL Vw'wvj, sorrows iuc, wor.se tiian deatli — I hey eat like u ciinkui into the soul. U was his anxiety abimt Liz which took Walter to tiie dreary house in IVridgetoii at tliml unusual hour of the day. He thought it (piite likely that if she were in (Jlasgow they would have .seen or heiird something of her. He maiie i point of visiting them once a \V(!ek, and his step was nt'ver buoyiint m he ascended that weary stair, nor when Ik^ descendfd it on his homeward way, tor he was either saddened and oppressed anew with their meliineholy state, or wearied with reproaches, or disgusted with petty gn.mblings and unsavoury details of the neighbours' shortcomings and domestic ailairs. It is a tragedy we see daily in our midst, this gradual estrangement of those bound by ties of blood, and who ought, but cannot possiMv be bound by ties of love. Love must be cherished ; it is indifference and neglect. The drhik fiend has no respect of persons ; the sanctity of home and God-given allee- tions is ruthlessly destroyed, high and holy ambition^ saci-iticed, hearts remorselessly broken, graves dug above the heavenliest hopes. Waiter Hepburn was always grave, oftentimes sorrowful, because with the years had come luller knowledge, keener perception, clearer visions that the , but it is 3S. Your the place 1 for liiiii naturally, much he il, with a i\\ happier ttlo lower Lin Strei^t. :rty of his ,'ing,' was it home in ouncL' iiehmcholy sometimes liter.' 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 luesence of the man to whom she had plighted her tnjtli that very day, A very little more, and she must ha\e given May to hysterical sol)bing, she felt so overwrouglit ; 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 wliat was fitting in the old (hiys 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 pas::ion of his life, a pure and honest love t'or lit, liviiiiLi a ciinkii"!' lich tniwk ut thill to likely seen or visitinij? loyant iis 'euch'd it med and r wearied lings and ings and ly in our jf)und by ssibly l)e led ; it is 10 respect veil atl'ec- ambitioiis lug above )ftentinies me (uller that the surpriMU. >Y iiiiu >i kkkfil yu iieru iii Mr a liiih" : 'Is Liz here?' he iiKiuired, with a (piiik glanco round llie kitchen. * Liz ! No.' In her surprise at this unoxpectcd ([uestion, Mrs. ]fepi)urn ])auseil, with the lid of the broth-pot in lur iiaiid, lo(>kiiig woiuk'iingly into her son's face. ' Wiiat gais ye ask that ? ' ' I heard slie was in (ilasgow, that's why,' Walter answered cautiously. ' Where's the old man ? Not working, surely ? ' ' Ay ; he's turned over a new leaf for three days, work in' orra at Stevenson's ; they're short o' men the 1100. He'll be in to his denner the noo. WuU ye tak' a bite wi' us ? It s lang since ye broke breid in this house.' ' I don't mind if I do,' replied Walter, laying off his hat and drawing the arm-chair u]) to tlie fire. ' So you iiiive iicvui stcu jjiii » ±iiu peinuu tiiab »aw iier imi«t have made a mistake.* * Wha was't ? ' * A lady. You don't know her. Have you never heard anything about her at all, then ? ' ' No' a cheep. She's in London, they say — the folk that pretend to ken a'thing. I'm sure I'm no' carin'.' ' And my father's really working this wcn-k i Oh, motlier, if only he would keep steady, it wouhl make all if I have vexed yon.' She rose up and met his glance, which was one of infinite pity and indescribable pathos. The groat st sorrow, the keerest disappointment which had ever come to Walter, softened him as if with a magic touch, and revealed to iier his heart, which was, at least, honest and true in every throb. ' You can never ve . me, though I have often vexed you. T 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- -\T Spite were iio luiHimii. I dmiiii niiiiK niVHi'i lu; ii .staun' oot past Set rn lay.' Walter could ii«»t forliear a incliuicholy «nn'le. It's not n very hi^h motive, but lu*iter spite thnn no motive at all,' he answered. ' D'ye liiink, mother, that I.iz can be in (llasgow ?' ' H(Hi should 1 ken ? There's yer faith«'r's fit nn the stair, an' tlie tatties no' ready, but they'll besaft in a jilVy. He canna wait a niceiiit for his meat. As I say. he thinks it should be walkin' duon the stair to nwct hiui. Ay, my man. it's \oii I'm on.' She made a gnat clatter with knives and spoons on th(! lalile, and then made a rush to pour the water o!l' the potatoes. ' llulloa, Wat, what's up ?' i!i([uired the old man, as geiuiinely surprised us his wife had been to see his son. ' I heard Liz was in (llasgow, and I came to see if she was here,' anssveied Walter. 'So you're woikiu^ again f 1 must say worK agrees wiin you, miner; you look a different man.' * Oil, I'm no' past wark. If I like, T can dae my darg wi' ony man,' he replied rather ironically. ' Pit oot the kale. Leezbeth, or we'll be l)urnt to daitb. Are ye slack yeisd' that ye can come ower here at wan o'clock in the day^' ' I'm slacker than T was,' said Walter, ' but T can't complain, either.' ' An' what was that ye said aboot Liz, that she was here IS one of givat st tiad ever ;ic toucli, 3t, honest exed yoii. with the jst in the r you.' girl's face. 3 as if a ular,' he night the school in chimney- rt "ir beneath which looked out a pair of clear eye? which had never feared the face of man. He look^ i < ler than his years, though his face was l\are, exce u oi he upper lip, where the slight moustache a^ M^a^-ed to soften somewhat the sterner line of the niout. Yes, it was a good, true face, suggestive of ^o\^er and possibility — the face of an honest man. i'hen 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 contnisted him with a certain other youth, who devoted half his attention to his personal appearance and adornment. Nor did Walter suffer l)y 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 sorujwful regret, a keen anguish of loss which he could scarcely endure. * And wlien will you come again ? ' * Oh, I don't know. I can't cc-me often, CI lady s ; it y-vl In: 11 • than no her, tliat •'s fit on i suft in H As I sav. to meet 1 spoons the water d man, as ! liis son. to SCI' if 3 working mer ; yuu iV darg wi' t tlie kalr. ick versel' the day?' lit T can't e was here Wiy« , >V 1 I I II- ■"■ j "I IlIillH-IH' 7 • I'll sei'. It (U!pcii(is on boo T feel,' ropHod the old niun complacently. ' I've been in wanr places, an' the ^afler's very nlack. He disna work a ten-hoors' day ony niair than the rest o'h.' 'Though you are paid for it, I suppose ?' said Walter. ' Ay, but naebody but a born fule will kill himscl' unless he's made dae't,' was the reply. I wouldn't keep a man who (li•.' •"'J I with an intelligence above the average; had he kept liom drink, there is no doubt he would have risen from tlie ranks. Kven yet gleams of the ohl sj)irit which had often displayed itself at worknuiu's meetings and demonstrations would occasionally sliine forth. Walter was thankfnl to see it, and after spending a comparatively pleasant hour with them, he went his way with a ligliter and hapi)ier feeling about them than he had experienced for many a day. he wiiitl significantly ; uiid Gliidys flushed all over, and fliino' 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 sliall 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 triumjili. ' I am afraid I am becoming quite autocratic, Walter, so many people have to do exacily as I tell them. If you will not come, will ynu write tc me occasionally, then ? It would be delightful to get letters from you, I think.' Never was man so subtlely flattered, so tem])ted. Again he bit his lip, and without answering, he took a handsome frame from the piano, and glanced in- differently 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 mmm W: TOO LATKl ^^^JKORGK FOKDYCK was listening to a "^^- ^*' nuiternul lecture the morning after a dance, at which he had ln-en distrihutin;.: his attentions very freely anumg the most attract! '.'0 of the young ladies present. The breakfast was nearly an hour late, and mother and Bon partook of it ahme, Mr. Fordyce being in Lontioii on business, and the fair Julia not yet out of l»ed. ' It's all your nonsense, mother,' said (Jeorge impertiirh- ably. ' 1 didn't pay special court to anyi)ody except Clara. Siie was the best dancer in the room, and very nearly the handsomest girl.* ' You should have pity on C'.ara, my dear,' his mother said indulgently. ' You kno" idio is fond of you ; she >*. u:j. . 4.U: __j ii •- - . I too much attention in public, when it can't come to anything.' * I can't help it if girls will l)e silly,' was the com- placent reply. * Clara is all very well as a cousin, but I'd like more spirit in a wife.' ' It strikes me you will get enough of it if you shoidd be successful where we wish you to be successful,' said his mother, with a keen glance across the table. ' Gladys over, and proudly, you sliall She ran 2? looked at triuni})h. :■, Walter, 1. If you lly, then ? I think.' teni])ted. ', he took meed in- ind when h keener ? Fordyce t seen in ^^^ v».i*u j.iv'wiv/iiu c* ociiciiiu cl|)JJfcHt;U LU Oily LIU- carriage waited, and Walter held out his hand to say good-bye. Hope was for ever quenehed in his lieart, 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. W^hen 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. 'ii ,1 ig to a after H Lriliutin;,' tlie most present. th(!r and London d. iperturh- f except md very •< niotlu r on ; she come to he com- isin, but u should ful,' said ' Gladys ' Thoro is no use Roin^' on nt me, mother. I've done till I can do in the meantime. I askr«l her, and she '— ' Did not refuse you, I liope V exclainii-d Mrs. Fordyce, witli a gasp. ' Well, not quite ; .she said I must leave her alon*' for .1 long time, and I mean to. It isn't pleasant for a fellow to be sat on by a girl — especially,' he julded, with a signifh'ant shrug, ' when lu; isn't used to it.' ' I wish you would tell me when all this happeneti. You have bei^n very close about it, (Jeorge,' his mother said reproachfully. *I w" h I had remainetl close; but now that I've let the cat out, I may as well tell the whole tale. It was only a fortnight ago — that Saturday afternoon I was down at r.ouihill. I had no intention of commit- ting myself when I went, but somehow I got carried away, and asked her. I believe I shouUl have hud u in with tea— as they always do when nobody wants them.' 'And what did she say?' queried Mrs. Fordyce, in lueathless interest. 'Faith, I can't remember exactly,' George replied, and liis mother was more than astoiiislied to see his cheek Hushing. 'I know she asked me to wait, and not to bother her, I believe «he'll have me in the end. THE WANDERER. i: T was half-past ten before Walter alighted from the train at St. Enoch's Station. It was a fine dry evening, with a suffi- cient 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 tulkiii«» of, nioihtT,' rrplii'tl (loopj!'', with cnliii mitidmir. ' If you wero (\ Muiii, find hml a ^irl lookiii)^ at you with a steady stari», and telling' y«)U to ;;i!t out, w«Il, 1 gursi you'd \ivl out pretty ipiick, that'.s all.* MrH. Fordyet? lau;;h»'«l. ' Wi'll, p(»iliapM mo; but it is very important that yon Hliould tollow up your advaiitit^e, however NJi^^ht it lany \h\ It Would 1h> a most desirable alliance. Think ut her family; it would be a splenilid connectiun. Vou wonltl be a county ^'entleinau, to bi"j;iu will.' 'Ami ciill myself Fordycc (Iraliaiu ? I.li. mother?* said (leor^e lazily. ' There are worse sonndinjj; naitie-s. Ihitdlailys her.self alVerts to have no pride in h»'r h>U'j^ descent; that verv dav s!u» was (luotinu' to nn) th t ror of Mums aliout rank bein;: oidy the >^ inea stamp, a' •! all that sort of ihin^r. All very wril for a f. 'l.w li'.f Ihirus, who was only a ploughman. It lias iltau* '1! mIvh eradiciii ill'.; Iwv (pu'cr notions, I can tell viai.' * Oh, after she is married, if Mm take her vvcl! in haml, it will be easy ennii;ih,' said his mother coiilidtiitly. ' She (lid not uive you a positive refusal, then ?' •No; but I'm not goiii;4 to make! myself too cheap,' said (leoru'c; 'it seldom pays in any circumstances — in dealiii;;s with womeji, never. They set all the more Store by u fellow who thinks a good deal of himself.' II i t ( I I ' alighted 1 Station. ti a suffi- to make i his way 3y crowd, de of life eft. The a dream, heart — a l)rave lly. For :!ar a part L for ever. bitterness .rrier had of hearts 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 tliey 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 *' ight that in having accepted George Fordyce, (Uadys was intentionally and wilfully deceiving him. His im- passioned 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 f < oression for love, and passed what was now in her eyes an i.>'revocable 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 W(.rd was as her bond. There are circum- ^i ^ eillliinlll-. ►'•Ml with , 1 gl|l!MH I hilt you t it iniiv Think uH n. Voii lutthcr ?' ht-r Ihiil; tint rut imp, !i!iii n-w likM C ' il.iilv.H ill liaiid, ilidi'iillv. I 10 cht'a]>,' ncea — in he mure isclf,' «tl to iUv mill, rtud nil iliiy li»ii« t1iini«lit iiiihIi •»f lu» iii..tln'r'H jiiMio, anil houu-Ii-w ho f»ll himH.lf l.« ii.j; iinprlhcl lowaids iMiyiii;* anolluT vinit to Il«airhill. Hut olf thai vihil aiuHi! poiliiiliaH jsp^iuh, whiili Wiie to Ikivu the HhiMij;»'«t |K»HsihK« inlluiiHf uimui iIm- fi ;mn of Gludyji (iiahmii. 1I»' f.iM d l.i'i in a IimmK and Jnipri'*Hioiiuh|i» iiio.d, and h'li «h»' h«»u«.i'. to lii«* own pi..l..iiial uatuhiKh- iiK nt, an am^ptrd h>\vr. That vny rviMiin.? af!- r hi- was -.'..nr. (ilatlyn wit l>y the (irt! in Iht ^pi-H'n.H dniwii!«,'-ioniii, turning' upon h.T tliiid tin-tr iW" di.iniond riitu wiiirli left no doubt (if his sincerity. (Uadys allowcJ liiu; Lo lake lier hand, ;iii(l did not draw liei--e]f away. 'If you will let me alouc p ]"ni;' lime — a w'ar. at Kast — and never spL-ak i>f i,, 1 will '^ive you an ^'ii-wt-i' then. It is a very serious ibiiu, itiid one mu-' im- (juite sure,' she said slowly ; and that answer was more than George Fordyce had dared to hope f^a. There was more delibei i: on n;;d calmness in her dis- posal of the question than d have satisfied most men, but he had fared better than he expected, and left the house content. As for Gladys, she felt restless and unhappy, she (lid not know why ; only she knew that never had her thoughts reverted with such lingering persistence to the past, never had its memories seemed more fraught with sweetness and with pain. She was an enigma, she could not understand herself. i^ lii n\\ CHAPTER XXVI. UNI) Kit DISCUSSION. I^~^^~-JEKN took quite a long walk along tlie T^^^^JI bleak country road, and on her way back dro])i)ed in at the lodge. Mrs. Macintyre and the redoubtable 'Tammy' — a very round and chul)Iiy urchin, as unlike a denizen of the slums as could well be im-^gined — were sitting at tea by the cosy hearth, and there was a warm welcome and a cup for the visitor at once. * Come awa', my wummin ; I saw ye gang by,' siiid the good soul cheerily. ' My, but ye hae a tine colour; jist gang ben an' look at yersel' in the room gless. Ye're no' like the same lassie.' Teen smiled rather incredulously, and did not go 'ben' to verify the compliment. ' It's a tine place this,' she said, as sIk^ dropped into a chair. ' A body's never tired. I wonder onybody bides in the toon when there's sae much room in the country.* The wiueness of the landscape, its solitary freedniu, and its quiet, impref^sed the city girl in no ordiimr ' way. After the crush ami struggle of the overcrowdi'd streets, which she had not until now left behind, it was natural she should be so impressed. m UNDER DISCUSSION, 223 I walk it as far as frae the Trongate to the Bririg- gate 0* Glesca. An' what's the young leddy aboot this efternune ? * ' Writin' letters, I think. Has she said onything to yuu, Mrs. Macintyre, aboot makin' a Club for lassies in the toon ? * ' Tammy,' said ]\Irs. Macintyre, ' tak' the wee jug an' rin up to the dairy, aa' ask Mrs. Grieve if she'll gie ye a hap'nyworth o' mair cream.' She did not urgently require the cream, but it was necessary at the moment to get rid of Tammy, who was a remarkably shrewd boy, with very long ears and a wonderful understanding. Just as Tammy departed, rather unwillingly it must be told, the carriage from the liouse came bowling down tlie avenue, and Mrs. Macintyre ran out to open tlie gate. From her seat by the fire Teen could see over the low white window-blind that George Fordyce sat in it alone. ' There's something up,' said Mrs. Macintyre. ' D'ye see that ? ' She held up a shining half-crown, which in his fjracious mood the hopeful lover liad bestowed upon the gatekeeper. ' X wonder if that's to be the Laird o' Bourhill ? ' she I !■■. i .1 I I. . I 224 THE GUINEA STAMP. smit 1 1 ', said iiiL'ditaiivcly. 'Ye wadiia see him ns he paed hy ? — a very l.i-aw man, an' rich, they say — a Fordyce o' Gorhals Mill, llae ye heard o' them ?' • Ay, often.' Teen's colour seemed to have deepened, hut it mij,dit he only the fire which glowed upon it. * Ye diniia mean to say that t/mt micht happen ? ' ' What for no' ? ' queried Mrs. Macintyro easily, as she cut a slice frotu the loaf and held it on a fork before the fire. ' She's honnie an' she's guid, besides beiii;^' weel tochered. She'll no' want for wooers. I say, did ye ken Waller Ile|»ljurn that carries on auld Skinny '.s business noo in Coliuhoun Street?' ' Yes, well enough,' answered Teen slowly. 'Tliere was a time when I wad haesaid the iwa — him an' ]\Iiss (Ihulys, I mean — were made for ane anither, but it's no' noo. lie seems to hae forgotten her, an' maybe it's as weeb She maun unxk' a liraw niairriage, an' Fordyce is a braw fellow. I wish ye had noticed him.' 'Oh, I've ^Jcen him afore,' said Teen, with an evident effort, anil somehow the conversation did not tiow very freely, but was purely a one-sided alTair, Teen simply sitting glowering into the fire, v. iih an expression on her face which indicated that she was only partially interested in the gatekeeper's cheery talk. It was rather a relief when Tammy returned with the 'wee jug ' full of cream, and his own mind full of the arrival of a new calf, a great event, which had happened at the dairy that very afternoon. Mrs. Macintyre was, on the whole, disappointed witli her guest, and saw her depart after tea without regret. She was altogether too reticent and silent for that garrulous person's liking. She would have been very much astonished had she obtained a glimpse into the girl's mind. Never, indeed, in all her life had Teeu , .*] UNDER iJiSCUSSloy, 225 Balfour been so troubled and so aiixioiH. Onto or twice that evening' (lladys cau;;ht lier lookinu' at lier wiib u l^dance so j)en('lraLin}^ and so an\ial'i-ly al loiuc attain ! !)(» yuu think she would he ^dad lo si'e uie it 1 went lo-day ?' 'No, she wouldn't, even it' she were there, whieli I know is not the case. I w.is ihrie myself yesterday, and they had never heard anything aliout her. 1 wish to heaven you would have us al ne, and let us s'nk into the mire we aie made for I We don't want .^uch fine luilies as you comin<^' |i;itionisin<^ us, iiutj iryin;^ to make ])ious e.\:ini]>les of us. We aic (iuite hapj)y — oh, quite l.a|)))Y — .'S we aic' lie sjKil.e with ail aw fid hitN'iievs, with a passion which made liini terril'le lo loo a U)'oii, lait (lladys oidy shr.iuk a litile, only a l:i;h', under li.is anL;iy torrent, llei' vision \\a> e circr than a umc a^o. She lead the old friend now with niHnin: skdl, ai.d look'd at him steathly with ueni e, soiiowfnl e\(S. 'You ;in' veiy aii'_iy, Waller, aid you ihiidc it is with me, hut 1 know Icier, ami vo'.i eann-l jirevent me trying to find out wliit h.is he i me of ) oor L-x/.ie. I loved her, and love has cerinin li.iiL-, e\en }oii will i„'^;ijit that.' Her gentle words relie\t d the tension of i.is passion, and he became calm(!r in a moment. ' H' it is tru(^ that she is in (Hasgow, it it easy know- ing what has become of her,' he said, with an ironical smile. 'Take my aiivice, and let her ahme. She never W.IS company for you, an} how, and now less than ever. Let her alone.' ' Oh, 1 can't do tiiat. Walter. You have no idea how much I have thought aViout her. It has often kept me from sleeping, I assure you. I have so many blessings, ^ t a, * ll'lll" 238 77/ a; aUlMCA .STAMP. ^m^ i ' I wisli to .sliiire tlujiu. To make others liiipj)}' is all tlie UH(j money is for.' Walter was secretly touched, secretly yearning over lier with a ))assi(tn of admii'ation — ay, and of synijialliv, hut his j)assive face hctrayed nothing. He listened us he might have listcncil to a custoniei's coiniilii nt. \tt with e\en a slighti',r exhihition nf interest. Stiiinge that lie should thus he goaded against his lnttip ini|)ulses to show so liarsh a front to tlu! heing Ik; passionately loved, uidess it was part of tiie role he Imd mapped out for himself. ' I heard that you had invited Teen lialfour to your estate; is she there yet?' he asked; and (Uadys did not know whether he askiid in scorn or in jest. ' Yes, slie is at I>ourhill still, and will remain for some time. Ihive you got anyhody in Mrs. ]\Ia''intyre's place? It was rather selfish of me, perhaps, to take her away without consulting you.' * It didn't affect me in the least, I assure you. Mrs. Macintyre was not indisi)ensahle to my comfort. So you like heing a tine rich lady ? Don't you rememher how I prophesied you would, and how indignant you were ? After all, there is a good deal of worhlly wisdom in the slums.' * You prophesied that I should in a week forget, or wish to forget, this iilace, and that has not come true, since I am here to-day,' she said, trying to smile, though her heart was sore. ' Won't you tell me now how you are getting on ? Excuse me saying that I don't think YOU look very prosperous or very happy.' ' Nevertheless, the thing will pay ; there isn't any doubt about the prosperity. As for the happiness,' he added, with a shrug of the shoulders, ' I don't think thtsre is jiuich real happiness in this world.' A TUOVnLF.D HEART. 239 ' Oh yos, tlioro is,' she cried ea^orly, * a ^roat (Iciil of it, if only uiie will tiiku the tiouhle to look for it. It is in littlo things, Walter, that happiness is found, and you might he very happy indeed, if you would not delight in being so bitter and morose. Tt m 80 very bad for you. Some day, when you want to throw it ofl", you will not be able to do so, because it will have become a habit with you. I must tell you i[uite plainly what I think, because it makes me so unhappy to see you like this. You always remind me of Ishmael, whose hand was against eveiy man. What lias changed you so terrildy ? ' ' Circumstances. Yes, I am the victim of circum- stances.' 'There is no such thi' g,' said Gladys calndy. 'That is a phrase with which peojde console themselves in misfortunes they often bring upon themselves. If you would only think of the absurdity of what you are saying. You have admitted your prosperity ; and the other troubles, home troubles, which I know are very trying, need not overwhelm you. You are much less manly, Walter, now you are a man, than I expected you to be. You have quite disappointed me, and without reason.' He was surprised, and could not hide it. The gentle, simple, shrinking girl had changed into a self-reliant, keen-sighted woman, and from the serene height of her gracious womanhood calmly convicted him of his folly and his besetting weakness, and, manlike, his first im- pulse, thus convicted, was to resent her interference. ' Whatever I may do, it can't affect you now, you are so far removed from me,' he said, witnout looking at her; and Gladys, disappointed, and a little indignant, rose to go. * Very well ; good-bye. It is always the same kind 240 THE GUINEA STAMP, 'i 1' of <,fO()(l-bye,' she said ([iiietly. * If ever, wlien you look bciuk upon it, it should grieve you, remember it was always your doiiiLT, yours alone. But even yet, thouj^di you may not believe it, Walter, your old friend will remain quite uncliaiiged.' His face flushed, and he dashed his hand with a hasty ^'isture across his eyes. ' 1 am not changed,' he said huskily. ' You need not reproaf'h me witii tliat. You know nothing about the strug^h^ it is for me here, nor what I have to ti,L;ht ag;uiist. It was you wlio tauji^ht me first to be discou- teiited with my lot, to strive after something higher. \ sometimes wish now tliat we had never met.' ' Whatever happens, AValter, I sliall never wish tliat ; and T hope one day you will be sorry for ever having sa'd such a thing,' she said, with a proud ring in her clca;-, sweet voice. ' I hope — I hope one day everything will be made right ; just now it all seems so very wronr and hard to bear.' She left him hurriedly then, just as she had left him before, at the moment when he could have thrown himself at her feet, and revealed to her all the surging passion of his soul. Gladys felt so saddened an^ uisheartened that she could not bear to return to Bellairs Crescent, to the inevitable questioning which she knew awaited her there. If the Fordyces were kind, they were also a trifle fussy, and sometimes nettled Gladys by their too obvious and exacting interest in her concerns. She ran up to the office in St. Vincent Street, and told Mr. Fordyce she was going off to Mauchline by the one- o'clock train, and begged him to send a boy with an explanation to the Crescent. Mr. Fordyce was very good-natured, and not at all curious ; it never occurred A THOU BLED HEART, 241 to him to try and dissiuiilo lier IVom sucli a hunied departure, or pester lier with (luestituis aliuit it. He simply set her down to write her note at his own desk, then took her out to luneh, and finally j)ut her in her train, all in his own easy, pleasant, fatherly way, and Gladys felt profoundly gratefid to him. Her arrival being unexpected, there was no one to meet her at Mauchline Station, but the two-and-a-half-mile walk did not in the least disconcert her. It seemed as if the clear, cool sout'.i wind — the wind the huntsman loves — blew all the city cobwe))S from her biain, and again raised her somewliat jaded spirits. She could even think hopefully of Liz, and her mind was full of schemes for her redemption, when she espied, at a short distance from her own gates, the solitary figure of Teen, with her hand s'lading her eyes, looking anxiously down the road. She had found life at Bourhill insuHerahly dull without its mistress. ' Have ye walkit a' that distance ? ' she cried breath- lessly, having run all her might to meet lier. ' Yell be deid tired. What way did ye no' send word ? ' ' Because I came off all in a hurry this morning,' answered Gladys, with a smile ; for the warm welcome glowing in the large eyes of the little seamstress did her good. ' And how have you been — you and Miss Teck, and all the people ? ' ' Fine ; but, my, it's grand to see ye back,' said Teen, with a boundless satisfactior. ' It's no' like the stUHv^ place when ye are away. An' hoo's Glesca lookin' — as dicich as ever ? * ' Quite. And oh, Teen, I have found Liz at la^t. I saw her last night in Berkeley Street.' ' Saw Liz in Berkeley Street ? Surely, never ! ' repeated Teen, aghast. Q ^m§ ill i 212 37 IK GUINEA STAMP. * It is quite true. I think she cannot have been jiway from CJlasgow at ali. We must try and find her, you and I, and get her down here.' * I'll get her, if she's in Glesca ! ' cried Teen excitedly. ' Did ye speak to her ? AVhat did she look like ? ' ' Very 111, I thought, and strange,' answered Gladys slowly. ' She only p('e[)ed i'lto our carriage window us we drove away from the concert hall.' ' It's queer,' said Teen musingly, — ' very queer. I feel as if I wad like to gang back to Glesca this very day, and see her,' ' You might go to-morrow, if you like,' said Gladys. ' I daresay you will fiud her much quicker than I should ; she would not be so shy of you.' Teen turned lier h{>ad and gave Gladys a strange, intent look, which seemed to ask a question. The girl was indeed asking herself whether it might not be better to let the whole matter rest. She sus[)ected that there might be in this case wheels within wheels which might seriously involve the happiness of her who deserved above all others the highest happiness the world can give. The little seamstress was perplexed, saddened, half-afraid, torn between two loves and two desires. She wished she knew how much or how little George Fordyce was to Gladys Graham, yet dared not to ask the question. But so great was the absorbing desire of Gladys to find menus of conununication with Liz that she would not let the matter rest. Next day the visit of the little seamstress to Bourhill was brought apparently to a very sudden end and she returned to town — not, however, to sue for work at the hands of the stony- visaged forewomnn, but to carry out the behest of the young lady of Bourhill. CHArTER XXIX. AN AWAKENING, ,>HE interview with Gladys upset Walter for r^l the day. When slie was gone, he found it impossible to fix his attention on his books or any of the details of his business. He could not even sit still, but wandered restlessly up and down his domain, trying to unravel his own thoughts. The subtle fragrance of her presence, like some rare perfume, seemed to pervade the place, and her words continued to haunt him, till he felt angry and impatient with her, with himself, with all the world. He had now two persons in his employment — a man who delivered goods on a haml-barrow, and a lad who filled a position similar to that which had been Walter's own in Abel Graham's days. When this lad returned after the dinner hour, Walter left him in charge, and took himself into the streets, pursued by that vague restlessness he could neither nnderstand nor shake off. Looking in at the mirrored window of a great shop in St. Vincent Street, he saw the miage of himself reflected, a tall, lean figure, shal)bily clad — an image which filled him with a sudden loath- ing and contempt. He stood quite still, and calmly appraised himself, taking in every meagre detail of his appearance, noting the grimy hue of the collar he liad 243 \r j t ', Ili^W^ 24i THE GUINEA STAMP. worn tliree clays, the glazed front of the frayed black tie, the soft, greasy rim of the old hat. Yes, ',e told himself, he was a most disreputable-looking obj' i3t, with nothing in his appearance to suggest prosperity, or e\'en decent comfort. A grim humour smote him suddenly, and thrusting his hatid into his pocket, he brought it out full of money, and rapidly counted it. Then he opciu'd the door of the fashionable tailor's, and walked in. He was re^jarded, as was to be expected, a trifle superciliously by the immaculately-attired young gentlemen therein. * I want a suit of clothes,' he said in his straicjht, abrupt fashion, — ' a good suit ; the best you have in your shop.' The young gentlemen regarded him and each other with such siguiticance in their glances that their sluibhy- looking customer turned on his heel. ' I can be served elsewhere, I guess, without so much hesitation,' he said, and in an instant he was intercepted with profuse apologies, and patterns of the best materials in the shop laid before him. ' I'll take; this,' said Walter, after refusing several. * It is very expensive, sir — beautiful material, but a suit made to measure will be five guineas/ said the young gentleman suggestively. * I'll take it,' said Walter calmly. ' And I want an overcoat, and a hat, and some other things. Show me what you have.' The fascination of choosing new garments for personal wear was \ipon Walter Hepburn, and he spent a whole hour in the shop, selecting an outfit which did credit to his taste and discernment. Before that hour was over he had risen very considerably in the opinion of thosii who served him — his choice invariably falling on what was not only moat expensive, but in the bust taste. AN AWAKENING. 215 * Now, how much is to pay ? I'll pay ready money to-day, and send for the things when they are ready, which I hope will be soon.' ' Very well, sir ; but there is no hurry, I assure you,' said the young gentleman suavely. ' I'aynient on delivery is always quite satisfactory.' ' I'll pay to-day,' Walter replied, with his hand in his pocket ; and when the bill was presented he ran his eye over it without a change of face. ' Twelve pounds eight shillings and twopence,' he said slowly, and counted out the bank notes carelessly, as if the handling of them was his daily work. Then, having made arrangements for fitting, he went his way, leaving a very odd impression on the miiuls of the shop people. Had he heard their surmises and comments, lie would have felt at once amused and chagrined. From St. Vincent !*^treet he sauntered back to AionIi; Stroet, and took a Bridgeton car. 'rhf)i:g1its iif I.iz wtic fT'iu'dincj thick nud fast U])oii Iimu, ami he t'uiiiK! Iiiiu- Si'lt seaiiuiiig the fiiccs of the jx'ople in iln- (fMWil.d stieet-, and e\eii looking uj) expectantly eac!i liiin' i!i • car stojiped, assurii g liims'lf he wnuld not l^e in the IcMSt surprised were his ss'er It) iijipeiif siuMcnly l.'eluic him. He was ill at ea-^e eonceiiiii g hri-. It it v .'I'e true that she was in (llasgosv, then his \\v>^i I'cais cnii- cciniiig licr weie liki'jy to have soni" Io'mi ';\\ on. It was eurimis that all Tc^iiiiiiiciit seeinei! to ha\i' d ctl ():;t of his mind, and that he felt uothiiiL' h;:t an in'. s< i iii- alile longing to see lier a^aiu. Stiaiige and uir • iaal a> it may set-ni, he had not for a wry h)n: liiac ich any such kindly allcctioii towards his parents. I!c ilid his duty hy them so hir as the giviicj of ni' iiey was concerned, but they lay upon his hea-t like a heavy weight, and he li\ed in druid of some cp.lamii/ hajipen- !■ I 24 G THE GUINEA .STAMP. i\v^, for tlipy wero seldom sober. Tie eonld not help asking' liitiiself sometiiues wlu'tlier he was jusLiticd in giving tlieiii so lilieiiil aii allowance, siiiee relii'f from all i)eeuni;irv !ni.\ieiv seemed to have onlv made thctp lll'ir.' (li-^i M'cil iiiid ill.iilili'llcd. ll, W:is \-("y S' ]<|"l.: iudiMil ihii! his l;iih>'r iio v \si.ii'ir ;i d:i\'s wor:,. 'I liCSC Wi-lC Im'MVV l,IM'':rH^ t'i>:- III' \iM.||'_; lliiil) lo lu'Iir, and he m.iy \hi h)igi\cii his moihid ji.idr, his aiijiiireui. hardmss of heart. It is a common saying liiat livii ^ sorrows are worse than death — they eat hke a cnnki-r into the soul. It was his an.xiety about Liz which took Walter to the dreary house in Bridgeton at that unusual hour of the day. He thought it quite likely that if she were in Glasgow they would have seen or heard something of her. He made n. point of visitinu; them once a week, and his step was never l)iujyaiit as he ascended that weary stair, nor when he descended \i on his homewiird way, for he was either saddened and oppressed anew with their melancholy state, or wearied with reproaches, or disgusted with petty grranblings and unsavoury details of the neiglibours' shortcomings and domestic affairs. It is a tragedy we see daily in our midst, this gratlual estrangement of those bound by ties of blood, .and who ought, but cannot possibly be bound by ties of love. Love must be cherished ; it is only in the rarest instances it can survive the frost of indiflerence and neglect. The drink fiend has no respect of persons ; the sanctity of home and God-given affec- tions is ruthlessly destroyed, higli and holy ambitions sacrificed, hearts remorselessly broken, graves dug above the heavenliest hopes. "Walier Hepburn was always grave, oftentimes sorrowful, because with the years had come luller knowledge, keener perception, clearer visions that the AN AWAKI'IMNG. 247 sorrows of his youth were sorrows which could chirkeii his vounu; iniiuhood und shadow all his future. It was ii proiound relief to him I hat day to iiiid his iiiotlur tidier than usual, busy vviih preparations for the mid- day meal. He never i-cuevv how he should find them ; too often a visit tx) that home made him sick at heart. ' Ye are an early visitor, my man,' his mother f-aid, in surprise. ' What's brocht ye here at sic a time ? ' ' Is Liz here ? ' he inquired, with a quick glance round the kitchen. ' Liz ! No.' in her surprise at this unexpected (question, Mrs. Hepburn paused, with the lid of the broth-pot in her hand, looking wonder! ngly into her son's face. * What gai's ye ask that ? ' * I heard she was in Glasgow, that's why,' Walter answered cautiously. * Where's the old man ? Not working, surely ? ' * Ay ; he's turned over a new leaf for three days, workin' orra at Stevenson's ; they're short o' men the noo. He'll be in to his denner the noo. Wull ye tak' a bite wi' us ? Its lang since ye broke breid in this house.' ' I don't mind if I do,' replied Walter, laying off his hat and drawing the arm-chair uj) to the fire. ' So you have never seen Liz ? The person that saw her must have made a mistake.' ' Wha was't ? ' *A lady. You don't know her. Have you never heard anything about her at all, then ? ' ' No' a cheep. She's in London, they say — the folk tliat pretend to ken a'thing. I'm sure I'm no' carin'.' ' And my father's really working this week ? Oh, mother, if only he would keep steady, it wouUl make all w 248 TJIK aUINKA STAMP. the {linbrence. You look better yourself, too. Are you not far better without driuk ?' ' Maybe. We've made a paction, onyway, for a week, till we see,' said Mrs. Mt^pburn, with a slow smile. ' The way o't was thi:^. We fell oot wan day, an' he cuist up to nie that I couldna keej) frae't, an' I jist says, says T, " Ye canna keep frae't yersel'," an' it's tor spite we're no' toucliin't. I dinna think mysel' he'll staun' oot past Seterday.' Walter could not forbear a melanclioly smile. It's not a very hi;^h motive, but better spite than no motive at all/ he answered. ' D'ye think, mother, tluit T.iz can be in (Jla^^^gow ? ' ' Hoo should I ken ? There's yer faither's fit on the stair, an' the tatties no' ready, but they'll be saft in a jift'y. He canna wait a meenit for his meat. As 1 say, he thinks it should be Malkin' doon the stair to meet him. Ay, my man, it's you I'm on.' She made a great clatter with knives and spoons on the talde, and then made a rush to pour the water o!t' the potatoes. ' Hulloa, Wat, what's up ?' inquired the old man. as genuinely surprised as his wife hail been to see his son. ' L heard Liz wns in (ilasgow, and I came to see if she was here,' answered Walter. * So you're work ijig again ? I must say work agrees with you, father ; yuu look a different man.' ' Oil, I'm no' past wark. If I like, I can dae my darg \vi' ony man,' he replietl rather ironically. ' Pit oot the kale, Leezbeth, or v.-e'll be burnt to daith. Are ye slack yeisel' that ye can come ower here at wan o'clock in the day^' ' I'm slacker than I was,' said Walter, ' but I can't complain, either.' ' An' what was that ye said aboot Liz, that she was here AN AW A K KM NO. 219 in Glesca ? Weel, if she is, she's never lookit near. It's gentry bairns we hae, Leezbetli; let's be thankfu' for tlieni.' This mild sarcasm did not greatly afl'ect Walter, he was too familiar with it. ' I heard she had been seen, but perhiii)s it was a iiiistake. It must have been, or she would surely have come here. You are working at Stevenson's, mother says ; will it be permanent ? ' ' I'll see. It depends on hoo I feel,' replied the old man complacently, ' I've been in waur places, an' the gaf'ier's very slack. He disna work a ten-hoors' day ony mair than the rest o's.' ' Though you are paid for it, I suppose ? ' said Walter. * Ay, but naebody but a born fule will kill himsel' unless he's made dae't,' was the reply. I wouldn't keep a man who didn't do a fair day's work for a fair day's wage, nor would you,' said Walter. ' I believe that nobody would make more tyrannical masters than working men themselves, just as women who have been servants themselves make the most exactint>' mistresses.* ' This is Capital speakin' noo, Leezbeth,' said his fiither very sarcastically. ' It's kind o' amusin'. We're the twa sides, as it were — Capital and Laliour. Yeve no' been laug o' forgettin' whaur ye sprang frae, my man.' Walter's father had been a skilful workman in his dny, with an intelligence above the aveiage ; had he kei»t tinm drink, there is no doubt he would have risen from tlie ranks. Even yet gleams of the old spirit which had often displayi d itself at workmen's meetings and demonstrations would occasionally sliine forth. Walter was thankful to see it, and after spending a comparatively pleasant hour with them, he went his way with a lighter and hap])ier feeling aljout them than he had experienced for many a day. I.' ^» m^i kilfedflL vrr^ ''■rriA^-^ ':^-4M-:^ ^^^ CHAPTEK XXX. TOO late! if:'' EORGE FOUDYCE was listening to a maternal loctnre the niorninj^' after a dance, at which he had been distributiuL; his attentions very freely among the most attractive of the young ladies present. The breakfast was nearly an hour late, and mother .nid son partook of it alone, j\Ir. Fordyce being in London on business, and the fair Julia not yet out of bed. ' It's all your nonsense, mother,' said George imperturb- ably. ' I didn't pay special court to anybody except Clura. She was the best dancer in the room, and very nearly the liandsomest girl.' ' You should have pity on Clara, my dear,' his mother said indulgently. ' You kno' she is fond of you ; she can't hide it, poor thing, and it is a shame to pay her too much attention in public, when it can't come to anything.' ' I can't help it if girls will be silly,' was the com- placent reply. ' Clara is all very well as a cousin, but I'd like more spirit in a wife.' ' It strikes me you will get enough of it if you should be successful where we wish you to be successful,' said his mother, with a keen glance across the table. ' Gladys •J50 '- fffctaf TOO LATE! tv.l (Ivaliam is a vorv self-willed pii'ne of Imniiinity. Vour Aunt Isabel told niu only yesterday of her ali.surd fud to have common uirls visitinij her at P)0»irhill. It is quite time somel»ody took her tirndy in hand, or she will become that insutlerable kiiul of person, a woman with a mission to set the world rij,dit.' Geor;^e emptied his cotlee-cup, and returned his mother's look with one equally steady and keen. ' There is no use goinj^ on at me, mother. I've done all I can do in the meantime. I asked her, and she ' — ' Did not refuse you, I hope ? ' exclainu;*! Mrs. Fordyce, with a gasp. ' Well, not quite ; she said I must leave her alone for II long time, and I mean to. It isn't pleasant for a fellow to be sat on by a girl — especially,' he added, with a significant shrug, * wlien he isn't used to it.' ' I wish you would tell me when all this happened. You have been very close about it, George,' his mother said reproachfully. ' I W'sh I had remained close; but now that I've let the cat out, I may as well tell tlie whole tale. It was only a fortnight ago — that Saturday afternoon I was down at Bourhill. I had no intention of commit- ting myself when I went, but somehow I got carried away, and asked her, 1 believe I should have had a more favourable answer, but a confounded maid came in with tea — as they always do when nobody wants them.' ' And what did she say ? ' queried Mrs. Fordyce, in breathless interest. ' Faith, I can't remember exactly,' George re])lied, and his mother was more than astonished to see his cheek flushing. * I know she asked me to wait, and not to bother her. I believe she'll have me in the end. 2r.2 rilK GUI MCA STAMP. Ij iiiiW Anyliow, T ineaii to Imvo her, and it's the samo tbin^', isn't it ? ' 'I liopG it may be; 'out if yon tjiku my advice, my dear, don't leave her alone too nuicli, in case soniehndv else more enterprising,' and not so easily repulsed siioidd step in before you. If I vven^ a man I wouldn't walk of!' for a {girl's lirst No.' ' Vou don't know a blessed thing about what you're talking of, mother,' replied (leorLie, with ealm candour. ' If you were a man, and had a girl looking at you with a steady stare, and telling you to get out, well, I guess you'd get out pretty f[uick, that's all.' Mrs. Fordyee laughed. * Well, perhaps so ; but it is very important that you should follow uj) your advantage, however sligiit it niny be. It would be a most desirable alliance. Think of her family; it would be a splendid connection. Yuu would be a county gentleman, to bc^in with.' 'And call myself Fordyee (Iraham ? \\h. motlier?' said George lazily. 'There are w^rse sounding nauie-^. Ihit Gladys herself affects to have no pride in her Iciiu descent; that very day she was quoting to m<; thit rot of Bums about rank being only the ^ inea stump, iiimI all that sort of thing. All very well for a t'r!lM\v b'^.e Burns, who was only a ]»loU'4hman. It Ii;is done li('(l (Jeor^c took himsclt' off to the mill, and all day lon;^' thought much of his ni'itliers adNiee, an jd somehow lie ftdt himself hcihg impelled towards payin;;' another visit to l^ouihill. Out of that visit arose i)ortentous issues, whicii weie to iiavt; the strongest possilili; inlluciiee ujton the fr 1 nit; of (lliidys (liiihiim. lie f I'Ut.tl ,ei Ml a loiicl' iiMi imure-sioiiaoli hh iiiokI, iind lel't tlie hoii^e, to his os\ n pinluuiid astonish- nuiit, an accepted ]n\cr. Thai vi'iv excninu. at'li !■ he v.;is unne, (lladvs sat by the 1 ire m Jici' s] acimis (hawn:g-roi»in, turning upo n her third linger tlie dinnioiid I'ing (leorge Fordy« e had transferred from his own hand to heis. whisceiinji as he did so th.it she s'lou Id soon iia\e one Wort I ner o f her. Watching the Ihi. Iiin_; of the, stone in the gleaming firelight, she w.'inK led to m'l' teais, matching the dia- monds in brilliance, tilling on her uoun. She did not understand these tiais; she did not think herself unhappy, though ,n!i«- lelt noiu' of that jiassionate, trem- bling joy whii h ha] py love, as she had heard and read of it, is entitled to fi » 1. Slie lealised that she had taken a great and imi)ortaiil step in life, and that it seemed to wt'igli u])on her, that was all. In her loneliness she longed passionately lor some .sympathetic soul to lean upon. Miss Peek had .Lidie back to the fen country to see a dying friend, and lor ^ome days she had heard nothing of Teen, who was pursuing in Glasgow her 254 THK GUISE A STAMP. scarcli for the lost and mysterious Liz. In the midst of the strange reverie she heard footsteps on the 8lair, and presently a knock came to the door. As it was opened, the silver chimes of the old brass clock rang seven. ' Air. ITepburn.' Gladys sprani^' up, struck by the faniili ir nnirp\ vi-t not expecting to behold lier old companion in tlu; tlc-li. and there he was, standing modestly, yet with so nuich manliness and courage in his bearing, that she could nut forbear a little cry of welcome as she ran to him with outstretched hands. It seemed as if her prayer for tli" sym[)athy of one who understood her was answered fur beyond any hope or expectations she had cherished regarding it. ' Oh, Walter, I am so very glad to see you I It is so good of you to come. I have so often wished to see you here. Come away, come away ! ' The accepted lover, at that moment being whirled back by express train to Glasgow, »vould not liii\e a])})roved of those warm words, nor of the light shining all over the girl's sweet face as she uttered them. But he would liave been compelled to admit that in Gladys's old companion of the slums he had no mean rival. The St. Vincent Street tailor had done his duty by his eccentric customer, and nob only given him value for his money, but converted him, so far as outward appear- ance goes, into a new man. Philosophers and cynics have from time to time had their fling at the tyranny of clothes, but it still remains an undisputed fact that a well-dressed man is always much more comfortable and self-respecting than an ill-dressed one. When Walter nei)burn beheld the new mr; the tailor had turned out, a strange change came over him, and he TOO LATE! 255 saw in himself possiliilitics hitherto uiulreiimed of. He realised for the first time that he looked fitter than iiiosc men to win a woman's ap])roval, and I am quite sale in eaying that (Uadys owed this totally unlooked- ior visit entirely to the St. Vincent Street tailor. ' So very glad to see you,' she repeated, and slie thought it no treachery to her absent lover to keep hold of the hand she had taken in greeting:. 'And lookiuLj so nice and so handsome ! Oh, Walter, now I am no longer unhappy about you, for I see you have awakened at last to a sense of what you ought to be.' It was a tribute to clothes, but it sank witli un- alloyed sweetness into the young man's he.irt. ' You are very kind to me, Gladys, and I do not deserve any such welcome. I was afraid, indeed, tliat you might refuse to see me, as you would be perfectly justified in doing.' ' Oh, Walter,' she said reproachfully, ' how dare you say such a thing ? Tiefuse to see you, indeed ! Do sit down and tell me everytliing. Do you know, it is just my dinner hour, and you shall dine with me ; and how delightful that will be. I thought of sending down to say 1 didn't wish any dinner, it is so lonely eating alone.' ' Where is the lady who lives with you ? You had a lady, hadn't you ? ' * Yes — Miss Peck. She has gone back to Lincoln to see her aunt who is dying, and I am quite alone, tliough to-morrow I expect one of Mr. Fordyce's daiigliters. And now, tell me, have you heard anything of Liz ?' The voice sank to a grave whisper, and her eyes grew luminous with anxiety and sympathetic concern. ' Nothing,' Weaker answered, with a shake of his head, ' and I have been inquiring all ronud, too. My father m 256 THE GUINEA STAMP. and mother have never seen or heard anything of her. J. think you must have made a mistake that night in Berkeley Street.' ' If it was not Liz, it was her ghost,' said Ghidys quite gravely. ' I cannot understand it. But, come, let us go down-stairs. You ought to oiler me your arm, Walter. I cannot help laughing when I think of Mrs. Fordyce, she wouh' he so horrihed were she to see nie now. She tries so hard to make me quite conventional, and she isn't able to do it.' * Slie may be right, though,' said Walter, and though he would have given worlds for the privilege, he dared not presume to take Gladys at her word and ofl'er her his arm. But they went into the dining-room side by side ; and at the table, Gladys, though watching keenly, detected very little of the old awkwardness, none at all of that blunt rudeness of speech and manner which had often vexed her sensitive soul. For the first time for many many months WaUer permitted himself to be at ease and perfectly natural in his maimer, and the result was entirely satisfactory ; self-consciousness is fatal to comfort always. Gladys wore a black gown of some shimmering soft material, with a quaint frill of old lace falling over the low collar, a bunch of spring snow- drops at her belt, and her lovely hair bound with the black velvet band which none could wear just in the same way — a very simple, unostentatious home toilet, but she lookf^d, Walter thought, like a queen. Possessed of a wonderful tact, Gladys managed, while the meal progressed, to confine the conversation to commonplace topics, so that the servant who attended should not be furnished with food for remark. Both were glad, how- ever, to return to the drawing-room, where their talk could be (^uite unrestrained. TOO LATE I 257 * And now you are going to tell me everything about this wonderful miilaniorpliosis,' 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, lodging in at a shop window wheie I could see myself, that I was a most disreputable-looking object, quite eligible to be appre- hended as an able-bodied vagrant.' 'How deli;4litful ! 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 Coiquhoun 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 Hovvers, and her look wns 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 sympatliy for you, and I don't know, either, what you meant by goiiig on in any such manner.' * I didn't understand it myself then ; I seemed goaded on always to l)e a ]>erfeet lirute when you came. Ihit I believe I understand it now, and peibaps it would be better if 1 did not.' He spoke with considerable agitation, which Gladys B 258 THE GUINEA STAMP, affected not to notice while her white fingers touclied 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 under- stand and feel for me move than you seem to do. Don't you see, Gladys, that it is my misery to care for you as happier men caie 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.' i ■ r^ -.:- CHArTER XXXI. 'what might HA' 1' BERN.* I ^yi^ tfi%^ the eagorness died out of Walter's face, and he turned away immediately as if to leave the room, l^ut 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 otlier. 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 sa-id, 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 no^- 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 Mauehline 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 to(jk his 260 THE GUIXKA STAMP. ^ seat a,f,'ain, 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 tlieir delicate task among the f^ow(»rs, 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 l)usiness has become so prosperous, Don't you think you have lived quite long enough in that ditigy Cohpihoun 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 liu\e 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, witli a glance round the beautiful room. ' How much happier he and I would have been with somethino- a little lower than this, and a little higlier than Colquhoun Strei-t. It often makes me sad to think of the poverty of liis life and the luxury of mine.' 'But you were made for luxurious living,' was Walter's quick reply. ' You ne\ er looked at home in the old place. This suits you down to the ground.' ' Do you think so ? ' Gladys g\ive 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 hajopy.' * Perhaps so, and yet ' — She paused, and hummed a little scrap of song which Walter did not catch. ' wjJAT Mia JIT 11 A vl: bkkn: 201 *I am becoming quite an accomplished violinist, Walter,' she said presently. ' I have two lessons every week ; once Herr lioller comes down, and once I go np. Would you like to hear me i>lay, or shall we talk ? ' * I don't know. It W(juld 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 trotli that very day. A very little more, and she must ha\'e given \Miy 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 tlie world that they should be together. But when AValter 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 pasrion of his life, a pure and honest love t'oi- that beautiful girl, surged in his soul, and his liiee betrayed the curb he was putting on himself. He had had but a poor u|)bringing, 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. 262 THE GUINEA STAMP. * I know you are sorry for me. You have boeii alwin-s an angel to me, even when I least deserved it ; !)ut this is not the way to treat me to-niglit. Let me away.' ' Let me be selfish, Walter, just this one niulit,' slie said, in a low, broken voice. ' I don't know why I nni crying, for it is a greai; joy to me tliat you are here, and that I kno mo' . .or ever, that you feel as you used to do before .'•' - "d money parted us ; tliere are not in all the wori ■ '.^y Trends like tlie old. Forgive me if I have vexed yon.' She rose up and met his glance, which was one of infinite pity and indescribable patho=^. The givat st sorrow, the keenest disappointment which hail ever come to Walter, softened him as if with a magic toucli, and revealed to ^ler his heart, which was, at least, honest and true in every throb. ' You can never ve . me, though I have often vexed you. T need scarcely say I hope you will be happy with tlie 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 difhculties 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 doii t know ; all I know is, that I shall never * W//A T Mtdirr J/A VE BKKN.' 2G3 forget tlu'H(f 'Inys, thcu^^h ihuy can never come again, answered Walter. ' 1 am learning CJerman this winter, and I like it very nnich.' * How delightful ! If you go on at this rate, in a very short time I shall he 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 look^ i < ler than his years, though his face was bare, exce ^ o: he upper lip, where the slight moustache a M-h-ed to soften somewhat the sterner line of the mout. Yes, it was a good, true face, suggestive of 'o\\er and possibility — the face of an honest man. i'ben 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 l)y 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 sorKJwfnl regret, a keen anguish of loss which he could scaively endure. * And when will you come again ? ' * Oh, I don't know. I can't cc-me often, CI lady s ; 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, f''n»^ gfi/J 77//; (WJXKA STAMP. I! 1: hecauso then tliore ran nev(ir 1)e any pri'ti'nce or ?nn- couliiuiil. All is open aR the day. Is it inipossililc that we can still he as we were ? ' * (^uite inipossilae.' Tlis answer was cni't and cold, and he was on his feet aj^ain, movin*,' 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 l)e a man ^ ' ' It would not be possihle, and he would not like it,' he said significantly; and (lladys flushed all over, and flung \\\) her head with a gesture of defiance. ' lie shall not dictate to me,' she said proudly. * Well, if you will go, you will, I suppose, 1)ut 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 autocrntic, 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 in- differently at the photograph he held. * Is this the man ? ' he asked at hazard, and when Gladys nodded, he looked at it again with ki'ener interest. It was the same picture of George Fordyce in his hunting-dress which Gladys had first seen in the drawing-rocm at Bellairs Crescent. ' A grand gentleman,' he said, with a faint note of bitter- ness in his tone. ' Well, I hope you will be happy.' This stiff, conveiitional remark appeared to anger Gladys somewhat, and for the first time in her life she cast a reproach at him. WHAT Ml' HIT HAVE BEEN.* 265 ' You needn't look so resi;^Mie(l, WulLer. Just euat your memory haek, and tliink of some of the kind tiling's vou have said to me wlien we have met sinee 1 liave left (N)l(|uhoun Street. If you tliiidv I can for^'et, thei' you are mistaken. They will always rankle in my minJ and it is only natural that 1 should feel grateful, it nothing else, to those who are a little kinder and more attentive to me. A womati does not like to be ig?iored. At that moment a servanc aijpeared to say the cania'^e 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 stiange 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 rutHed 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. 'I»f|!ti ; T was half-past ten before Walter alighted from the train at St. Enoch's Station. It was a fine dry eveniiii,', with a suffi- cient touch of frost in the air to make walking pleasant. As he n)acle his way out of the station, and went among the busy crowd, ho 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 hipe that their estrangement was but temporary, and that in the end the old days which in tlieir 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 266 Tiih: \VA xDF.nrji. 2G7 felt hims(>lf aloiu^ in the world — more tcrril)ly alone than he had yet been. He was not a vain man, thou^'h ho believed in his own ahilit}'', or, lookinj^ back, he mi;^']it have taken no sin;»ll comfort from the (hiineanour of (lladys towards him. Tie had not been nntouched b} it, her womanly tenderness had sunk into his soul ; but he saw in it oidy the niitiuid out- come of a kind heart, which felt always keenly the sorrow of others. lie believed so absolutely in her sini^dencss of heart, her honesty of purpose, that ho accepted her decision as final. Since she had ])li,i,'hted 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 tliey 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 K 27G THE GUL\EA STAMP, groat need, though in the midst of her deep satisfaction was a secret dread, a vague and vast pity, wliich 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 cot o' hoose and hanu;, 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 lier Utitural 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 nai'thing 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 )nake Teen wince. She was used to it in tlie old days, and expected nothing else. ' Or, 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 \\ay ye did, withoot say in' a cheep to me, cfter a' the plans v/e had made,' said Teen, with equal candour. ' IVIaybe it was,' said Liz musingly, and, with her magniticent eyes fixed on the lire, 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. A FAITHFUL FRIEND, 277 * I dinna think, judgin' fnie appearancos, tlint ye have bettered yoursol', 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 \va.^ visible in her eyes. Teen waited breathlessly, in tli- hope that Liz would still confide in her, but having thus delivered lierself, she again relapsed into silence. ' What way are ye bidin' at ^laryhill ? ' slie asked after a bit, and the same note oi suspii'ion wliicli had been in Walter's questions sounded tlirougli her voice. It made the colour rise in the sharply-outlined elieek 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 dowii the bed, and shook up the old wool pillows, wishing for her '( ) 278 TIIK GUIi\KA STAMP. m§, friend's sako that they weru iiiailc) of down. TIumi slie knelt down on the old rag-carpet, and lu'gan to nnljice 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 IkhI, if ye'll let me ; maybe, if ye kent a', ye wad turn me cot 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 tlew 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 hands(uiie 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 A FAITHFUL FltlEND. 279 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 pain- ful 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, stifif, 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 ? ' '■'SW^it.'riSl ^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I ■iilM 125 ^ U& |2.0 L25 iU I 1.6 — 6" > ■> wV^ om Photographic Sciences brporation G 33 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. USM (716) •73-4503 ^^4^ '4^ r i;. If imB mm 380 THE GUINEA STAMP, * Never ; I've no' haen a sleep like that for I caiina tell ye hoc lang,* said Liz quite gratefully, for slie felt wonderfully rested and refreshed. In an incredibly short space of time the little seam- stress 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 question- ing 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 mor«3 than once Walter f«3und 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 breakfrtst was over. Teen, under preti nee 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. A FAITHFUL FRIEND. S81 * 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 by- gones. 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 ? ' \ ^ asked, trying to speak pleasantly. 'You're my sister, and I need a house- keeper. 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 per- fectly 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 tuniultuously 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 E*, f ut; 282 TIIK GUINEA STAMP. 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 anylhing. 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 ? ALTER 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 an- swered, 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 brifjht on far- off country slopes, he thought of the sore bitterness of \H THE GUI SEA STAMP, life. He might well be at war with fate ; it had not given him much of the good which makes life worili 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 sunbriuj,', 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. ' iSlie'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 what- ever. 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,' WHAT WILL SHE DO? 285 she said, with a sli^'ht smile, *Ye are very «,'uid to tak' sue nuickle tho(3lit about me, and if it'll relieve yer mind, ye can believe tliat whatever I'm about, 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 iiousekeeper, 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 dis- jointed 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,' 286 THE GUINEA STAMP. ! 1. ||llt M Liz sat up, her whole demeanour defiant, her face wearing its most ungracious look. She had not the remotest idea who was mennt hv ' her,' and it is certain that had there been any otlicr means of exit than llic door in the hiiildiiiLr, slie would have taken herself oil' then; and then. What was her astonishment to behold ])resently a lissom, wvad't'iil figure and a sweet face, which setuncil familiar, thuw^li she could nr»t for the moment believe ibat tliey really pertained to (xladys riraliam. And the face wore sucli a lovely look of gladness and wonder and sorrow all mingled, that Liz was struck dumb. ' Oil, Liz/ie, 1 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 wr I 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 i ' ' That's my home now,' said Gladys gleefully. * See what you have missed, being away so long. Has Teeu W//A T WILL SHE DO f 287 not told you of all its glories ? I tliou«,'ht she was so entlni«iiistic' over it, she could not iioli^ her tongue. Xever mind, you shall soon see it for yourself.' ' I'm very much oWeeged to ye, but I'm no' comin',* said Liz, with the same firmness wliieh 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 ([uietly. ' I'm no' fit to speak to tlie like o' you. At least, that's what them ye bclang to wad say.' ' I've nobody belt)nging to me to dictate to me, Liz, and I'm not afraid to trust you. You may luive sinned, I don't know, but you have had many temptations. I want to show you a luippier life. Tell her. Teen, liow lovely it is at dear IJourhilL* ' 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. ' Did you remember that absurd storv about " Lord Bellew's l^ride " 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 sai(i. i 1 I 1^^ \^r:m iji 288 THE GUINEA STAMP. ' Ye'll be gaun to get niairret next ? ' she added, look- ing at (fladys, who smiled and nodded, with slightly heiglitened colour. * Well, wiuit is to be done ? Are you going down wilji me to-day ? ' she asked, looking from one to another, and tapping her dainty foot a trille impatiently on tlie tloor. ' 1 eanna come the day, for my claes are a' at Mary- hill,' said Liz. ' liut I'll gang for them, Liz,' put in the little seam- stress quickly. ' They can be easy got frae Maryhill afore nicht. It's only twelve o'clock the noo.' ' Tliere 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 shouU 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, indiffere' manner. ' I canna understand it.' 'Can't you?* asked Gladys merrily. 'Well, T "^ai* you, that's all. I want to have the pleasure oi: seel'^ you grow strong and well again. Xobody 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, wonderinj.' to see her so undemonstrative, never even uttering a single word of thanks for the kindness so freely ofiVreil. She shook hands with Gladys in silence, and allowed her to depart without further remark. WHAT WILL SHE DOf 289 * You'll make sure that she comes down, Teen ? ' said Gladys, when they were outside the door. ' Poor thinj,', she looks dreadfully ill and unhappy. Where do you think slie 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 Hourhill, I'll see that she disna gan«5 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 ? ' T m , i 290 THE GUINEA STAMP. ' 'hi? 11 ' Hftd Fordyco onything to dae wi' you gaun nwa' 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 am, an' if ye're no' pleased, weel, I can shift.' The girl's matter-of-fact, unruffled demeanour some- what allayed Teen's burning anxiety, and, afraid to try Liz too far, lest she should inaiflt on leaving her, she held her peace. CHAPTER XXXV. A REVELATION. (^UR Aunt Isabel was hero this afternoon, George,' said Mrs. Fordyce to Ikt son, when he cunie liome from the njill that evening. * She came over to tell nie Ghulys is in town. I said I tliought 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 c^uite too far, and she really took the opportunity, when tlie 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 1 ^oll 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 bo your wife, she must be tauglit tliat }'()U are to be considered in some ways. You nmst be very firm with her, George ; it will save no end of trouble afterwards.' Mrs. George Fordycc was a laige stout person, of 291 292 THE GUINEA STAMP. WKm ji-i ;■}■ ?T^. imposing presence, and she delivered herself of this jidniirable sentiment most impressively ; but though lier son quite agreed with her, and wished with all his heart that the girl of his choice were u. 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 ? * '^o; 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 I'eck is utterly useless as a chaperon. I wish we knew what to do. It is one of the most exasperating and del'cate 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. Mi'S. Furdyce was a vain and silly woman, but she had a mother's feelings, and suffered, as every mother must, over Ler son's dishonour. A REVEL ATIO^f. 295 * This girl was one of our hands, and — and — well, you understand, she had a pretty face, and I was foolisli 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 nu' a-'ain. ' 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 respoiisible for her disappear- ance ? ' ' 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 tou«;ue, George Fordyce!' said his mother, her voice sliarp with her angry pain, 'Not responsil)le, indeed ! I am (piite ar^hamed of you. It is a most disgraceful thing, and I don't know v hat youi- father will say.' 'There is no icnson \\\\\ he .sliouM snv iinvliiiiiL; ; he needn't be told,' ."-aid (i-.oruea liillc sullenly. ' ( M' course 1 leuiet it, as cNcrv man does who iii;ik( >^ sutJi a deuced fool of himself. And the giil cfin't eoinpliiiu ; it was moie her fault, anylKAv.' ' Oh, George, (lont l>';i enwnid !i< well as a scoundrel,' said his mother, willi nioiv sliai i>ii«ss in her tone than she had vxkv liefnie used towards her idoli.sed son. 'Don't tell me it is the wouian's fault. That is the poor excuse all men make u hen thev ^ei iheiii-ehcs into scrapes. I am \v\\ sury tor hei', pur thing, and I think ril go and see her ni\>t'lt.' George remained silent, standing gloomily at the window, lotfking on the approach, with its trimly-cut. shrubs and spring {lowers, bk»oming in conventional 1^^ ii.|] "f ^^i!' ' J ir,. J 29 i r/y/i: arrsKA stamp. lines. Ilis motlicr liad not received liis infoniiiitinn quite as he expected, and he felt for tiie nionieiit utterly ' down on his luck.' ' You liave inucoiiio up to the (Irawiiij^-rooiii. Wliy sliouUl we stay (1 >\vii liere ? Don't you tln'iik it ratluT silly ? ' ' 1 ilon't care whetht-r it is silly or not,' lie answeri'd «1. ninthly. ' I don't nii'sm to go up, or allow you to leave this room, for a good halt' hour at least.' Gladys lauLjhed a little, and dropjjed on one knee on a stool before the quaint fireplace, where the logs burned and eraekled 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 ihis afternoon.' ' I didn't tl.ink of il, or 1 might,' answered Gladys (juittj sobcily, and the ruddy tiiciiuht lay warm and bright on lier sweet face, and gave a tlei'))er tinge to the uolcl of hei It ir. As ('ictir'jc Fonlvce stood as near to her as he darcMl, lie iig dttcrred hy a certain high dignity in her bearing, he was .struck-, not only by the perfect beauty of hei- featuies, but by the singular firmness mingling with the archness of her lodk. Twelve months had doni! a great deal for (iladys, and there was nothing of the child left, thoiiLih the new wonumliness was a most gracious and lovrly thing. 'I had such a lai-y iiioriiin'4 down town ; and oh, I have a great deal t) trll you, oidy you must promise to be sympathetic, lu-caii.^e 1 have had a great deal to bear to-day, and have alnio^t (piarrt'llcd with your aunt and the girls.' 'Yes?' he .<^aid, with all the fine indiflerence he could command. ' And what was it all about ? ' He knew it must come scioiu'r or later, and braced himself up to cairy matters through with as high a hand as possible. p m I , y. t' ii^|HB 1 ' 'tv^^^s 1 ■t'^MKH 1 f'' 1 1 ■ 302 TJIK aUlSKA STAMP. * Al)()nt llmt poor ^'irl of wlioni I told you, 1 i/zic Ilt'jdiiiru. Slu; has coiiio luick, looking' so very ' ml uiili!i|»j>y, and of coursii I asked Ijlt down to J .oil!, and your aunt and cousins are so vexed about it, 1 am ([uite pu/,/.l('(l. It is SM unlike them to lilanio one I'nr vvishiiiL,' to )»(' kind. I'lease, can you c.s) lain it ( ' Slu! raised her eyes to his fiee with sonietlnni,' of the old child like wistt'ulness in their depths, and it showed Ueori^e Fordyee to he a very clever man indeed that he was able to meet that clear «,'aze without flinchiuji,'. ' Well, you see, dear, I think it is re^^ard for you which made Aunt Isabel appear a little harsh. She knows the woild, and you do not, and, you know, a youny 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 e it me, or hurt me in the smallest degree. You nnist 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.. .. TP/I'K-A-TRTR, 803 ' Well, but how tan it do nic any luirm to have these «,Mrls at Huuriiill ? Is it because they are poor that I must lujt have tlieni ? * ' Well, not exactly ; thou^^'h, of course, it is not cua- toninry for youii'j; ladies like you to invite such j)e()[tle 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 n^al kindncHs 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 (Uadys. Hitherto the talk had all been of the inlluence such companion- ship 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 eflect on Christina lialfour — \ \ fact, I am sure of it. She is like a dillerent creature, so much brighter and happier ; and I am sure a week or two at Bourhill will do wonders for poor Liz/ie Hepburn. \l 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. Tromise 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 Imrren of consequences the moat 304 TIIK GUINEA STAMP, ^M is r serious ; but 1 c would wear the mask as Ion;,' as j)0S8ible, ami make (»iiu more eiulciivour to .sj^ve hiinsclf. He came buck to the hearth, and, laying' his hainl liurriedly on the heart of the «;irl he h)ved with all the tenderness that was in him, he said, in that pleading', winnin<^ 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 ri^'ht yet to dictate to you, even if I wished to do it, but won't you believe that we oidy advise what is the very best for you ? Couldn't you, instead of having the girls at iJourhill, 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 (iladys wilfully. ' And if I were to retract my invita- tion now, they would never have the same faith in me again. I would not on any account disappoint thcMu.' ' 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, rjiving utterance for the first time to the feeling of disappointment and misgiving whicli 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 aa gratitude in them.' . tRte-X-t£:te, 805 Gladys curled her lips iu scorn. * How unliappy you must bo to have so little faith in liunmnkind. Tliat has not boi-n my experience; l)ut we sliull never agree on that point. Shall we go up-stairs now ? ' Her perfect independence of and indifVeronce to his opinion, betrayed in the careless ease of her manner as she rose from the liearth, exnsjxirated 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 tecame her well, though it only further ex- asperated 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 oflering 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 u 306 THE GUINEA STAMP, If I'. ' iji .f- 1. ft?' speaks ill of me to yotl, you will at least give me a chance to clear mys6lf oefore you c^ondeinn flie.' '"'' * 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. Au you really ofif ?* * 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 tlie 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 ofif 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.' CHAPTEE XXXVII. CHUMS. EVER 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 diuua 307 ■''. 308 THE GUINEA STAMP, «::VU l!|(jj|pi believe slie'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 conscieutiousness regardiug 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 hai? 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 diliiculty in filling up for herself the melancholy details. ' Xoo I'm ready. Ye'U no' slope when I'm oot, Liz ? ' '^he 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.' Tejii stood still in breathless silence, wondering if full revelation was about to be made. When Liz saw this, the old si)irit 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', ftu' I'll brin^ in a sausage or a red herrin' for oor tea.' CHUMS, 309 It was not without some faint, excited c'uri(j.sity 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 arc only dis- tinguishable 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. Ii was now after sundown, and the ^reshness 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 tlannel, 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 olT'er 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' coniin' 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 admira- tion. * No ; she's gaun into the country the morn,' answered Teen, while the ballet-dancer gave severftl 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.' 11 ■: !>*' i^ ■f 810 THE GUINEA STAMP. * She said I was to tell you she had changed her mind aboot tiie theatre,' said Teen. ' She's no' vveel enough for it, onyhoo. She'll be better in the country.' ' Are you her sister V ' 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, look- ing rather uncomfortable over this cross-exaniiiiation. ' 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,' blie said, and, taking Liz's tin box in her hand, she left a trifle hastily, as if afraid she should be longer detained. :i ) CIIUMS, 811 She found Liz sitting where she had left her, in the same listless cUitude, 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 apolo- getically. * 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 ony- thing 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 ; tlien, 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.' 812 THE GUINEA STAMP. Wi^i^ ■I ■ (fit ii i :)-i ■' ! !■ * Is she ? D'ye ken wha V * Ay ; your auld flame,* said Teen, apparently at random, but all the while keenly watching her com- panion's face. She saw Liz become as pale as deatli, 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 re- garding 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 invob'^ed ; 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 after- noon — 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 CHUMS, 813 gather in her eyes as they wandered across the wide landscape over the rich breadths of the plou<,diod fichls, 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 slie was in a manner lifted out of herself. The pure, fragrant air blowing about her, the wide ;.nd wonderful beauty of green fields and sunny slopes, tilled the soul of Liz with a vague, yearning wonder which was almost })ain. 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. * It's a shame,* she said, — * a horrid shame, that we should never hae kent there was a place like this ootside 0* Glesca. Wha is't made for ? — the rich, I suppose, as the best things are.' * Oh no/ said Teen quite gently. * There are plenty puir folk in the country, an' bad folk tae. Mrs. Galbraith says there's as muckle drink drucken in Poosie Nancie's on Seterday nicht as in Johnnie Shields* in the Wynd, but some way it seems different. Look, see, thonder's the big gate o* Bourhill. Eh, I wonder if Miss Gladys is hame ? ' * I say. Teen, ye are very fond o* her, surely ? ' said Liz curiously. ' Since when ? Ye didna like her sae weel that nicht I left ye to tak* her hame frae the Ariel.' . s\ r^' 314 TlIK GUINEA STAMP. it 1 ' ;, ■ ■ '.V ■ - iM: ' No, but I didna ken her then. Yes, I'm fond o' her, an* there's naething 1 wadna dae for her. I wad let her walk abune me if it wad dae her ony guid,' said the little seamstress, her plain face glorified oiue more by the great love which had grown up witliin her till it had become the passion of her life. ' Ye needna fash ; that's the way I've heard lassies speak aboot men, an' ye get a' yer thanks in ae day,' said Liz bitterly. 'The best thing onybody can dae in this world is to look efter number one. It's the only thing worth livin* for. I wish I had never been born, an' I hope I'll no' live lang, that's mair.' ' Oh, Liz, wheesht ! ' * What for should I wheesht ? It's no' the first time I've been doon at the Broomielaw takin' a look roon for a likely place to jump in quietly frae. That'll be my end, Teen Ba'four, as sure as I'm here the day ; then they'll hae a paragraph in the News, an' bury me in the Puirhoose grave. It's a lively prospect.' Teen said nothing, only made a vow within herself that she would do what she could to avert from the girl she loved such a melancholy fate. i ■ CHAPTEE XXXVIII. IN VAIN. llSS CAROLINE PECK had received that very morning a letter from Mrs. Fordyce of Bellairs Crescent — a letter which had put her all in a flutter. It was a letter of warning, counsel, and reproof con- cerning Miss Peck's duty towards her young charge, and laying a strong injunction upon her to be exceed- ingly judicious in her treatment of the eccentric guests whom Gladys had again invited to Bour- hill. It was not a wise epistle at all, though Mrs. Fordyce had regarded it with complacency as a triumph of diplomatic letter- writing. Instead of stating plainly the whole facts, and pointing out how desirable it was that Gladys should not be thrown too much into the company of the girls from the East End, it threw out certain dark hints, which only mystified and distressed poor little Miss Peck, and made her anticipate with apprehension the arrival of the pair. It was a letter which, moreover, could not possibly do the smallest good, seeing Miss Peck, was not only far too fond of her young charge to cross her in the slightest whim, but that she secretly approved of everything she did. Of Mrs. Fordyce, Miss Peck, was mortally afraid, and that very kind-hearted person would have been 815 816 THE GUIXEA STAMP. \'A' aninzod liad she known how the little spinster, meta- phorically S[)eakin,i,', shrank into herself in her presence. The solemn warning' she had received did not, however, prevent her givin<; the two girls a warm welcome when they presented themselves at the house that afternoon. ' Miss Graham has not come home, Christina,' she said fussily, as .she shook hands with them both, ' liut I feel sure she will be here to-niglit. Meantime I must do whiu I can to make you comfortable. Come with me to your old room, Christina, and you shall have tea directly.' Though she had directed all her remarks to Teen, she did not fail at the same time to make the keenest scrutiny of her companion, whose appearance filled tlie little spinster with wonder. She was certainly a very handsome girl, and there was nothing f-^rward or ollens- ive in her manner — nay, rather, she seemed to feel somewhat .shy, and kept herself in the background as much as possible. Acting slightly on Mrs. Fordyce's advice, Miss Peck gave the girls their tea, with its delightful adjuncts of new-laid eggs and spring chicken, in her own sitting-room, and she quite prided her.self on her strength of mind as she decided to advise Gladys to give them their meals by themselves, except on a rare occasion, when she might wish to give them a treat. After tea, during which Miss Peck and the little seamstress sustained the conversation entirely between them, Liz apparently being too shy or too reticent to utter a word, the two girls went out for a walk. In their absence, to the great delight of Miss Peck, Gladys arrived home in a dogcart, hired from the Mauchline Hotel. ' You have something to tell me, haven't you ? ' cried Gladys eagerly, as she kissed her old friend. 'The girls have arrived, I am sure. And what do you think of poor Lizzie ? Is she not all I told you ? * ^ \ ! IN VAIN. S17 * She is certjiinly a fino-lookin;,' <^\v\, but she luis said so little thiit I don't know aiiylliinj; else iil)()ut her.' ' But you have buun very kind to tlieiii, I liope ? I want you to be sj)ecially kind to I^izzie. I am afraid she has had a very hard time of it lately, and she is not strong.' * My dear,' — Miss Peck laid her little hand, covered with its old-fashioned rin^s, on the arm of her youn^ charge, and her kind face was full of anxiety, — ' tell me why she has had a hard time. I hope she is a ;;ood girl, Gladys ? You have the kindest heart, my darling, but you must look after your own interests. I hope she has given you quite a satisfactory account of herself ? ' ' Dear Miss Peck,' said Gladys, with a light laugh, ' she has not given me any account of herself at all, nor have I asked it. But, tell me, do you think she looks like a wicked girl ? ' ' Well, no, not exactly ; but I — I — have had a letter from Mrs. Fordyce tiiis morning,' said tlie little spinster, with the most unsophisticated candour, 'and really, from it one might think your new 'protegee quite an objectionable person.' Gladys looked distinctly annoyed. She had a very sweet disposition, but was a tritle touchy regarding her own independence. Sundry rather sharp passages which had occurred between Mrs. Fordyce and herself on this very subject made her now readier to resent this new interference. ' I really wish Mrs. Fordyce would mind her own business,' she said, and that was such a very harrih sentence to fall from the lips of Gladys that ^liss Peck looked rather startled. * She has really no right to be writing letters to you dictating what I shall do in my Qwn house. Do you belong to me, or to her, I wonder ? * I*' 818 THE GUINEA ^TAMP, u nim I 'h The inonientary rcsentinont died away ag slie asked this (jueHtioii with the old whimsical smile. *1 think sh(! means it for your good, dear,* said I Ik; little sj)inHter meekly, 'and 1 think in some i)arti<'idars she is right. I never dictate to you, and for that very reason you will listen to what 1 am going to sny. I think you should not make too m.ieh of these girls when they are here. Be kind to them, oi' coursi^ and give them every comfort, but let then) eat alone and he companions to each other. I am sure, dear, that would make them much happier, and be better for us all.' ' Do you think so ? ' Gladys asked, with all the docility of a child. ' Very well, dear Guardy, I will do as you think. But where are they now ? I must bid them welcome.' * They have gone for a walk to the birch wood. And how have you been since you went up to town ? Have you been very gay, and seen a great deal of a certain gentleman ? ' ' No, I saw him once only, and we did not agree,' replied Gladys calmly. ' Do you know, dear Miss Peck,. I think it was the greatest mista''" for us to get engaged ? I don't know in the least what made me do it, and I wish I hadn't.' Miss Peck stood aghast, but presently smiled in a relieved manner. ' Oh, nonsense, my love — only a lover's tiff. "When it blows over, you will be happier than ever.' * I don't like tifls,' Gladys answered, as she ran up-stairs to take off' lier wraps. The lover's tifl' seemed to be rather a serious affair, for a week passed away and no letter came from George ; nor did Gladys write any. She felt secretly wounded over it, and though she often recalled that hour spent in the library at Bellairs Crescent, she could not IN VAIN, :n9 remonibor anything* whicli seemed to justify such a c'oiniilete ostrani^eiiieut. Never since she cHino to liouiliill liad so long a time elapsed without cominuui- eating with one or other of the Fortlyce family, but as the days went hy and they made no sign, the girl's pride rose, and she told herself that if tliey pleased to take offence because she reserved to lierself the right to ask whom she willed to her own house, they should receive no advances from her. But she was secretly unhappy. Her nature craved sunshine and peace, and the conduct of her lover she could not possibly under- stand. In all her imaginings how far was she always from the truth ! She did not dream that he believed his death-knell had been rung, and that he attiibuled her silence to her righteous and inexorable indignation over the story she had heard from the lips of Liz Hepburn. He never for one moment doubted that she had told, and between conscience and disappointed love he had a very lively week of it. All this time none could have been more discreet and reticent than the girl who was the cause of all this heart-burning. Her behaviour was exemplary. She was docile, courteouj, gentle in demeanour and speech, grateful for everything, but enthusiastic over nothing, differing in this respect from Teen, who appeared to walk on air. and carried her exfdtation of spirit in her look and tone. But Liz was dull and silent, content to walk and drive, and breathe that heavenly air which ought to have been the very elixir of life to her, but otherwise {ip])eaiing lifeless and uninterested. (Jladys was very kind and even tender with her, but just a little disappointed. Shu watched her keenly, not knowing that all the while Liz was in turn watching her, and at last she breathed a hint pf her disappointment into the ear of the little seamstress. 820 THE GUINEA STAMP. \.t' \\t. .'<■ mm. iii'! ^'i m lit"' i m ■ I ', ' Do you think Lizzie is enjoying Bourhill, Teen ? She looks so spiritless ; but perhaps it is her health, though I think her looking a little better than when she came.' ' It's no' her body, it's her mind,' said Teen slowly. * She has something on her mind.' ' Has she never said anything yet to you about where she was, or what she was doing, all the time she was lost ? ' asked Gladys anxiously. * Naething,' answered Teen, with a melancholy shake of her head. * But I think it's on that she's thinkin', an' whiles I dinna like her look.' ' I'm going to speak to her myself about it, Teen. Perhaps it is something it would do her good to tell. Like you, I am often struck by her look, it is so dread- fully sad. Yes, I shall speak to her.' The little seamstress looked hesitatingly at the bright, radiant face of Gladys, and it was upon her lips to say it might be better to let the matter rest. But, with her old philosophical reflections that anything she might say could not possibly avert the march of fate, she held her peace. Just after lunch that afternoon, as Gladys was writing some letters in her favourite window, she saw Liz sitting by herself in the drowsy sunshine on the lawn, and her face wore such a dejected, melancholy look that it was evident some hidden sorrow was eating into her heart. Closing her desk, Gladys ran down-stai^-s, caught up a garden hat from the hall, and crossed the green lawn to Liz. ' Dear me, how doleful you look ! ' she cried gaily. ' How can you look so dreadfully doleful on such a bright day ? Now tell me every simple, solitary thing you are thinking.' A swift, rather startled glance crossed Liz's face, ?ind she gave rather a forced laugh. 't TN VAIN. 821 'That wadna be easy. I don't tliink I was thinking up an onything, except a nieenit syne, when I lookit wished I was that laverock in the lift.* * But why ? It is much nicer to be a girl, I think. Tell me, Lizzie, don't you feel stronger since you came here ? I think you look it.* * I'm weel enough,' responded Liz dully ; ' an* it's a lovely place — a lovely place. I'll never forget it, never as long as I live.' It was the first note of enthusiasm Gladys had heard regarding Bourhill, and it pleased her well. * I hope you won't, and that you'll come often to see it.' * I dinna think I'll ever come again ; it's no* likely. Hoo lang are we to bide ? ' * As long as you like,' answered Gladys frankly, — 'till you are quite strong, anyhow. Teen is in no hurry to go back to Glasgow ; are you ? * * Sometimes it's very quiet,' said Liz candidly. * But what are you going to do when you return ? ' Liz shook her head, but her lips gave forth no answer. * I hope you will go to your brother, as he wished,' said Gladys, and she could not for the life of her help a curious restraint creeping into her voice. ' It would be so very nice for him to have you ; it is dreadful for him to live quite alone, as he does. Why won't you go?' ' He kens what way,' replied Liz quietly. Gladys was perplexed. There was nothing particularly encouraging in the girl's look or manner, but she thought the time had come to put the question which had so often trembled on her lips. It was a proof of Gladys Graham's fine and delicate nature that she had not ere this sought to probe into Liz Hepburn's secret, if she had one. n 322 THE GUINEA STAMP. il-l m iMi m m ill'- ' Lizzie,' she said gently, ' I hope you won't be angry at what I say ; but often, looking at you, I see that you are unhappy. I have never sought to pry into your concerns, but perhaps, if you were to tell me something about yourself, you would feel more at rest.' * D'ye think sae ? ' she asked, with a faint, ironical smile, which Gladys did not like. * If it eased me, it micht keep you frae sleepin'. I'm very much obleeged to you for no* haein' pestered me wi' questions. I dinna ken anither in the world but Teen that wad hae treated me as you have. But my life's my ain, an' if I suffer, I'm no' askin' pity. I can bear the brunt o' what I've brocht on mysel'.' It was a flat repulse, but it was gently spoken, and did not vex the sensitive soul of Gladys. * Very well, Liz,' she said kindly, * I'll never ask any more; but remember that if I can help you at any time, I am ready, always ready, for your sake and for Walter's.' * He worships the very ground you walk on,* said Liz calmly. ' I wonder what way him an' me was born ? Is't true ye are gaun to be married to Fordyce o' Gorbals Mill ? ' As she asked this direct question, she flashed her brilliant eyes full on the girl's sweet face. * I suppose I am, sometime,' Gladys answered rather confusedly. ' At least, I have promised.* * Ay,* said Liz, ' but there's niony a slip atween the cup an' the lip ; and in time, they say, a'body gets their deserts, even here.* With this enigmatical speech Liz got up and crossed the lawn with averted face, Gladys looking after her with a puzzled wonder in her eyes, thinking she was certainly a very strange girl, and that it was hopeless to try to make anything out of her. fl li p ^^^^ 1 vk38 .-.^/Urlt^W^iC^^^J^ ^ Ji^';N.^iJ|j|^»^^^^^^^^j| -"" \i— ■- ^/\--~'^^|L^W?i»?W °=-, "^ ^^u^y^^-jT-ifr^ ^^sAiB^^^^a^SUSB^!^^*'^ CHAPTER XXXIX. GONE. OWARDS the end of the second week Liz began to exhibit certain signs of restless- ness, which ought to have warned tliose concerned in her welfare that the quiet and seclusion of Bourhill were beginning to pall ipon her. As she improved in her bodily health her mind ^ °came more active, and she began to pine for somethix^g more exciting than country walks and drives. They were not altogether unobservant of tlie growing change in her, of course, but attributed it to a returning and healthful interest in the simpler pleasures of life. All this time George Fordyce had not come to Bourhill, nor had any letters passed between him and his promised wife. It would be too much to say that Gladys was quite indifferent to this ; if her feelings were not very deeply involved, her pride was touched, and the first advances were not at all likely to emanate from her. Liz had lived in secret dread, mingled with a kind of happy anticipation, of meeting George Fordyce at Bourhill, and as the days went by, and there was no sign or talk of his coming, she began to wonder very much what it all meant. She was a remarkably shrewd person, and it did occur to her to connect her visit and 828 'If!" 324 THE GUINEA STAMP, f ( 1 1 ( i Ml t . III ! 4^ 1 i the absence of Miss Graham's lover. One day, however, she put a question to Teen as they sauntered througli the spring woods on the hill behind the house. ' I say, is't true that she is gaun to niairry Fordyce, Teen ? It's no' like it. What way does he never look near ? ' Teen looked keenly into her companion's face, to which that fortnight of complete rest and generous living had restored the bloom of health. Without planning very much, or artfully seeking to mislead the little seamstress, Liz had thiown her entirely off the scent. Such careless mention of her old lover's name, and her apparent indifference as to whether they should or should not meet at Bourhill, had entirely convinced Teen that he had no share in that part of Liz's life which she had elected to keep a sealed book. * It's quite true that they are engaged,' she replied trarquilly ; ' but maybe he's awa' frae hame. But nane o' them hae been here for a long time.' ' She disna seem to be much in earnest,' put in Liz flatly. * I dinna believe mysel' that she cares a button for ony o' the lot ; do you ? ' * I dinna ken,' answered Teen truthfully, ' It disna maitter to us, onyway.* * Maybe no'. Let's sit doon here a meenit, Teen ; the sun's fine an' warm,' said Liz, and plumped down among the bracken, while Teen stood still under the jagged branches of an old fir tree, and looked ' her fill,' as she expressed it, of the lovely world at her feet. It was still a spring world, clothed in a most delicate and exquisite garb of green, waiting only for the touch of later summer to give it a deeper hue. There were many touches of white and pink bloom, showing in exquisite contrast where the hawtliom and the gean were m GONE. 325 in flower. Kor was the ground left with its more sombre hues unrelieved; the blue hyacinth, the delicate anemone, the cowslip, and the primrose grew thickly on every bare hillside and in all the little valleys, making the air heavy with their rich perfume. And all the fields now made glad the hearts of those who had in faith dropped their seed into the brown soil, and the whole earth, down t*. the sun-kissed edge of the sea, rejoiced with a great joy. Nor was the sea less lovely, with the silvery sheen of early summertide on itr placid bosom, and the white wings of many boats glistening in the sun. ' It's jist like heaven, Liz,' said the little seamstress, to whom these thi)igs were a great wonder, revealing to her a depth and a menning in life of which she had not before dreamed. But to these hidden lovelinesses of Nature the eyes of Liz were closed ; her vision being too much turned in upon herself, was dimmed to nincli thnt would have made her a happier and u better n'iil. 'it's bonnie enough, but oh, it g-.'ts stult!, Teen, cfter a wee. if I were as rich as her I wadna hide here — no' if they paid me to bide ! ' 'What fur no'?' 'Oh, it's that flat Naething ever luipp.iis. (lie me the todu, I say: tliere's some life there nnywtiy.' ' I wadna eaie if I never saw tlii^ toon n^^ain,' said Teen giavely, for her friend's words troubled lier. ' Hoo liUiLT d'ye mean to bide here, Teen ? ' (pieiied Liz pi'esently. * It'll be a fortnieht the morn since we cam'.' Teen did not at once reply. She had not dared to count the days, i^rudginii; iheir sweet }),is>ing, and it jarred upon her to hear Liz state the exact period, as if it had' appeared to her very long. 'iii if \ 326 Tir/C GUINEA STAMP. I I., I i.il ii W t I !{ 'ill r^Hi f :i mH ! ] !; (, I Br t* ' Tliis is tli(^ iiiii-tceir.h ; it was tlie tvvenfy-tliird, wasn't it, that Mrs, (jiordon said she was leavin' (;iesca?' ' I'vc^ f(»run(ton Yc"<. T lirlieve it was the twciitv-third,' r.nswcix'd 'iVeii li-ilc.s>ly, i.ot hcipL^ intcrotcd in the time. ' M\, she'll see a lor, nann t'> Ireland wi' a ri giment. It's a lively lite. I ^sisii 1 was iier.' Teen turned sharply round, and looked with re- pioaehful eyes into her companion's face. ' I thocht ye was gled to get away from her, Liz ? I dinna ken what ye mean.' ' Oil, I was doon in the mooth, because I wasna weel,' said Liz lightly. ' Seriously, though, hoo lang are ye gaun to bide doon here, Teen ? ' * I wad bide aye if I had the chance, but I suppo.se we canna bide very much langer. Maybe we'd better see what Miss Gladys says.' ' Ay, I suppose sae,' said Liz a trifle dryly. * What- ever you may think, I dinna think it's fair that she should hae sae much an' you an' me sae little. We're livin' on her charity, Teen.' ' Yes, but she disna mak' ye feel it,* retorted Teen quickly. 'An' she disna think it charity, either. She says aye the money's no' hers, she has jist gotten a len' o't to gie to ither folk.' * Wad she gie me a thoosand, d'ye think, if I were to speir ? ' asked Liz ; and Teen looked vexed at these idle words. She did not like the sarcastic, flippant mood, and she regarded Liz with strong disapproval and vague uneasiness in her glance. * I dinna like the way ye speak, Liz,' she said quietl}'. * But, I say, if ye were in Glesca the noo, what wad ye dae?' GONE. 327 m * t)ae ? It's what wad I no' dae,' cried Liz. * I'm no' the kind to sterve.' * Ye wasna very weel aff when we got ye,' Teen could not refrain from saying. ' Oh, ye needna east up what ye did. I never asked you, onyway. Ye ken you and Wat hauled nie awa' wi' you against my wull,' said Liz rather angrily, being in a mood to cavil at tritles. ' I kent hoo it wad be, but I'll tak' jolly guid care ye dinna get anither chance o* castin' up onything o' the sort to me.' Teen remained silent, not that she was particularly hurt by that special remark, but that she was saddened and perplexed by the whole situation. She had sus- tained another fearful disappointment, and she saw that Bourhill had utterly failed to work the charm on Liz which Teen herself experienced more and more every day. If she were not altogether blind to its loveliness, at least it did not touch any deeper feeling than mere eye pleasure ; but more serious and disappointing still was the tone in which she spoke of Gladys. In her weak and w^ary state of health, she had at first appeared touched and grateful for the unceasing kind- ness and consideration heaped upon her, but that mood had passed apparently for ever, and now she appeared rather to chafe under obligations which Teen felt also, though in a different wav, love having made them sweet. For the first time in her life she felt herself shrinking inwardly from the friend she had always loved since the days when they had played together, ragged, unkempt little girls, in the city streets. She looked at the brilliant beauty of he'* face. She saw it marred by a certain hardness of expression, a selfish, discontented look, which can rob the beauty from the loveliest face, and her heart sank within her, because I ' 'it» |-.i 328 ^///'; GUINEA STAMP. \\r \< \ she seemefl dimly to foresee the end. The little seam- stress did not know the meaning of a lost ideal, the probability is that she had never heard the word, but she felt all of a sudden, standing there in the May sunshine, that something' had gone out of her life for ever. That very night she spoke to Gladys, seizing a favourable opportunity, when Liz had gone to enjoy a gossip with that garrulous person, Mrs. Macintyre, at the lodge. ' I say, Miss Gladys, hae ye noticed onything aboot Liz this day or twa ? ' she queried anxiously. * Nothing,' replied Gladys blithely, ' except that she Ljoks more and more like a new creature. Have you noticed aiiytliiii^' ?' 'Nat'ihinu vury particular; but I am feared that she's weaiyin' here, an' that she wants to get away back to Glesca,' said Teen, with a slight hesitation, it must be told, since such an insinuation appeared to savour of the deepest ingratitude. * Oh, do you think so ? I thought she was quite happy. She certainly looks much brighter and better, and feels so, I hope.* * Oh yes, she's better ; that's the reason, I suppose. She was aye active an' energetic, Liz,' said Teen, feeling impelled to make some kind of excuse for her old chum. 'We've been here twa weeks; maybe it's time we left ? ' ' Oh, nonsense ! What is two weeks ? Suppose you stayed here all summer, what would it be ? Nothing at all. But what do you think Lizzie has in her mind? Has she anything in view in Glasgow ? * 'They'd be clever that fathomed her mind; it's as deep as the sea,* said Teen, with an involuntary touch of bitterness, for she could not help feeling that her 1 1 G0N£1. 829 faithful love and servicb had met with but a poor return. ' She can't think we will allow her to go back to Glasgow without knowing what she is going to do ; we had too much anxiety on her account before,' said Gladys, with decision. * There is no doubt her brother's house is the place for her. I must talk to her myself.' 'Dinna dae't the nicht, Miss Gladys, or she'll think I've been tellin' on her,' suggested the little seani! tress. ' Liz is very touchy aboot a lot o' things.' * Well, perhaps a better plan would be to write to Walter to come down and see her,' said Gladys thought- fully. ' Yes, I shall just do that. How pleased he will be to see her looking so well ! Perhaps he will be able to persuade her to go to housekeeping with him now, and in that case. Teen, you will stay on here. Miss Peck says she can't do without you anyhow, you are such an invaluable help with sewing and all sorts of things ; perhaps we could make a permanent arrangement, at least which will last till I get my scheme for the Girls' Club all arranged. I must say it does not progress very fast,' she added, with a sigh. *We always do so much less than we expect and intend, and will, I suppose, fall short to the very end. If you like to stay here. Teen, as sewing maid or any- thing else to Miss Peck, it will make me very happy.' She regarded the little seamstress with a lovely kindness in her look, and what could poor Teen do, but burst into happy tears, having no words wherein to express a tithe of what she felt. No further allusion was made that night to the question of the girls leaving, and all retired to rest as usual in the house of Bourhill. In the night, however, just when the faint streaks of the summer dawn were 530 rilE GUINEA STAMP. mt' visible in the summer sky, Liz Hepburn rose very softly from the side of the sleeping Teen, and, gather- ing her things together in an untidy bundle, stole out of the room and down-stairs. The Scotch terrier, asleep on his mat at the foot of the stair, only looked up sleepily and wagged his tail as she stepped over him and stole softly through the hall. The well-oiled bolts slipped back noiselessly, and she ran out down the steps, leaving the door wide to the wall. Ana so they found it at six o'clock in the morning, just when Liz was stepping into the first train at a wayside station many miles from BourhilL ' I V" 1 k < CHAPTER XL. THE MATRONS ADVISE. THINK we had better go down and see what Gladys is about,' said Mrs. Fordyce at the breakfast-table. * Could you go down with me this afternoon, Tom ? ' * I daresay I could,' replied the lawyer. * Surely we h aven't heard anything about her for a long time ? ' * I should just think we hadn't,' said Mina, with energy. ' Perhaps by this time she has gone off with somebody. We've shamefully neglected her.' * George hasn't been down either, Julia yesterday/ said Mrs. Fordyce thoughtfully. told me ' There must have been a quarrel, girls. Did Gladys say any- thing more before she went away that day ? ' ' Nothing ; but they are both so proud, neither will give in first. I certainly don't thin.:, mother, that Gladys's feelings are very seriously involved. She takes the whole thing very calmly.' ' George should not be too high and mighty at this early stage, my dear,' said Mrs. Fordyce. ' He will find that Gladys has a mind of her own, and will not be dictated to. All the same,* she added, with a faint sigh, * I admit that he was right to find fault with her having 881 332 THE a U INK A STAMP, hAhX. »ii i m , 'I ii::; m , 1 1 those ^'irls at r*()utliill. Tom doar, T really think it is your duty, as ^niiirdiaii, to interfere.* ' We can <,'o down, anyhow, and see what she is al)out,* replied the lawyer ; and that afternoon, aeeordingly, they went out to Mauehline. Not heiiif,' expected, they had to hire from the hotel, and arrived just as Gladys and Miss Peck were enjoying' their afternoon tea. Siie was unleii^'nedly <;lad to see them, and showed it in the very heartiness of her welcome. It was somewhat of a relief to Mrs. Fordyce to find Gladys alone with Miss Peck. She had (piite expected to meet the objectionable girls in the drawing- room, but there were no evidences of their presence in the house at all, nor did (Jladys allude to them in any way. She had a thousand and one questions to ask about them all, and appeared so allectionately interested in everything pertaining to the family, that Mr. Fordyce could not forbear casting a rather triumphant glance at his wife. 'As the mountain would not come to Mahomet, Mahomet has come to the mountain,' he said in his good-natured way. ' You should have heard the doleful conversation about you at breakfast this morning. Were your ears not ringing ? * ' No, I had something more serious to take up my attention,' said Gladys a trifle soberly. ' I hope you have come to stay a few days — until to-morrow, at least ? ' ' Are all your other guests away ? ' inquired Mrs. Fordyce, with the faintest trace of hardness in her voice. ' Christina Balfour is here still. Her companion left this morning rather suddenly,' said Gladys, and it was tjvident that she felt rather distressed. * In fact, she rftu away from Bourhill.' * Indeed ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Fordyce, in astonishment. TIIK MA moss A D VISE. nna 'Wliy slioultl «lit3 have run ftvvny ? Tt would liavc boon ([uito sullicioiit, suroly, for Iior to have said she wisliod to retuMi to (ilaagow. Voii were not l\eei>iiig her hero ajjjainst her will, I presvune ? ' ' No/ rejtlied (lladys a trillo unsteadily. 'Traniiot say she has treated us well. It was a very silly ns well as a wrou^' proceeding to get u|) in tlie middle of the night and leave the door wide (>j»en, as she did. ISho has disaj)pointed nie very niueh.' ^Irs. Fordyce looked at (Jladys in a kind of wondtu*. Her candour and her ju.'^tness were ns eonspieuous as her decision of ehaiaeter. It evidontly cost her ))ride no effort to admit that she liad made a uiistake, thon-'h the admiss'ou was jiroof of the cdi'KM't i)ro])he('y made hv Mis. Foidvcf! when the li"l wnjiU had i)assed helwet-n them conct iniii Li/ nt Ilflliiirs (.'i(;.seent. ^Ii'S. Fordyce, liowiivcr. was -eiiurous (iidugh to abstain from undue triuni] h. ' Well, woli, my dear, we all make mistakes, though we don't all aihnit so leiidily as you have done that they are mistakes,' sho s;;ii| gnod-iiumouredly. ' I su})pose the girl folt tiie r»s!i;iiiit of this (piiet life too much. What was her (i(*c'ii|iali«ii before slw came down ? 1 don't know that I heard Jinylhiiig aliout her.* 'She was once a mill girl with ]\Ir. Fordyce,' answered (Jladys. ' Sli<' is llie giil who disappeared, don't you rcmemlter? — Walter Hepburn's sister.' ' Oh ! ' The lawyer diew a long Ineath. 'Perhaps it is just as well she has (li>n[)poared again. I did not know that was the girl all the talk was about. Well, are you not tired of this (juiet life yet ? ' 'Oh no; I like it very nnich. Ibit when will you allow the girls to come down, Mrs. Fordyce ? I think m 334 Till': GUINEA STAMP. I: w sit ; II': •!. , •'F: ■:•' it is too bad that they have never yet paid me a proper visit at Bourliill.' ' They are talking of London again — wheedling their poor dear papa, as they lo every May. I tb"ak you must go with us again, my dear.' 'Yes, I should like that/ replied Gladys, with brightening face ; and Mrs. Fordyce perceived that she had sustained a very severe disappointment, which had made her for the time being a tritle discontented with her own fair lot. She took an early opportunity, when Gladys con- ducted her to the guest-chamber, to put another question to her. * Gladys, how long is it since George was here ? ' * I have never seen him since that night in your house, when he didn't come up to the drawing-room,' answered Gladys calmly. * But he has written, I suppose ? ' * No ; nor have I.' * My dear girl, this is very serious,' said Mrs. Fordyce gravely. ' What was the difference about ? You will tell me, my dear ? I have your best interests at heart, but I cannot help thinking it is rather soon to disagree.' * I don't think we disagreed, only I said I should ask whom I like to Bourhill. Surely that was within my rights ? ' said Gladys proudly. * Oh yes, to a certain degree, but not when you harbour questionable characters — yes, I repeat it, questionable characters, such as the girl who ran off this morning. I hope you counted your spoons to-day, Gladys ? ' Gladys could have laughed, only she was too miser- able. ' Oh, what absurd mistakes you make ! ' was all she said. h:: i;. THE MATRONS ADVISE. 335 proper ;ig their ak you s, witli liat she lich liiul eel wilh ys con- juestioii e?' in your g-room/ Fordyce [on will it heart, isagree.' Duld ask thin my hnrhour itionahl'3 tiiorning. ? ' miser- all she r I A % *Not so very absurd, I think. Well, as I said, I think George only showed that he had a proper regard for you and your peculiar position here. We know the world, my love ; you do not. I think now, surely, you will allow us to be the judges of what is best for you ? * ' I think he has behaved shamefully to me, not having come, or even written, for so long, and I don't think I can forgive him. Think, if he were to treat me so after I was his wife, how dreadful it wnuld be. It would certainly break my heart.*^ * My dear, the cases are not parallel. When you are his wife your interests will be identical, and there never will be any dispute.' Gladvs shook her head. She did not feel at all sure of any such thing. * I cannot help thinking, my dear child, that the sooner you are married the better it will be for you. You are too much isolated here, and that Miss Peck, good little woman though she is, is only an old sheep. T must for ever regret the circumstances which pre- vented Madame Bonnemain coming to Bourhill.' Mrs. Fordyce felt the above conversation to be so unsatisfactory that she occupied herself before dinner in writing a letter to her nephew, in which she treated him to some very plain-speaking, and pointed out that unless he made haste to atone for past shortcomings, his chance of winning the heiress of Bcirhill was not worth very much. This letter reached the offender when he was seated at his father's breakfast-table with the other members of the family. He slipped it into his pocket, and his mother, keenly watching him, observed a curious look, half surprise, half relief, on his face. She was not therefore in the least surprised when he came to her if' i >' Ir. 1 J 4*1' l!!^- i i i > ii I i ' ' i t' 336 THE GUINEA STAMP. immediately after breakfast for a moment's private conversation. ' I've had a letter from Aunt Isabel, written at Bourhill last night ; you can read it if you like.' She took it from him eagerly, and perused it with intense interest. Like her son, she had really aban- doned hope, and had accepted the silence of Gladys as her lover's final dismissal. * This is extraordinary, George,' she said excitedly. 'The girl has been, and gone, evidently, and never uttered a word. Can you believe it ? ' * I must. Gladys would nut be fretting, as Aunt Isabel says she is, if she knew all that. What shall I do ? ' His mother thought a moment. She had been very unhappy during the last two weeks, daily dreading the revelation of the miserable story which would make her idolised boy the centre of an unpleasant scandal. Her relief was almost too great, and it was a few minutes before she could collect her thoughts and gather up the scattered threads of her former ambition. ' You may have a chance yet. It is a slender one ; but still I advise you to make instant use of it. Go down and make it up with Gladys, at any cost. If she has heard nothing, and is at all pliable, press for an early marriage.* She gave the advice in all good faith, and without a thought of the great moral wrong she was committing. The supreme selfishness of her motherly idolatry blinded her to the cruel injustice she was meting out to the innocent girl whose heritage she coveted for her son. Yet she counted herself a Christian woman, and would have had nothing but indignant scorn for the individual who might presume to question her right to such a title. This is no solitary or exceptional case. Such things THE MATRONS ADVISE. 337 are done daily, and religion is made the cloak to cover a multitude of sins. Mrs. Fordyce had so long striven to serve both God and Mammon that she had lost the fine faculty which can discern the dividing line. In other words, her conscience was dead, and allowed her to give this deplorable advice withont a dissenting word. *It would be deuced awkward/ said the amiable George, ' if anything were to come out after.' * After marriage, you mean ? Oh, there would be a scene, a few hysterics perhaps, and there the matter would be at an end. A wife can't itftbrd to be so punctilious as a maiden fancy free. She has herself too much to lose.' George accepted the maternal advice, and went out to Mauchline after business hours that very day. :i>i! '^:!.!i .'''i M- m m 3:- k, til CHAPTER XLI. A GREAT REL.IEF. EXT afternoon Gladys herself drove the lawyer and his wife from Bourhill to the station. 'Now, my dear,' said Mrs. Fordyce, as they were about to part, ' I shall allow the girls to come down on Saturday, on condition that you return with them at the end of a week, prepared to accompany us to London.' Gladys nodded, with a bright smile. ' Yes, I shall do everything you wish. I believe I am rather tired of having my own way, and I should not mind having a change, even from Bourhill.' As they stood lingering a little over their good-byes, a train from Glasgow came puffing into the station, and, with a sudden gleam of expectation, Mrs. Fordyce glanced anxiously at the alighting passengers. ' My dear, why, there is George ! actually George himself.' Gladys cast a startled glance in the iirection indi- cated, and the colour mounted high to her brow, then faded quite, leaving her rather strikingly pale. • Why does he come here ? she asked quickly. ' I have not asked liim.* A GREAT RELIEF. 339 * Unless you have broken off your engagement with him, Gladys, he has a right to come whether you ask him or noc. Tom dear, here is our train now, and we must run over that bridge. We dare not miss it, I suppose ? ' ' I daren't, seein,' I have to take the chair at a dinner in the Windsor Hotel to-night,' repli(id the lawyer; ' but if you like to 'remain a little longer, why not, Isabel ? ' Mrs. Fordyce hesitated a moment. Her nephew was giving up liis ticket to the collector at the little gate, and their train was impaaently snorting at the opposite platform. * I had better go,' she decided quickly, as her husband began to run off. Turning to Gladys, she gave her a hasty kiss, and observed seriously. — ' Be kind to poor George, Gladys ; he is very fond of you, and you can make anything of him you like. Write to me, like a dear, this evening, after he is away.' She v/ould have liked a word in her nephew's private ear also, but time forbade it. She waved her hand to him from the steps of the bridge, but he was so occupied looking at Gladys that he did not return her salutation. Gladys stepped composedly into the phaeton, and, sitting up in rather a dignified way, accorded him a very calm, cool greeting. His demeanour was significant of a slight nervousness as he approached the carriage, not at all sure of his ground. * I am in luck, Gladys,' he said, trying to speak with a natural gaiety. ' Have I your permission to take a seat beside you ? ' * If you are going to Bourhill, of course you may,' she -eplied quite calmly ; then, turning to the g.uuui, bb^^ said, without any hesitation, * You car^ walk home, ■II, m 340 THE GUINEA STAMP. fc i ■ M 3* i ■ ■ William. Put my letters in at the post as you pass, and bring me five sliillinfrs' worth of stamps.' The groom touched his hat, look the money and the letters, and walked off, indulging in a grin when his face was turned away from the occupants of the carriage. * Shall I take the reins, Gladys ? ' inquired George, with a very bright look on his face. He perceived that, though there might be * rows,' as he mentally expressed it, they would be of a mild nature, easily explained ; the bolt had not fallen, if anything was to be gathered from her demeanour. 'No, thank you. I dislike sitting idle in a carriage. I always drive myself,' she said calmly, and, with a rather tighter hand than usual on the reins, she turned the ponies' heads, and even gave each a sharp fiick with tiie whip, which sent them up the leafy road at a very smart pace. ' I have come to make my peace, ' Gladys, and it's awfully good of you to send the fellow away,' (ieorge began impressively. ' I'm in luck, I tell you, I pictured to myself a long dusty walk through the sunshine.' ' I sent him away because we had a long drive this morning, and I wanted Castor and Pollux to have an easier load to pull up the hill,' she replied. ' I suppose if I had allowed you to walk instead of William, it would have been rather rude.' Her manner, though very calm and unruffled, was rather unpromising. George looked at her a trifle anxiousl} , as if hardly sure how to proceed. ' Are you awfully angry with me, Gladys ? I always expected a letter from you. I thought you were so angry with me that I was afraid to write.' ' You were quite wrong, then. I was not angry at all. But why should I have written when you did not ?' This was rather unanswerable, and he hesitated a A GREAT RELIEF. 341 moment over his next words. He had to weigh them rather carei'ully for the ears of this singularly placid and self-possessed young lady, whose demeanour was so little index to her state of mind, * Well, if I admit I was in the wrong all the time, though I really, upon my word, don't know very well what the row was about, will you forgive me ? ' he asked in his most irresistible manner, which was so far successful that the first approach to a smile he had seen since they met now appeared on her lips. ' You kT jw very well what it was all about ; you have not forgotten a word that passed, any more than I have,' she answered. ' But you ought to have written all the same. I am generous enough to admit, however, that you had more reason on your side than I was induced to admit that niglit. The experiment I tried has not been a success. Have you heard that Lizzie Hepburn has run away 'from us ? ' He swallowed the choking sensation in his throat, and answered, with what indifference he could command, — * Yes, I heard it.' * And is that why you have come ? ' she asked, with a keen, curious glance at him, — * to crow over my down- fall ? That is not generous in the least.' * My darling, how can you think me capable of such meanness ? Would it not be more charitable to think I came to condole and sympathise with you 'i ' * It would, of course,' she admitted, with a sigh ; ' but I am rather suspicious of everybody. I am afraid I am not at all in a wholesome frame of mind.' She looked so lovely as she uttered these words, her sweet face wearing a somewhat pensive, troubled look, that her lover felt tha?- nothing would ever induce him to give her up. They had now left the town behind. "h r • ! i'l: 1 Jl ! i M-l 842 THE GUINEA STAMP. and were on the brow of the hill where four roads meet. To the riglit stood the cosy homestead of Moss'r. What matter that she was surrounded by all that wa.-, lovely and of good report, when outside, in the great dark world, such things could be ? For the first time Gladys questioned the goodness of God. Looking up into the cloudless blue of the summer sky, she wondered that it could smile so benignly upon a world so cursed by sin. Little Miss Peck, growing anxious about her, at last came out, and bade her get up and attend to the con- cerns of the day waiting for her. ' You know, my dear, we can't stand still though '>^' IfRf 850 THE GUINEA STAMP. m SP' r another perverse soul has chosen the broad road,' she said, trying to speak with a great deal of worldly wisdom. * I see it is very hard upon you, because you have never been brought into contact with such thinirs. but as you grow older, and gain more experience, you will learn to regard them philusopliically. It is the only way.' * Philosophically ? ' repeated Gladys slowly. * What does that mean. Miss Peck ? If it iDcans that we are to think lightly of them, then I pray I may be spared acquiring such piilosophy. Is there nothing we can do for Lizzie even yet, Miss Peck ? ' She broke off suddenly, with a pathetic wistfulness which brought the tears to the little spinster's eyes. * Is there no way we can save her ? Teen says she will die in a cellar or an hospital. Can you bear to think of it, and not try to do something ? ' Miss Peck hesitated a moment. It was an extremely delicate subject, and she feared to touch upon it ; but there was no evading the clear, straight, questioning gaze of Gladys. * I fear it is quite useless, my dear. It is almost impossible to reform such girls. I had a cousin who was matron of a home for them in Lancashire, and she gave me often rather a discouraging account of the work among them. You see, when a woman once loses her character she has no chance, the whole world is against her, and ever} Ijod) regards her with suspicion. Sometimes, my love, I have felt quite wicked thinking of the inequality of the punishuicnt meted out to men and women in this world. Women are the burden- bearers and the scapegoats always.' Gladys rose up, weary and perplexed, her face look- ing worn and grey in the brilliant sunshine, A DISCOVERT. 351 m Her heart re-echoed the words of the little spinster ; for the moment the loveliness of the earth seemed a mockery and a shame. * Why is it so ? ' was the only question she asked. Miss Peck shook her head. That great question, which has perplexed so many millions of God's creatures, was beyond her power of solution. But from that day it was seldom out of the mind of Gladys, robbing all the sweetness and the interest from her life. \r \\\ I ■ Ml T. h. CHAPTEK XLIII. A woman's heart. C'i HE second summer of Gladys Graham's changed life was ^jss happy than the first. Her young enthusiasm had received many chills, and somehow the wealth with which she had anticipated so large a blessing to herself and others, seemed a less desirable possession than when it first came into her hands. Doing good was not simply a question of v;ill, but was often surrounded by so many difficulties that it could not be accomplished, at least after the manner she had planned. Her experience with Liz Hepburn had dis- heartened her inexpressibly, and for the time being she felt inclined to let her scheme fcr the welfare of the working girls fall into abeyance. In May she left Bourhill in possession of Miss Peck and the regretful Teen, and departed to London, apparently with relief, in company with the Fordyces. Her state of mind was entirely favourable to the furtherance of the Fordyce alliance, and when, early in June, George joined the party in London, she allowed him to take for granted that she would marry him in the autumn, and even permitted Mrs. Fordyce to make sundry purchases in view of that great event. All the time, however, she felt secretly 9n. 15 A WOMAN'S HEART, 353 uneasy and dissatisfied. She was by no means an easy person to manage, and tried her lover's patience to the utmost. Her sweetness of disposition seemed to have deserted her for the time being ; she was irritable, unreasonable, exacting, as different from the sunny- hearted Gladys of old as could well be imagined. The only person who was at all shrewd enough to guess at the cause of this grave alteration was the discriminating Mina, who pondered the thing often in her mind, and wondered how it was likely to end. She did not believe that the marriage would ever come off, and lier guessing at all sides of the question came nearer the truth than she herself believed. Gladys appeared in no hurry to return to Scotland ; nay, after six weeks in London, she pleaded for a longer exile, and induced Mrs. Fordyce to extend their trip to Switzerland ; and so the whole beautiful summer was loitered away in foreign lands, and it was the end of August before Gladys returned to Bourhill. During her long absence she had been a faithful correspondent, writing weekly letters to Miss Peck and Teen ; but when she returned that August evening to her own, she was touched inexpress- ibly by the wistful looks with which these two, the most faithful friends she possessed, regarded her. They thought her changed. She was thinner and older looking ; her grace and dignity not less marked, her beauty not impaired, only the brightness, the inexpress- ible air of vivacity and spontaneous gladness seemed to have disappeared. She smiled at their tearful greeting, a quick, fleeting, almost melancholy smile. ' Why do you look at me so strangely ? ' she asked with the slightest touch of impatience. * Do you see anything odd about me ? * ' No, oh no, my child,' answered Miss Peck quickly. z 354 THE GUINEA STAMP, 3); '']', 1^^^ ■< ^i again we we uot * We are so thankful to have you home thought the day would never come. Have counted the very hours this week, Christina ? ' * Ay, we hae ; but 1 dinna think she's fell gled to be hame hersel',' said Teen, and her dark eye was shadowed, for she felt that a subtle change had overcast the bright spirit of Gladys, and she did not know what it might portend. ' Oh, soch nonsense you two talk,' cried Gladys lightly. ' Dear Miss Peck, just ask them to hurry up dinner. I am famishing to taste a real home dinner. Well, Teen, how have you been all this summer ? I must say you look like a new creature. I believe you are quite beautiful, ar.d we shall have somebody falling in love with you directly. I don't suppose you have heard or seen anything of poor Lizzie ? ' ' No, naething. Walter was here. Miss Gladys, last week, seeking ye.* The colour rose in the face of Gladys, and she averted her head to hide her softened, luminous eyes from the gaze of Teen. ' And did you tell him I was coming home this week ? * * I didna. We only spoke aboot Liz, an' some aboot his ain affairs. Miss Peek saw him maist o' the time. He's gaun to sell his business, and gang awti' to America or Australia.' * Oh ! ' exclaimed Gladys sharply. ' Why should he do any such thing, when he is getting on so well ? ' * I am sure I dinna ken,' replied Teen quietly, though she knew — ay, as well as Gladys — what it all meant. ' His faither's deid ; he de'ed efter a week'^ illness, jist at the Fair ame, an* he's gaun to tak' his mither wi' him. She's bidin' at Colquhoun Street the noo.' i *■!■ A WO^IAWS HEART, 355 * A great deal syems to have hajjperied since I went away/ said Gladys, with sometliing of an etlbrt. * Is he going to do tliis soon ? ' * Yes, I think immediately ; at least, he cam' doon here to say guid-bye to you. Ijiit Miss Peck can tull ye mair nor me ; she spoke a h^ig time till him.' A question was on the lips of Gladys, but she held it back, and again changed the theme. * And what does he think about poor Lizzie ? I suppose he has never gone to Dublin to seek for her ? ' * No, I dinna think it.' ' It is all very sad. Don't you think life very sad, Teen ? ' asked Gladys, with a great wistfulness, whicli made the eyes of the little seamstress become suddenly dim. ' Ay, it is. Oh, Miss Gladys, excuse me for sayin't, but if ye had seen his face when I telt him ye were maybe to be mairried in September or October, ye wadna dae't.' ' Why not ? That could not possibly make any difference to me, Christina,' replied Gladys quite coldly, though a slight tremor shook her. ' Well, I must go and change my gown. Bourhill is looking lovely to-day, I think. 1 have seen many beautiful places since I went away, but none so satisfying as this ; you will be glad to hear I still think Bourhill the sweetest spot on earth.' And, with a smile and a nod, she left the little seamsti3ss to her work ; but it lay unheeded on her lap, and her eyes were heavy with a grey mist which came up from her heart's bitterness. Yes, life did indeed appear sad and hard to Teen, and all things moving in ao entirely contrary way. , n% 356 THE GUINEA STAMP. W i't:\ Miss Peck came bustling into her darling's dressing- room very shortly, and began to fuss about her in her tender, nervous fashion, as if it were not possible for her to show her gladness at having her back. Gladys did not say very much for a little ; but at last, when she was brushing at her sc " shi' * g hair, she turned round suddenly, and looked in. • t:, old lady's face with rather an odd look on her own. ' Now, sit down, Miss Peck, ai tell me every single, solitary thing about Walter.' The little lady gave a nerous start. She had just been wondering how 1,o introduce this subject. ' Christina has told you f hat he has been here. My dear, I was very sorry for him. He is a splendid young fellow, and I wish * — She paused there, nor did Cladys ask her to finish her sentence. ' Teen tells me he is giving up his business. Do you think that is a wise step, Miss Peck ? ' Gladys asked, with a fine indifference which rather surprised the old lady. * It may be wise for him, my dear. He seems to feel he cannot remain any longer in this country.' * Did he ask any questions about me ? ' ' Yes, Gladys, a few.' ' Well, I hope you did not give him any unnecessary information ? ' said Gladys rather sharply. * My dear, I told him everything I could think of. I did not think you would wish anything kept back from your old friend. His interest is very genuine.' * I suppose so,' said Gladys coolly, as she began to coil her long tresses round her shapely head ; * we must take it for gr? .ted, anyhow. And what did he give you in exchange for all your interesting information ? Iijj. f A WOMAX'S IIKAHT. 357 Bid he condescend to tell you anything about him- self ? ' Miss Peck was wounded by the tone ; such bitter and sarcastic words she had never heard fall from those gentle lips before. ' We had a long talk, Gladys, and I imagined — perhaps it was only imagination — that it relieved and made him happier to talk to me. His father is dead, and he has taken his mother home to his own house, and she will go with him abroad.' ' Where to ? Is it quite decided ? or has he already gone away ? ' ' Not yet, I think.' * Did he ask where I was ? ' ' Yes.' ' For a particular address ? ' * No.' 'Well, I think the least he might have done was to wiite and let nie know all this.' * My (k'iir child, be reasonable,' s;iid ilie iJLtle spinster, in gcnlle icpioof. ' !!« came expecting to see you, and he left a kind nics-aue for you. I don't see that it would bii^ve done either you or hiui any good to write a letter; your ways must lie so fiir apart now. I told him we expicted your marriage shortly.' ' I have never said it will take ])liice,' said Gladys cahnly. ' I wisli i eople would leave me and my con- cerns alone.' Miss I'eck could see the fill's face in I lie long glass, the red spot burning on lu-r cheeks, mihI the hcautiful lips angrily quivering, and she became mon- and more perplexed. ()f late Gladys had become a being diliicult to understand. ;! I 1)^ 1 1 :iV a.w THE atr/yKA stamp. PI ' u.i. tv, m 11' ;!; ' What is tho usi; of iJilkinjjf in tliiit niaiiner, (iladys ? ' she said, with a faint show of sternmiss. ' I saw Mr. Fordyce in town the otlier day, and ho told me it is ([nite likely the niarriauo will take; i)laee on the ci^ditli of Oftohrr. It is (|iiiii' innto-i-iMc that it could he detiniudy lixcd wiilimii VdU.' ' 1 snji])os(' so. And wliai di'i \\';ilici- say wlicn yon told him my niarria^e-day wa>. lixcd • ' iiitjuiied (iladys, as she tied the ribbon on her hair. * I shall not tell you what he said,' answered the little spinster, (|uite severely for her. * You are in a mood which would make you laugh at an honest heart's suflering.' ' You think very highly of me, Guardy, I must say,' said Gladys a trifle unsteadily. ' But why do you speak of an honest man's suffering ? Do you mean to say it made Walter sufl'er to hear I was going to be married ? ' ' My dear, he loves you as his own soul. I can never forget how he looked and spoke of you,' said the little S[)inster. * He is a good and noble man, and God will bless him wherever he goes.' There was a few minutes' silence, then Gladys walked over to the window, and drawing aside the lace hangings, allowed the red glory of the setting sun to flood the whole room. Standing there, with her white shapely arm against the delicate lace, she looked out in silence upon the lovely prospect which had so often filled her soul with delight. A shadow, dark as a storm-cloud, had fallen upon that sunny scene, and she saw no beauty in it. * I have loved this place well, Guardy — loved and longed for it. It has been an idol to me, and my punishment is here. I wish I had never seen it. 1 A WOMAN'S HEART. 359 wish I had never left the city, never been parted from the old friends. I am a miserable woman. I wish I had never been born.' With a quick gesture she let the curtain drop, and throwing herself on the end of the couch, buried her face in the pillows. Here again it was Miss Peck's privilege to administer some crumbs of comfort to the sad heart of the woman, even as she had once comforted the child. Stooping over her, she laid her hand tenderly on the bent golden head. ' My dear, it is not yet too late. If you do not love this man, it will be a great sin to marrv him — a wrong done to yourself and to him. If there is a chord in your heart responsive to Walter's, don't stifle it. Wliat is anything in this world in comparison with happiness and peace of mind ? ' 'Nothing, nothing,* Gladys answered, with mournful bitterness. ' But it is too late. It is Walter's fault, not mine ; he left me in my desolation, when I needed him most. I did everything I could to show him that I could never forget him, and he repulsed me every time, until it was too late. If he is unhappy, it is no more than he deserves, and I am not going to be so dishonour- able as to draw back now from my plighted word. George has always been kind to me, he has never hurt my feelings, and I will try and repay him by being to him a good and faithful wife.* * A good and faithful wife ! * The little spinster repeated these words in a half- mournful whisper, as she walked slowly to and fro the room. Ah, not thus was it meet for a heart like Gladys Graham's to anticipate the most momentous crisis of a 860 TJiE GUINEA STAMP. ii ( Ir' ( : woman's life. She felt powerless to help, but Heaven was still the Hearer and Answerer of prayer, and with Heaven Miss Peck left the case. She prayed that her darling's way might be opened up, and tliat she might be saved from committing so great a wrong, which would bring upon her the curse of a loveless marriage. W i- •V ! /^^ksstsi- CHAPTER XLIV. THE MAGDALENE. UMMER seemed no longer to smile upon Bourhill. That sunny eveninj,' was the last for many days. A wild, chill, wintry blast ushered in September; if the Lam- mas spates had tarried, when they ca* . they brought destruction in their train. All over the country the harvest was endangered, in low-lying places carried away, by the floods. Whole fields lay under water, and there were many anxious hearts among those who earned their bread by tillage of the soil. These dull days were in keeping w't", the mood prevailing at Bourhill. Never had the atmosphere of that happy house been so depressed and melancholy ; its young mistress appeared to have lost her interest in life. Many anxious talks had the little spinster and the faith- ful Teen upon the iheme so absorbingly interesting to both — unsatisfactory talks at best, since none can minister to a mind diseased. One day a letter came which changed the current of life at Bourhill. How often is such an unpretending missive, borne by the postman's careless hand, fraught with stupendous issues ! It came in a plain, square envelope, bearing the Glasgow post- mark, and the words ' Royal Infirmary ' on the flap. 861 ">, «■■ If' 36^ T//^ GUINEA STA.]fP. m' » Gladys opened it, as she did most things now, with but a languid interest, which, however, immediately changed to the liveliest concern. * Why, Miss Peck, it is a letter, see, about poor Lizzie Hepburn. I must go to her at once, I and Teen. Where is she ? If we make haste, we shall catch the eleven-o'clock train.' She handed Miss Peck the letter, and sprang up from a half-finished breakfast. The little spinster perused the brief communication with the deepest concern. d 'Ward XII., Royal Infirmary, Glasgow, ' Sejiiember 6, 188 . 'Madam, — I write to you at the request of one of the patients under my care, a young woman called Lizzie Hepburn, who, I fear, is dying. She appears very anxious to see you, and asked me to write and ask you to come. I would suggest that, if at all possible, you should lose no time, as we fear she cannot last many days, perhaps not many hours. — Yours truly, * Charlotte Eutiierfukd.' * This is from one of the nurses, I suppose,' said the lit* '3 spinster pityingly. ' Poor girl, poor thing ! the end has come only a little sooner than we anticipated.' Gladys did not hear the last sentence. She was already in the hall giving her orders, and then otT in search of Teen, whose duties were not very clearly defined, and who had no particular place of habitation in the house. It said a great deal for Teen's prudence and tact that her rather curious positions in the house — the trusted companion of the housekeeper and the friend of the young lady — had not brought her into bad odour with the servants. She was a favourite with TILE MAGDALENE. 3G3 them all, because she gave herself no airs, and was always ready to lend a hand to help at any time, disarming all jealousy by her unpretentious, willing,^ cheerful ways. Gladys found her in the drawing-room, dusting the treasures of the china cabinet. * Oh, Teen, there is a letter about poor Lizzie at last ! ' she cried breathlessly. ' It is from tiie Infirmary ; the nurse says she is very ill, perhaps dying, and she wishes to see me. You would like to go, I am sure, and if we make haste we can get the eleven train.' Teen very nearly dropped the Sevres vase she held in her hand in her sheer surprise over this news. * There is no time to talk. Make haste, if you wish to go ; we must be off in fifteen minutes,' cried Gladys, and ran off to her own room to make ready for her journey, Miss Peck fussing about her as usual, anxious to see that she forgot nothing which could protect her from the storm. It was indeed a wild morning, a heavy rain scudding like drift before the biting wind, and the sky thickly overcast with ink-black clouds ; but they drove off in a closed carriage, and took no liurt from the angry elements. They did not speak much during the journey. In addition to her natural excitement and concern for the poor lost girl, Gladys was also possessed by a strange prevision that that day was to be a turning- point in her history. * Surely Vv^alter will have seen his sister ; he cannot have left Glasgow so soon,' she said, as they drove from St. Enoch's Station, by way of the old High Street, to the Infirmary. These streets, with their constant stream of life, were all familiar to the eyes of Gladys. Many an hour in the old days she had spent wandering their melancholy pavements, scanning with a boundless and yearning pity tht faces of the outcast and the destitute, 1^ 364 THE GUINEA STAMP. feeling no scorn of them or their surroundings, but only a divine compassion, which had betrayed itself in her sweet face and shining, earnest eyes, and had arrested many a rude stare, and awakened a vague wonder in many a hardened breast. She was not less compasionate now, only a degree more hopeless. Since she had been so far removed from the sins and sorrows, the degradations and grinding poverty of the great city, she had, while not thinking less seriously or sym- pathetically of it all, felt oppressed by the impotence of those standing on the outside to lift it up to any level of hope. ' The loud, stunning tide of human care and crime/ as Keble has it, beat more remorselessly and hopelessly on her ears as she looked up to the smoke-obscured sky that wet and dismal day. She felt as if heaven had never been so far away. Almost her faith had lost its hold. These sad thoughts, which gave a some- what worn and wearied look to her face, were arrested by their arrival at the Infirmary gates. It was not the visiting hour, but a word of explanation to the porter secured them admittance, and they found their way to the portion of the old house where Lizzie Hepburn lay. The visiting surgeons and physicians had just lef<", so there were no impediments put in their way, and one of the housemaids speedily brought Nurse Eutheifurd to them. She was a pleasant-faced, brisk little body, whose very presence was suggestive of skill and patience and kindly thought for others. * Oh yes, you are Miss Graham, and have come to see poor Lizzie,' she said. ' Will you just come in here a moment ? Her brother is with her. I will tell her you have come.' She took them into a little room outside the ward fc. THE MAGDALENE. 365 ward door, and liiigured only a moment to give them some particulars. ' Sue has been here tliree weeks,' she explained ; 'she was over in the surgical wards tirst, and then came to us ; it was too late for us to do any good. 'I'he doctor j-aid this morning that she will i)iol)ahly slip away to-day.' The little seamstress turnt-d away to the gity window and wept silently ; Gladys remained composed, but very pale. 'And her brother is with he. " Is this the first time ? ' she aske,nd her great hollow eyes dwelt yet more se irchingly on the girl's sweet face. IlII nc i'^ noo,' she said * I've lain here ever since the "ir .c >/:l! m.^' she heard it was to be, wonderin' whel ier I should tell, if ye hadna been what ye are THE MAGDALENE. 367 T waa never hae telt ; but, though I hae suffered, I wad spare you. It was him that brocht me to this.' GLadys neither started nor trembled, but sat quite motionless, staring at tlie sad, beautiful face before her, as if not comprel lending what was said to her. * It was him that led me awa' first an' when a lassie yince gets on that road, it's ill keepin' straieht. He said he wad mairry me, an* I believed it, as miODv anither has afore me. Wheesht, Teen ; dinna greet.' The sobs of the little seamstress shook the narrow bed, and appeared to 'distress Liz inexpressibly. Prese.-itly she glanced again at the face of Gladys, and was struut will a tclc^^n-am n^t do as well ? It will catch hiin more quickly. He is often away early just now ; there is so much to see about at DowanhilL' At Dowanhill was situated the handsome town house George Fordyce liad taken for his bride, but the allusion to it had no efl'ect on Gladys except to make her give her lips a very peculiar compression. ' How stupid of me not to think of a telegram ! "Will you please send it out at once ? ' ' From myself ? ' ' Yes, please.' She brought Mrs. Fordyce her writing materials, the telegram was written, and the maid who brought in the tea took it down-stairs. ' Gladys, you look frightfully out of sorts,' said Mina quickly. 'What have you been about? Have you been long in town ?' * Since twelve. I have come from the Infiiniary just now, walking all the way.' 'Walking all the way I — but from the Western, of course ? ' ' No, from the Eoyal ; it seemed quite short. Oh, that tea is delicious ! ' She drank the contents of the cup at one feverish draught, and held it out for more. ]>oth nioiher and daughter regarded her with inci'eased anxirty in their looks. 'My dear, it is quite time you had some one to exercise a gentle authority over you. To walk from the Ifoyal hiHrniiiry here I It is past speaking of. Child, what do you mean ? You will be ill on our hands next, and tliat will be a pretty to-do. Surely you came oil' in post-haste this morning without your i 372 TIIJ': GUfXKA STAMP, : i rings?' she addod, with a significant ghmcc at the girl's white hand, from wliich shu had removed tlie glove. Gladys took no notice of the remark ; but Mina, observant as usu;d, saw a look she had never before seen creep into tiie girl's eyes. ' But you have never told us yet what you were doing at the Infinnaiy ? ' she said suggestively; but Gladys preserved .silence for a few minutes more. 'Please not to ask any questions,' she said rather hurriedly. 'You will know everything very soon, only let me be > ^^. JV" '^ <9 / Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. MSSO (716) S73-4S03 \ iV [V ^ :\ \ ''\ ' ^ V ^ >, -^q\ ? 374 THE GUINEA STAMP. j^r i * that you ruined that poor girl, — and do you think that a lie can be uttered on a deatli-lu'd, — wliat more is there to say ? Gather up these baubles, and take them away.* Her bearing:? was that of a queen. Well mi«,dit he shrink under that matchless scorn, yet never liad she appeared more b-jautiful, more desirable in his eyes. He made one mon; attempt. 'Take time, (iladys. I deny nothinfj ; I only ask to be allowed to show you, at least, that I am a repentant man, and that I will atone for all the past by a lifetime of devotion.' • To whom ? ' ' To you. I have been a wild, foolish, sinful fellow, if you like, but never wholly bad,' he said ea«jjerly. ' And, Gladys, think of the fearful scandal this will be. We dare not break off the marriage, when it is so near.' 'I dare; I dare anything, George Fordyce. And I pray God to forgive you the awful wrong you did to that i)oor girl, and the insult you were base eiiough to ofifer me in asking me to be your wife — an insult, I fear, I can never forgive.* * Aunt Isabel, will you not help me ? ' said he then, turning desperately to his aunt. ' Tell Gladys what you know to be true, that there are hundreds of men in this and other cities who have married girls as pure and good as Gladys, and whose life before marriage would not bear investigation, yet they make the best of husbands. Tell her that she is making a mountain out of little, and that it will be madness to break off the marriage at this late date.* Mrs. Fordyce slowly turned towards them. The tears were streaming down her face, but she only sadly shook her head. 4;:i THE liOLT FALLS 376 George. Gladys is right. You had ' I cannot, better go.' Then George Fordyce, with a malignant scowl on his face, put his heel on tlie bauble which had cost him a hundred guineas, crushed it into powder, and flung himself out of the room. Then Gladys, with a low, faint, shuddering cry, threw herself upon the couch, and gave way to the floodtide of her grief and humiliation and angry pain. Mrs. Fordyce wisely allowed it to have full vent, but at last she seated herse^' by the couch, and laid her hand on the girl's flushed and heated head. ' Now, my dear, be calm. It is all over. You will be better soon, my poor, dear, darling child.' Gladys sat up, and her wet eyes met those of her kind friend, who had allowed her upright and womanly heart to take the right, if the unworldly side. 'Just think how merciful it was of God to let me know in time. In a few weeks I should have been his wife, and then it would have been terrible.' ' It would,' said Mrs. Fordyce, with a sigh ; ' but you would just have had to bury it, and live on, as many other women have to do, with such skeletons in the cupboard.' ' I don't suppose I should have died, but I should have lived the rest of my life apart from him. Is it true what he says, that so many are bad ? I cannot believe it.' ' Nor do I. There are some, I know, who have had an unworthy past, but you must romember that all women do not look at moral questions from your exalted stand- point. There are even girls, like Julia, for instance, who admire men who are a little fast.' ' How dreadful ! That must lower the morality of d76 THE GUINEA STAMP. I*- i * men. It shall never be said of me. If I cannot marrv a man who entertains a high and reverent ideal of manhood and womanhood, I shall die as I am.* ' He will be difficult to find, my dear/ said Mrs. Fordyce sadly. ' This is a melancholy end to all our high hopes and ambitions. It will be a frightful blow to them at PoUokshields.' ' I am not sorry for them. They will think only of what the world will say, and will never give poor Lizzie one kindly thought. If it is a blow, they deserve it ; I am not sorry for them at all.' 'And you are not in the least disconcerted at the nine days' wonder the breaking of your engagement will make?' 'Not in the least. What is it, after all? The buzzing of a few idle flies. I have no room for anything in my heart but a vast pity for the poor dead girl who was more sinned against than sinning, and a profound thankfulness to God for His unspeakable mercy to me.' She spoke the truth ; and in her own home that night, upon her knees, she poured forth her heart in fervent prayer, and mingling with her many strange feelings was a strange and unutterable sense of relief, because she was once more free. f I CHAPTER XLVI. THE WOULD WELL LOST. [LADYS returned to her own liome that night, and when she a«,'ain left it it was in altered and liappy circumstances. Those who loved her so dearly watched over her the next days with a tender and solicitous concern, but they did not see much, in her outward demeanour at le.ist, to give them cause for alarm. She was certainly graver, preoccu[tied, and rather sad ; but, again, her natural gaiety would over- flow more spontaneously than it had done for long, thus showing that pride and womanly feeling had been wounded ; the heart was perfectly whole. She lived out of doors during the splendid September weather, taking an abounding interest in all the harvest- work, finding comfort and healing in simple 'hings and homely pleasures, and feeling that never while she lived did she wish to set foot in Glasgow again. There was only one tie to bind her to it — one spot beneath its heavy sky dear to her ; how much and how often her thoughts were concentrated upon that lowly place none knew save herself. Since that melancholy morning in the ward of the Eoyal Infirmary she had not heard of or seen Walter, but m 37S THE GUINEA STAMP. Si i V . she knew in her inmost heart that she should see him, and waited for it with a strange restfuhiess of heart, therefore it was no surprise to h(T wlien he came one p.unny evening up tlie avenue to the house. She saw him coming, and ran out to meet him — sonieihing in the old childish fashion — with a look of eager welcome on her face. His dark face flushed at her cominir, and he gave his head a swift turn away, and swallowed something in his throat. When they met he was grave, courteous, but a trifle distant ; she was quick to note the change. ' I knew you would come to see me again, Walter,' she said, as they shook hands with the undemonstrative cordiality of tried Triends. ' I am very glad to see you.' ' Are you ? Yet it was a toss-up with me whether I should come or not,' he said, looking at the graceful figure, and noticing with some wonder that she was all in black, relieved only by the silver belt confining her silk blouse at the waist ; ' but I thought I had better come and say good-bye.' * Good-bye ! Are you going away, then, somewhere ? ' she asked in a quiet, still voice, which betrayed nothing. * Yes ; I have taken my passage to Australia for the fourteenth of October, sailing from London. I leave on Monday, however, for I have some things to see to in London.' * On Monday ? And does your mother accompany you?' ' No ; she is too old for such an undertaking. I have arranged for her to board with a family in the country. She has been there some weeks now, ever since I sold off, and likes it very much. It is better for me to go alone.* *I suppose so. Are you tired with your walk, TtM-.i rig; I THE WORLD WELL LOST. 379 Walter, or can you go on a little farther ? It is a shame that you have never seen anytliiii^ of rxjurliill. Surely you will at least sleep here to-nij,'ht i or must you run away again by the nine-tifteen ?' * I can stay, since you are good enough to wish it,' he said a trifle formally; 'and you know I shall be only too happy to walk anywhere you like with you.' 'How accommodating!' said (Iladys, with a faint touch of ironical humour. ' Well, let us go up to the birch wood. We shall see the moon rising shortly, if you care about anything so comm()n})lace as the rising of a moon. To Australia ? And when will you come back, Walter ? ' ' I can't say — perhaps never.* ' And will it cost you no pang to turn your back on the land of brown heath and shaggy wood, which her children are supposed to adore ? ' she asked, still in her ohl bantering mood. ' She has not done much for me ; I leave few hut painful memories behind,* he answered, with a touch of kindness in his voice. * But I will not say I go without a pang.* They remained silent as Gladys led the way through the shrubbery walk, and up the steep and somewhat rugged way to the biich wood crowning the little hill which sheltered Bourhill from the northern blast. It was a still and beautiful evening, with a lovely softness in the air, suggestive of a universal resting after the stress of the harvest. From the summit of the little hill they looked across many a fair breadth of goodly land, where the reapers had been so busy that scarce one field of grow- ing corn was to be seen. All the woods were growing meliov/, and the fulness and plenty of the autumn were abroad in the land. 380 TIIK GUINEA STAMP. i 4' 'It's dowie rt tlu; hint o' hairst, at the \va* ^'aun o* tlio swallow,' quoted Waller in a low voice, and his eye grew moist as it rau^'rd across tiie beautiful landscape with something of that unntt«ral»le and painful longing with which the exile takes his farewell of the land he loves. 'Walter,' said (lladys quite softly, as she leaned against the straight white truid\ of a rowan tree, on which the berries hung rich and n-d, ' I have often thought of you since that sad day. Often I wished to write, but 1 knew that you would come when you felt like it. Did you understand ? ' ' T heard that your marriage was broken ofT, and I thanked Ch)d for that,' Walter answered ; and Gladys heard the tremor in his voice, and saw his firm, tine mouth lake a long, stern curve. 'It did not sur}»rise you?* she as ' \a the same soft, far-oil' voice, which betrayed notliing but the gentlest sisterly eonfidfuce and regard. 'No; but I suHcred agony enough till I heard it. When one lives through such dark days as these were, Gladys, faith in humankind becomes very dillicult. I feared lest your scruples might be overcome.' ' I am sorry you had such a fear for me, Walter, even for a moment, but i)erhaps it was natural. And when will you come back from this dreadful Australia, did you say ? ' ' Perhaps never.* lie did not allow himself to look at her face, because he did not dare ; but he saw her pick the berries from a red bunch she had pulled, and drop them one by one to the ground. Never had he loved her as he did then in the anguish of farewell, and he called him. ^df a fool for not having gone, as prudence prompted, leaving only a written message Ijeliind. 1. i m THE WOULD WELL LOST. 381 • And is tliat ;ill you liiivc to say to im', "Wnltor, that you aro ^'<)iii<^ to Australia — on tlie fdurlociilli, is it? — nii raid, and was read and discussed at many breakfast-tables: — ' At liourhill, Ayrshire, on the 8th instant, Walter Hepburn to Gladys Graiiam.' It may be adilcd that it was a source of ])rofound wonder to many, and of awful chagrin to a few. In the house of tiie I'ollokshields' Fordyces the announce- ment was discrei'lly tabooed, thou|,di Geor/^e nnist have felt it keeidy, seeing (Jladys had sullcred so little over the unha]»[)y terminal ion of their engagement that she could substitute another brick'groom though retaining tht same marriage-day. On the fouiteeiith the young couple set sail for the land of the Southern Cross, and were absent exactly twelve months, the reason for tlieir return being that they wislied their first-born cliild to see the liglit tir^t in liourhill. And they never left it again ; for WaltiT made use of the (Colonial connection he had made to build up a new business in Glasgow, which has prospered 884 TlIK GUISEA STAMP. far ulmvt! Ills expectation. So foitiiiie lins blessed liiiii in \\\i\ end, and li«; can admit now that the bitterness of the old days was not withont it.s ptirpose. The faitliful Teen, no longer njelanchoiy, reigns in a snug h«)U.se of her own, not a hundreil miles from Manddine, iuit retains her old ndoration for liourhill and its bonnie, sweet mistress. There are oeeasional comin;;s and goings between the I'eliairs ('r(!seent Fonlvccs and i'Murhill, and the family arc uniti'd in approving the mairiage of (Jladys now, though they had their lling at it with the rest of the folk when it was a nine days' wonder, liiit that is the way of the world mostly, to go with the crowd, which jum])S on a man when he is down, and gives him a kimlly pat or a cringing salute, as may seem most advisabh;, when he is up. IJut the wise man takes no account of such, ])ursuing his own path with integrity and perseverance, cherishing the tried friends, and keeping warm and close in his heart, like a dove in its mst, the love which, through sunshine and storm, remains unchanged. ii THE £Na K.I (I hull U1UUS3 ;;^ns in from jurhill I'n the family i now, of th(j iH ihe which liim a [ most Msuing risliing ill his h rough