SHE
 
 THE GUINEA STAMP 
 
 a Gale of flDofcern 
 
 BY ANNIE S. SWAN 
 
 Author of "Aldersyde," "Across Her Path," " The Gates of Eden," "The Ayres of 
 Studleigh," "Who Shall Serve?" Etc. 
 
 1 The ratik is but the guinea stamp, 
 The man 's the gow'd for a' that." 
 
 CINCINNATI: CRANSTON & CURTS 
 NEW YORK: HUNT & EATON 
 1892
 
 Copyright 
 
 By CRANSTON & CURTS, 
 1892.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 FATHERLESS, 7 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 WHAT TO DO WITH HER, 15 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 THE NEW HOME, 24 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 A RAY OF LIGHT, 31 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Liz, 39 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 PICTURES OF LIFE, 46 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 Liz SPEAKS HER MIND, 54 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 EDGED TOOLS, 61 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 AN IMPENDING CHANGE, 60 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IN AYRSHIRE, 78 
 
 3 
 
 2228970
 
 4 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 DARKENING DAYS 87 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 SETTING His HOUSE IN ORDER, 95 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 TUB LAST SUMMONS, 103 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 THOSE LEFT BEHIND, Ill 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 HER INHERITANCE, 119 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 FAREWELL, 126 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 THE WEST END 134 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 THE DAYS THAT ARE NOT, 142 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 THE SWEETS OF LOVE, . . 150 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 PLANS, 157 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 ACROSS THE CHANNEL, 164 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 HELPING HAND, 172 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 REAL AND IDEAL, 180
 
 CONTENTS. 5 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 PAGE. 
 THE UNEXPECTED, 188 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 THE FIRST WOOER, 195 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 UNDER DISCUSSION, 203 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 Liz HEPBURN, 209 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 A TROUBLED HEART, 215 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 Ax AWAKENING, 222 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 Too LATE ! 229 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN, 237 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 THE WANDERER, 244 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 A FAITHFUL FRIEND, 251 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 WHAT WILL SHE Do? 259 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 A REVELATION, 266 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 TETE-A-TETE, 273
 
 6 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 CHUMS, 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 IN VAIN, t> .;.'..,. -288 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 GONE, 296 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 THE MATRON'S ADVICE, 303 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 A GREAT RELIEF, 309 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 A REVELATION, 310 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 A WOMAN'S HEART, 322 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 THE MAGDALENE, 330 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 THE BOLT FALLS 337 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 THE WORLD WELL LOST, 344
 
 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 T wan an artist's studio a poor, shabby little place, 
 with a latticed window facing the north. There 
 was nothing in the furnishing or arrangement of 
 the room to suggest 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 brushes were scattered on the 
 floor, where the artist had laid them down forever. 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 fen country looked desolate, cheerless, and chill. These
 
 8 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 green meadows and flat stretches have need of the sunshine 
 to warm them always. Sitting there in the soft gray light, 
 Gladys Graham looked more of a woman than a child, though 
 her gown did not reach her ankles, and her hair hung in a 
 thick golden plait down her back. Her face was very care- 
 worn and very sad, her eyes red and dim with long weeping. 
 There was not on the face of the earth a more desolate 
 creature than the gentle, slender girl, the orphan of a day. 
 At an age when life should be a joyous and lovely thing to 
 the maiden child, Gladys Graham found herself face to face 
 with its grimmest reality, certain of only one thing, that 
 somewhere and somehow she must earn her bread. She was 
 thinking of it at that moment, with her white brows perplex- 
 edly knitted, her mouth made stern by doubt and apprehen- 
 sion and despair; conning in her mind her few meager 
 accomplishments; 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 musical 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 
 71 17. "What, 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 and winter through. 
 Its old houses reminded one of a Dutch picture, which 
 the quaint bridges across the waterways served to enhance. 
 There are many such in the fen country, dear to the artist's 
 soul. 
 
 John Graham was not alone in his love for the wide 
 reaches, level as the sea, across which every village spire 
 could be seen for many a mile. Not very far away, in clear
 
 FATHERLESS. 9 
 
 weather, the great tower of Boston, not ungraceful, stood 
 out in awe-inspiring grandeur against the sky, and was 
 pointed out with pride and pleasure by all who loved the fens 
 and rejoiced in the revived prosperity of their ancient capital. 
 For ten years John Graham had been painting pictures of 
 these level and monotonous plains, and of the bits to be 
 found at every village corner ; but somehow, whether people 
 had tired of them, or hesitated to give their money for an 
 unknown artist's work, the fortune he had dreamed of never 
 came. The most of the pictures found their way to the 
 second-hand dealers, and were there sold, often for the merest 
 trifle. He had somehow missed his mark had proved 
 himself a failure and the world has not much patience or 
 sympathy with failures. A great calamity, such as a colossal 
 bankruptcy, which proves the bankrupt to be more rogue 
 than fool, arouses in it a touch of admiration, and even a 
 curious kind of respect ; but with the man out at elbows, who 
 has striven vainly against fearful odds, though he may have 
 kept his integrity throughout, it will have nothing to do f he 
 will not be forgiven for having failed. 
 
 And now, when he lay dead, the victim of an ague con- 
 tracted in his endeavor to catch a winter effect in a marshy 
 hollow, there was nobody to mourn him but his motherless 
 child. It was very pitiful ; and surely in the wide world 
 there must have been found some compassionate heart who 
 would have taken the child by the hand and ministered unto 
 her for Christ's sake. If any such there were, Gladys had 
 never heard of them, and did not believe they lived. She 
 was very old in knowledge of the world, that bitterest of all 
 knowledge, which poverty had taught. She had even known 
 what it was, that gentle child, to be hungry and have noth- 
 ing to eat a misery enhanced by the proud, sensitive spirit 
 which was the only heritage John Graham had left the daugh- 
 ter for whom, most cheerfully, he would have laid down his 
 life. The village people had been kind after their homely 
 way. But they, working hard all day with their hands, and
 
 10 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 eating at eventide the substantial bread of tbeir honest toil, 
 were possessed of a great contempt for the worn and haggard 
 man who tramped their meadow-ways with his sketch-books 
 under his arm, his daughter always with him, preserving still 
 the look and manners of the gently born, though they wore 
 the shabbiest of shabby garments, and could scarcely pay for 
 the simple food they ate. It was a great mystery to them, 
 and they regarded the spectacle with the impatience of those 
 who did not understand. 
 
 It was the month of November ; and very early that gray 
 day the chilly darkness fell. When she could no longer see 
 across the narrow street, Gladys let her head fall on her 
 hands, and so sat very still. She had eaten nothing for many 
 hours ; and, though feeling faint and weak, it did not occur 
 to her to seek something to strengthen her. She had some- 
 thing more important than such trifling matters to engross 
 her thoughts. She was so sitting, hopeless, melancholy, 
 half-dazed, when she heard the voice of an arrival down- 
 stairs, and the unaccustomed tones of a man's voice mingling 
 with the shriller notes of Miss Peck, their little landlady. It 
 was not the curate's voice, with which Gladys had grown 
 quite familiar during her father's illness. He had been very 
 kind, and in his desperation, when his end approached, Gra- 
 ham had implored him to look after Gladys. It was a curi- 
 ous charge to lay upon a young man's shoulders ; but Clem- 
 ent Courtney had accepted it cheerfully, and had even 
 written to his widowed mother, who lived alone in a Dorset- 
 shire village, asking her advice about the girl. Gladys was 
 disturbed in her solitude by Miss Peck, who came to the 
 door in rather an excited and officious manner. She was a 
 little, wiry spinster, past middle life, eccentric, but kind- 
 hearted. She had bestowed a great deal of gratuitous and 
 genuine kindness on her lodgers, though knowing very well 
 that she would not likely gefl any return but gratitude for it. 
 But times were hard with her likewise, and she could not 
 help thinking regretfully at times of the money, only her
 
 FATHERLESS. 11 
 
 due, which she would not likely touch, now that the poor 
 artist was away. She had a little lamp in her hand, and she 
 held it up, so that the light fell full on the child's pale face. 
 
 " Miss Gladys, my dear, it is a gentleman for you. He 
 says he is your uncle," she said ; but her thin voice quite 
 trembled with her great excitement. 
 
 " My uncle," repeated Gladys, wistfully. " yes ; it will 
 be Uncle Abel, from Scotland. Mr. Courtney said he had 
 written to him." 
 
 She rose from her stool, and turned to follow Miss Peck 
 down -stairs. 
 
 " In the sitting-room, my dear, he waits for you," said 
 Miss Peck, and a look of extreme pity softened her -pinched 
 features into tenderness. " I hope I hope, my dear, he will 
 be good to you." She did not add what she thought, that the 
 chances were against it ; and, still holding the lamp aloft, she 
 guided Gladys down-stairs. There was no hesitation, but 
 neither was there elation or pleasant anticipation in the girl's 
 manner as she entered the room. She had ceased to expect 
 anything good or bright to come to her any more, and per- 
 haps it was as well just then that her outlook in life was so 
 gloomy. It lessened the certainty of disappointment. A 
 little lamp also burned on the round table in the middle of 
 the narrow sitting-room, and the fire feebly blinked behind 
 Miss Peck's carefully polished bars, as if impressed by the 
 subdued atmosphere without and within. Close by the table 
 stood a very little man, enveloped in a long, loosely-fitting 
 overcoat, his hat in one hand, and a large, damp umbrella 
 in the other. Ho had an abnormally large head, and a soft, 
 flabby, uninteresting face, which, however, was redeemed 
 from vacancy by the gleam and glitter of his remarkably 
 keen and piercing black eyes. His hair was gray, and a 
 straggling beard, gray also, adorned his heavy chin. Gladys 
 was conscious of a strong sense of repulsion as she looked 
 at him ; but she tried not to show it, and feebly smiled as 
 she extended her hand.
 
 12 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " Are you Uncle Abel, papa's brother?" she asked a per- 
 fectly unnecessary question, of course, but it fell from her 
 involuntarily. The contrast was so great. Almost she could 
 have called him an impostor on the spot. 
 
 " Yes," said Uncle Abel, in a harsh undertone; "and you, 
 I suppose, are my niece." 
 
 "Yes. Can I take your overcoat or your umbrella?" 
 asked Gladys; "and would you like some tea? I can ask 
 Miss Peck to get it. I have not had any myself now I 
 come to think of it." 
 
 " I '11 take off my coat. Yes, you can take it away ; but 
 don't order tea yet. We had better talk first talking 
 always makes one hungry; then we can have tea, and we 
 won't require any supper. These are the economics poor 
 people have to study. I guess you are no stranger to 
 them." 
 
 Gladys again faintly smiled. She was not in the least sur- 
 prised. Poverty had long been her companion. She ex- 
 pected nothing but to have him for her companion still. She 
 took her uncle's hat and overcoat, hung them in the little 
 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. 
 
 " Do n't ; it is quite warm. We can't afford to be extrav- 
 agant ; and I dare say," he added, with a backward jerk of 
 his thumb towards the door, "like the rest of her tribe, 
 she '11 know how to charge. Sit down 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. But 
 love dwelt with them always, and she can make divine her 
 humblest fare. 
 
 Mr. Abel Graham fumbled in the inner pocket of his very
 
 FATHERLESS. 13 
 
 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 Mr. 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 course?" 
 
 " I do n't think I thought about it much," Gladys an- 
 swered, with frankness. " It is very good of you to come 
 so soon." 
 
 " I came because it was my duty. Jsot 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 his hands together 
 slowly, and nodded across the hearth to his niece. Instead 
 of being pleased, as she ought to have been, with this an- 
 nouncement, 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 pig-headed, and " 
 
 "Do n'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 meditative 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 
 does n't pay it is one of the things which nothing can
 
 14 
 
 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 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 ferreting money out of people's 
 pockets. Well, my dear, have you nothing to tell me?" 
 
 Gladys continued to look at him with dislike and dis- 
 trust she made no attempt to disguise. If only he would not 
 call her my dear ! She resented the familiarity. He had no 
 right to presume on such a short acquaintance. 
 
 " I have nothing to tell you, I think," she said, very 
 coldly, " except that papa is dead, and I have to earn my 
 own living."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 WHAT TO DO \VITH 
 
 OUR 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. 
 11 Well, but tell me first what your name is. I 
 do n't know what to call you." 
 
 "Gladys," she answered, and her uncle received the 
 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, Mar- 
 garet, 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 '11 call you Mary ; it 's not so 
 heathenish. And tell me what you have thought of doing 
 for yourself." 
 
 15
 
 16 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " 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 morning, 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 effort. 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 did n't 
 hurry. Business must be attended to whatever happens. 
 You do n't know what it was your father wished to say ? 
 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 hesi- 
 tation, " 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 havo 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. 
 
 " I am a very poor man," he repeated, with an emphasis 
 which left no doubt that he wished it to be impressed firmly 
 on her mind. " Very poor ; but I trust I know my duty. I 
 do n't suppose, now, that you have been taught to work with 
 your hands in the house, I mean ; the woman's kingdom." 
 
 This sentimental phrase fell rather oddly from the old 
 man's lips. He looked the very last man to entertain any
 
 WHAT TO DO WITH HER. 17 
 
 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 lux- 
 ury, 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 do n't understand, 
 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 Peck to get tea for us." 
 
 " Not yet. We must settle everything ; then we need n't 
 talk any more. I am your only relation in the world, and as 
 I have been summoned, perhaps unnecessarily on this occa- 
 sion, 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 color mounted high to the girl's white brow, and her 
 proud mouth quivered. Never had she so felt the degrada- 
 tion of her poverty. Now it seemed more than she could 
 bear. But she looked straight into her uncle's unlovely 
 countenance, and made answer with a calmness which sur- 
 prised herself: 
 
 " There is no money, none at all not even enough to pay 
 all that must be paid." 
 
 Abel Graham almost gasped. 
 
 "All that must b,epaid! And how much is that? Try 
 to be practical and clear-headed ; and remember I am a poor 
 man, though willing to do my duty." 
 
 " Mr. Courtney and I talked of it this morning, when we 
 arranged that the funeral should be to-morrow," Gladys an- 
 swered, in a calm, straight, even voice. "And we thought 
 that there might be five pounds to pay when all was over.
 
 18 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 Papa has some pictures at the dealers' two in Boston, and 
 three, I think, in London. Perhaps there might be enough 
 from these to pay." 
 
 "You have the addresses of these dealers, I hope," said 
 the old man, with undisguised eagerness. 
 
 " Yes, I have the addresses." 
 
 ""Well, I shall apply to them, and put on the screw, ii 
 possible. Will you tell me, if you please, how long yon have 
 lived in this place?" 
 
 " O, not long in this village, I mean ; only since summer. 
 We have been all over the fens, I think ; but we have liked 
 this 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 par- 
 son. I hope he understands that he can get nothing for 
 
 his pains." 
 
 "I do n't know what you are talking about," said Gladys, 
 and her mouth grew very stern her whole face during the 
 last hour seemed to have taken on the stamp and seal of age. 
 
 "And what hour have you arranged it for?" 
 
 "Eleven, I think; yes, eleven," answered Gladys, and 
 gave a quick, sobbing breath, which the old man elected not 
 to notice. 
 
 "Eleven!" He said it over slowly, and took a penny 
 time-table from his pocket, and studied it thoughtfully. 
 
 " We can get away from Boston at one. It 's the worst 
 kind of place, this, to get at, and I do n't know why 
 your father should have chosen it" "to die in," he had 
 almost added ; but he restrained these words. " We can't get 
 to Glasgow before midnight, I think. I hope you won'^t 
 object to traveling in the night-time. I must do it. I can't 
 be away any longer from business. It must be attended to. 
 I hope you can be ready." 
 
 "I don't mind it at all," answered Gladys, in a still, 
 quiet voice. Her heart cried out against her unhappy des-
 
 WHAT TO DO WITH HER. 19 
 
 tiny; but one so desolate, so helpless, and forlorn may not 
 choose. "Yes; 1 shall be ready." 
 
 " Well, see that you are. Punctuality is a virtue one not 
 commonly found, I am told, in your sex. You will remem- 
 ber, then, Mary, that I am a very poor man, struggling to 
 get the necessaries of life. You have no false and extrava- 
 gant ideas of life, I hope. Your father, surely, has taught 
 you that it is a desperate struggle, in which men trample 
 each other remorselessly under foot. He has had experience 
 of it, so far as I can hear and see." 
 
 " He never told me anything, Uncle Abel. We were happy 
 always, he and I together, because we loved each other. But 
 I know that life is always hard, and that the good suffer 
 most," said Gladys, simply. A strange and unwonted thrill 
 touched the selfish heart of the old man at these words as 
 they fell gravely from the young lips, formed in their perfect 
 sweetness for the happy curves of joy and hope/ 
 
 " Well, well, if these are your views, you are less likely to 
 be disappointed," he said, in gruff haste. " Well, to go on 
 I am a poor man, and I have a poor little home. I hope, 
 when you come to share it, you will be a help, and not alto- 
 gether a bm-den on it." 
 
 " I shall try. I can learn to work. I must learn now," 
 Gladys answered, with exemplary meekness. 
 
 " There is an old woman who comes to do my little work 
 of a morning. There is no reason why now I should not 
 dispense with her services. She is dear at the money, any- 
 how. I have often grudged it." 
 
 " I wonder to hear that you are so poor," said Gladys, 
 Looking straight into his face with her young, fearless eyes. 
 " Papa told me once that you were quite rich, and that you 
 had a splendid business." 
 
 Abel Graham looked distinctly annoyed at this unex- 
 pected statement regarding his worldly affairs. 
 
 "Your father, Mary, was as ignorant of the practical 
 affairs of life as an unborn babe. He never showed his igno-
 
 20 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 ranee more than when he told you that fabrication a pure 
 fabrication of his fancy. I have a little trade in the oil and 
 tallow line. No, not a shop ; only a little warehouse in a 
 back street in Glasgow. When you see it, you will wonder 
 how it has ever kept body and soul together. A splendid 
 business ! Ha ! ha ! That is good !" 
 
 "And do you live near it, Uncle Abel ?" 
 
 " I live at it, in it in fact, my house is in the warehouse ; 
 it 's not a very genteel locality, nor a fine house. It is good 
 enough for me ; but I warn you not to expect anything 
 great, and I can't alter my way of life for you." 
 
 " I hope I should never expect it," answered Gladys, 
 quietly. "And you live there quite alone?" 
 
 " Not quite. There is Walter Hepburn." 
 
 " Who is Walter Hepburn?" asked Gladys, and the Scotch 
 name fell most musically from her lips for the first time 
 the name which was one day to be the dearest to her on earth. 
 
 " He's the office-boy an imp he is; but he is sharp and 
 clover as a needle ; and then he is cheap." 
 
 "Are cheap things always good, Uncle Abel?" Gladys 
 asked. " I have heard papa say that cheap things are- so 
 often unsatisfactory, and he has spoken to me more than 
 once of the sin of cheapness. Even genius must be bought 
 and sold cheaply. 0, he felt it all so bitterly !" 
 
 " Mary Graham, your foolish father was his own worst 
 enemy ; and I doubt he will prove yours, too, if that is all he 
 has taught you. You had better get tea at once." 
 
 Thus rebuked, Gladys retired to the kitchen, and, to the 
 no small concern of the little landlady, she sat down on the 
 low window-seat, folded her hands on the table, and began 
 helplessly to weep. 
 
 " My dear, my dear, do n't cry ! He has n't been good 
 to you. I know he has n't ; but never mind. Better times 
 will soon dawn for you, and he will not stay. I hope he will 
 go away this very night," she said, very sympathetically. 
 
 "No; he will stay till to-morrow, then I must go with
 
 WHAT TO DO WITH HER. 21 
 
 him. He has offered rue a home, and I must go. There is 
 nothing else I can do just now," said Gladys. " I can't be- 
 lieve, Miss Peck, that he is papa's brother. It is impossible. 1 ' 
 
 " Dear Miss Gladys, there is often the greatest difference in 
 families. I have seen it myself," said Miss Peck, medita- 
 tively. " But now you must have something to eat, and I 
 suppose he must be hungry too 
 
 " If you would get tea, please, we should be much obliged ; 
 and O, Miss Peck, do you think you could give him a bed?" 
 
 " There is nothing but the little attic ; but I dare say it 
 will do him very well. He does n't look as if he were ac- 
 customed to anything much better," said Miss Peck, with 
 frank candor. So it was arranged, and Gladys, drying her 
 eyes, offered to help the little woman 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 but a 
 colorless and lifeless thing ; but a pure soul, to which all 
 things seemed 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 him natu- 
 rally, as a picture of his home rose up before his vision. 
 When he thought of its meager comfort, its ugly environ- 
 ment, he confessed that in it she would be quite out of place. 
 The house in which he had found her, though only a hired 
 shelter, was neat and comfortable and home-like. 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, whole- 
 some butter, and ate of it without stint. He was not, indeed
 
 22 THE GUINEA STAMP., 
 
 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 do n'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." 
 
 Gladys gave a violent start. The word was hideous ; how 
 hideous she. had never realized 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. I 
 did not wish it done sooner," she answered quietly. " If 
 you come now 1 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 art- 
 ist had suffered and died, she gave him the lamp, and herself 
 disappeared into the studio. Not to sit down now, and help- 
 lessly 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 mementos 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 remem- 
 bered 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 hankerchief, and then began, a 
 trifle dreamily, to gather together the old brushes with which 
 John Graham had done so much good, if unappreciated, 
 work. Meanwhile the old man was alone in the chamber of 
 death. He had no nerves, no fine sensibilities, and little nat- 
 ural affection to make the moment trying to him. He entered 
 the room in a perfectly matter-of-fact manner, set the lamp
 
 WE AT TO DO WITH HER. 
 
 23 
 
 on the washhand-stand, and approached the bed. As he 
 stood there looking on the 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, uncon- 
 scious 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.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 XHE& 
 
 I EXT day at noon that strangely assorted pair, the 
 sordid old man and the gentle child, set out in a 
 peasant's wagon, 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 the 
 quaint fen village, and the little gilt vane on the church 
 steeple glittered proudly, almost as if it were real gold. 
 
 G-ladys 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 won- 
 dered vaguely once or twice whether it would be her last fare- 
 well, 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 engage in a conversation 
 with the peasant who sat on the front of the wagon holding 
 the reins loosely in his sunburnt hands. But that individual 
 was stolid ; and when he did vouchsafe a remark, Abel did 
 not understand him, not being familiar with fen vernacular, 
 24
 
 THE NEW HOME. 25 
 
 They reached Boston in ample time for the train, even leaving 
 half an hour to spare. This half-hour the old man improved 
 by hunting up the dealer in whose hands were two of his 
 brother's pictures, leaving Gladys at the station to watch 
 their meager luggage. He drove a much better bargain than 
 the artist himself could have done, and returned to the sta- 
 tion inwardly elated, with four pounds in his pocket. But 
 he carefully concealed from his niece the success of his tran- 
 saction ; not that it would have greatly 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 Gladys was informed that their 
 destination was reached. She stepped from the carriage in a 
 half-dazed 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 and then in the other. 
 
 " I think we can manage it between us. It is n't far, and 
 if I leave it, it will cost tuppence, besides taking Wat Hep- 
 burn 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 do n'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 quiet streets. Happily the night 
 was fine, though cold, with a clear, star-begemmed sky, and 
 a winter moon on the wane above the roofs and spires. A 
 great city, it seemed to Gladys, 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 the soul of the poet-artist, therefore her destiny was 
 doubly hard. But the time came when she recognized 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
 
 26 THE G UINEA STAMP. 
 
 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 the 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. Do n't ask any more 
 questions, but shut your eyes, and hold fast by me. We '11 be 
 home 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 silent 
 still, though growing every moment more frightened and 
 more sad. 
 
 " Surely this is a terrible place, Uncle Abel," she said at 
 last. "I have never seen anything like it in my life." 
 
 " It is n't savory, I admit ; but I warned you. This is 
 Argyle Street on a Saturday night ; other nights it is quieter, 
 of course. O, he won't harm you !" A lumbering carter in a 
 wild state of intoxication pushed himself against the frightened 
 girl, and looked down into her face with an idiotic leer. 
 
 Gladys gave a faint scream, and clung to her uncle's arm ; 
 but the next moment the man was taken in charge by the 
 policeman, and went to swell the number of the drunkards 
 at ^Monday's court.
 
 THE NEW HOME. 27 
 
 " Here we are: This is Craig's Wyiid or, The Wynd, 
 as they say. We have only to go through here, and then we 
 are in Colquhoun Street, where I live. It is n't far." 
 
 In the Wynd it was, of course, rather quieter ; but in the 
 dark doorways strange figures 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 Bible 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 forever. 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. 
 
 "Now, here we are; we must let ourselves in. Wat 
 Hepburn will be away long ago. He goes home on Saturday 
 night," said the old man, groping in his pocket for a key. 
 It was some minutes before he found it, and Gladys had time 
 to look about her, which sho did with fearful, wondering 
 63-68. It was a very narrow street, with tall houses on each 
 side, which seemed almost to touch the sky. Gladys won- 
 dered, not knowing that they were all warehouses, 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 Sab- 
 bath-day. 
 
 " Here now ; perhaps you had better stay here till I bring 
 a light," said the old man at length. 
 
 4i O nol I can't; I am terrified; I will come in," cried 
 Gladys, in affright.
 
 28 THE G UINEA STAMP. 
 
 " 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 odor. 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 fur- 
 ther 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 floor ; 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 room, quite cheerless and poorly 
 furnished, like a kitchen, though a bed stood in one corner. 
 The fire-place 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 portmanteau 
 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 off your things, and I '11 see if there's anything in 
 the press. There should be a bit of bread and a morsel of 
 cheese, if that rascal has n'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, 
 found half of a stale loaf, a plate on which reposed some 
 highly-colored butter, and a scrap of cheese wrapped in paper. 
 These he laid on the bare table where the dust lay white.
 
 THE NEW HOME. 29 
 
 " Eat a mouthful, child, and then we '11 get to bed," he 
 said. " You '11 need to sleep here in my bed to-night, and 
 I 'II go to the back room, where there 's an old sofa. On 
 Monday I '11 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." 
 
 " Ay, it 's been a longish day. Never mind ; to-morrow 's 
 Sunday, and we. need n't get up before ten or eleven." 
 
 " Do n't you go to church, Uncle Abel?" 
 "Sometimes in the afternoon, or at night. O, there 's 
 plenty of churches ; they grow as thick as mushrooms, and 
 do about as much good. Won't you eat?" 
 
 The fare was not inviting. Nevertheless, 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 kin- 
 dle a cheerful spark of fire to give her a welcome, and to 
 make her a cup of tea. lie w T as 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 other 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 foot- 
 steps grow fainter in the long passage, a great terror took 
 possession of her. The place was so strange, so cold, so un- 
 known ! For some time she Avas even afraid to move ; but at 
 last she rose and crossed the floor to the windows to see 
 whether from them any thing friendly or familiar could be 
 seen. 
 
 But they looked into tlie street, and had thick iron bars
 
 30 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 across them, exactly like the windows of a jail. It was the 
 last straw added to the burden of the unhappy child. Her 
 imagination did not lack in vividness, and a thousand un- 
 known 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 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 lady in the 
 land. She turned do\vn the covering, and when she saw the 
 hue of the linen her lip curled, and she hastily covered it up 
 from sight. In the end she laid herself down without un- 
 dressing above the bed, spreading a clean handkerchief for her 
 head to rest upon. And so, worn out, she slept at last an un- 
 troubled and dreamless sleep, in which she forgot for many 
 hours her forlorn and friendless state.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A. RA.Y OK LIGHT. 
 
 , VXD AY was a dreary day. It rained again, 
 and the fog was so thick that it \vas dim twilight 
 all da}* long in Gladys's new home. Her uncle 
 did not go out at all, but dozed in the chim- 
 ney corner between the intervals of preparing the meager 
 meals. On Sunday Abel Graham attended to his own 
 housekeeping, and took care to keep a shilling off Mrs. 
 Macintyre's pittance for the same. Gladys, though unac- 
 customed 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. Mad n tyre. Yes, he had made a good invest- 
 ment ; 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, you might put 
 in a penny-worth of seeds, and have a flower.'' 
 
 3J
 
 32 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 This was a tremendous concession. Gladys felt grateful 
 for the kindly thought which prompted 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. Whoever heard of a 
 tree being lonely? You have a great many queer fancies, 
 but they won't flourish here. Glasgow is given up to busi 
 ness ; it has no time for foolish fancies." 
 
 Gladys gravely nodded. 
 
 " Papa told me so. Is it very far to Ayrshire, Uncle 
 
 Abel?" 
 
 The old man gave a quick start. 
 
 "To Ayrshire! What makes you ask the question? 
 What has put such a thing into your head?" 
 
 " Papa spoke of it so often of that beautiful village 
 where you and he were born. He was so sorry I could not 
 pronounce it right, Mauchline." 
 
 As that sweet voice, withjts pretty English accent, uttered 
 the familiar name, again a strange thrill visited the old man's 
 withered heart. 
 
 " No, you do n't say it right. But I wonder that he 
 spoke of it so much. We were poor enough there herd-boys 
 in the fields. We could n't well have a humbler origin, eh ?" 
 
 " But 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 
 fields in Mossgiel, and every tree in the woods of Balloch- 
 myle. Just before he died he tried to sing 0, it was so 
 painful, to hear his dear, trembling voice, and it was the 
 ' Bonnie Lass o' Ballochmyle.' If it is not very far, will you 
 take me one day when you have time, Uncle Abel, to see 
 Mauchline and Mossgiel and Ballochmyle?" 
 
 She looked at him fearlessly as she made her request, 
 and her courage pleased him. 
 
 "We'll see. Perhaps at the fair, when fares are cheap;
 
 A BAY OF LIGHT. 33 
 
 but it will only bo to please you. I never want to see the 
 place again." 
 
 " 0, is not that very strange, Uncle Abel, that papa and 
 you should think of it so differently? He loved it all so 
 much, 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 staid in Glasgow and attended to business, he might 
 have been a rich man," said he, incautiously. 
 
 " You are not rich, though you have done so," said Gladys, 
 quickly, looking at him with her young, fearless eyes. " I 
 think papa was better off 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 gave 
 her a snappish answer ; then picked himself up, and went off 
 to his warehouse. 
 
 Next day Gladys had to rise quite early before six and 
 with her own hands light the fire, under the old man's super- 
 intendence, thus receiving her first lesson in the economy of 
 fire-lighting. She was very patient, and learned her lesson 
 very well. While she was brushing the hearth, she heard 
 another foot on the passage, and was further astonished by 
 the tones of a woman's voice giving utterance to surprise: 
 
 " Mercy on us ! wha 's he gotten noo ?" 
 
 The words, uttered in the broadest Scotch, and further 
 graced by the unlovely Glasgow accent, fell on the girl's ears 
 like the sound of a foreign tongue. She paused, broom in 
 hand, and looked in rather a bewildered manner at the short, 
 stout figure, standing in the doorway, with bare red arms 
 akimbo, and the broadest grin on her coarse but not un- 
 kindly face. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, what is it?" Gladys asked kindly, 
 and the surprise deepened on the Scotchwoman's face. 
 
 " Ye '11 be his niece, mabbe; his brither's lass, are ye, eh? 
 And hae ye come to bide? If ye hiv', Almichty help ye."
 
 34 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 Gladys shook her head, not understanding yet a single 
 word. At this awkward juncture the old man came hurry- 
 ing along the passage, and Mrs. Macintyre turned to him 
 with a little courtesy. 
 
 "I'm speakin' to the young leddy, but she seemin'ly 
 doesua understand. I see my work's dune, mebbe I'm no 
 to come back ?" 
 
 " No ; my niece can do the little that is necessary, so you 
 need n't come back, Mrs. Macintyre, and I 'm much obliged 
 to you," said the old man, who was polite^always, in every 
 circumstance, out of policy. 
 
 " Ye 're awn me one and nine, fork it oot," she answered 
 brusquely, and held out her brawny hand, into which Abel 
 Graham reluctantly, as usual, put the desired coins. 
 
 " Yer brither's dochter, genty born ?" said Mrs. Macintyre, 
 with a jerk of her thumb. " Gie her her meat; mind a 
 young wame 's aye toom. Puir thing, puir thing !" 
 
 Abel Graham hastened her out ; but she only remained 
 in the street until she saw his visage at one of the upper 
 windows ; then she darted back to the kitchen, and laid hold 
 of the astonished Gladys by the shoulder. " If ye ever want 
 a bite an' as sure as daith ye will often come ye to me, my 
 lamb, the second pend i' the Wynd, third close, an' twa stairs 
 up, an' never heed him, auld skin o' a meeser that he is." 
 
 She went as quickly as she came, leaving Gladys dimly 
 conscious of her meaning, but feeling intuitively that the 
 words were kindly and even tenderly spoken. So they were 
 not forgotten. When the water had boiled, the old man came 
 down to supervise the making of the porridge a mystery 
 into which Gladys had not been yet initiated. Three por- 
 tions were served on plates, a very little tea put in a tiny 
 brown tea-pot, and breakfast was ready. Then Abel went 
 into the passage and shouted to his young assistant to come 
 down. Gladys was conscious of a strong sense of curiosity 
 as she awaited the coming of the imp, which was his master's 
 favorite name for him, and when he entered she felt at first
 
 A RAY OF LIGHT. 35 
 
 keenly disappointed. He was only a very ordinary looking 
 street boy, she thought, rather undersized, but still too big 
 for his clothes, which were stretched on him tightly, his short 
 ti-ousers showing the tops of his patched boots, which were 
 several sizes too large for him. and gave him a very ungrace- 
 ful appearance. He had not even a collar, only an old tartan 
 scarf knotted round his neck, and from the shrunk sleeves 
 of the old jacket his hands, red and bony, appeared abnor- 
 mally large. But when she looked at his face, at the eyes 
 which looked out from the tangle of his hair, she forgot all 
 the rest, and her heart warmed to him before he had uttered 
 a word. 
 
 " This is Walter Hepburn, my niece Mary Graham ; and 
 you may as well be friendly, because I can't have any quar- 
 reling here," was the old man's introduction ; then, without 
 a word of thanksgiving, he fell to eating his porridge, after 
 having carefully divided the sky-blue milk into three equal 
 portions. 
 
 The two young persons gi-avely nodded to each other, 
 and also began to eat. Gladys, feeling intuitively that a 
 kindred soul was near her, felt a wild desire to laugh ; her 
 lips even trembled so that she could scarcely restrain them ; 
 and Walter Hepburn answered by a twinkle in his eye, which 
 was the first bright thing Gladys had seen in Glasgow. 
 But though she felt kindly towards him, and glad that he 
 was there, she did not by any means admire him, and she 
 even thought that if she knew him better she would tell him 
 of his objectionable points. For one thing, he had no man- 
 ners ; he sat rather far back from the table, and leaned for- 
 ward till his head was almost on a level with his plate. 
 Then he made a loud noise in his eating, which disturbed 
 Gladys very much ; certainly she was too fastidious and deli- 
 cate in her taste for her present lot in life. When that 
 strange and silent meal was over, the old man retired to the 
 warehouse and left the children alone. But that did not dis- 
 concert them, as might have been expected. From the first
 
 36 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 moment they felt at home with each other. "Walter was the 
 first to speak. He leaned up against the chimney-piece, and 
 meditatively watched the girl as, she began deftly to clear the 
 table. 
 
 " I say, miss," he said then, " do you think you '11 like to 
 be here?" 
 
 The English was pretty tolerable, though the accent was 
 very Scotch. 
 
 " No. How could I ?" was the frank reply of Gladys. 
 " But I have nowhere else, and I should be thankful for it." 
 
 "Urn!" 
 
 Walter thrust his hands into his diminutive pockets, and 
 eyed her with a kind of meditative gravity. 
 
 "Are you always thankful when you should be?" he in- 
 quired. 
 
 " I am afraid not," Gladys answered, with a little shake of 
 her head. " You live here all the week, do n't you, till Sat- 
 urday night, when you go home?" 
 
 "Yes, and I 'm always thankful, if you like, when Mon- 
 day comes." 
 
 Gladys looked at him in wonder. 
 
 " You are glad when Monday comes, to come back here ! 
 How strange, and the other place is home! Have you a 
 father and mother?" 
 
 < 
 
 "Yes, worse luck." 
 
 Again Gladys looked at him, this time with strong dis- 
 approval. 
 
 " I do n't understand you. It is very dreadful, I think, 
 that you should talk like that." 
 
 " Is it? Perhaps if you were me, and had it to do, you 'd 
 understand it. 1 wish I was an orphan. When a man 's an 
 orphan he may get on, but he never can if he has relations 
 like mine." 
 
 "Are they are they wicked?" asked Gladys, hesitat- 
 ingly. The lad answered by a short, bitter laugh. 
 
 "Well, perhaps not exactly. They only drink and
 
 A KAY OF LIGHT. 37 
 
 quarrel, and drink again whenever they have a copper. Sat- 
 urday and Sunday are their head-days, because Saturday 's the 
 pay. But I 'm better off than Liz, because she has to be 
 there always." 
 
 " Is Liz your sister ?" 
 
 " Yes, she is n't a bad sort, if she had a chance ; but she 
 never will have a chance there ; an' perhaps by the time I 'm 
 able to take care of her, it will be too late." 
 
 Gladys did not understand him, but forbore to ask any 
 more questions. She had got something fresh to ponder 
 over; another of the many mysteries of life. 
 
 " I say he 's a queer old buffer, the boss, is n't he ?" asked 
 Walter, his eye twinkling again as he jerked his thumb 
 towards the door. " They say he 's awful rich ; but he 's 
 a miserable old wretch. I 'd rather be myself than him 
 any day." 
 
 " I should think so," answered Gladys, looking into the 
 fine open face of the lad with a smile, which made him red- 
 den a little. 
 
 " I say, you might tell me why you think I 'm so much 
 better off than you. I sometimes think myself that I 'm the 
 most miserable wretch in the world." 
 
 " no, you're not; you are quite young, and you are a 
 man at least, you will be soon. If I were you I should 
 never think that, nor be afraid of anything. It is n't very 
 nice to be a girl like me ; with you it is so different." 
 
 "Well, perhaps I ought to be thankful that I'm not a 
 woman. I never thought of that. Women have the worst 
 of it mostly, now I think of it. I 'm sorry for you." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 Gladys looked at him gratefully ; and both these young, 
 desolate hearts, awaking to the possibilities and the sorrows 
 of life, felt the chord of sympathy responding each to the 
 other. 
 
 "He gives me five shillings a week here and my meat. 
 They take it all at home, and I want so awful to go to the
 
 38 
 
 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 night-school. Do you know, it takes me all my time to read 
 words of three or four letters." 
 
 " O, how dreadful ! I can read. 1 '11 teach you," she cried 
 at once. " Perhaps it would do till you can go to school.'' 
 
 " Could you ? Would you ?' ' 
 
 The boy's whole face shone, his eyes glowed with the light 
 of awakened hope. He felt his own power, believed that he 
 could achieve something if the first great stumbling-block 
 were removed. Something of his gladness communicated 
 itself to Gladys; showed itself in the heightened, delicate 
 color in her cheek, in the luster of her eyes. So these two 
 desolate creatures made their first compact, binding about 
 them in the very hour of their meeting the links of the chain 
 which, in the years to come, love would make a chain of gold.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BEL GRAHAM'S business was really that of a 
 wholesale drysalter, in a very small way. His 
 customers were chiefly found among the small 
 shop-keepers who abounded in the neighbor- 
 hood, and as he gave credit for a satisfactory time, he was 
 much patronized. To give credit to a certain amount 
 was the miser's policy. When he once got the unhappy 
 debtors in his toils, it was hopeless to extricate themselves, 
 and so they continued paying, as they were able, high prices 
 and exorbitant interest, which left them no chance of mak- 
 ing any profit in their own humble sphere. He had also 
 lent a great deal of money, his income from that source 
 alone being more than sufficient to keep himself and his 
 niece in modest comfort, had he so willed. But the lust of 
 gold possessed him. It was nothing short of physical pain 
 for him to part with it. and he had no intention of changing 
 his way of life for her. He was known in the district under 
 the elegant sobriquet of Skinny Graham ; and when Gladys 
 heard it for the first time she laughed silently to herself, 
 thinking of its fitness. 
 
 The simple-hearted child learned quickly to accoiu- 
 
 39
 
 40 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 modate herself to her surroundings, and accept her meager 
 lot with a serenity a more experienced mind might have 
 envied. She even managed to make a little atmosphere 
 of brightness about her, which at once communicated itself 
 to the two who shared it with her. They viewed this exqui- 
 site change, it may be believed, from an entirely different 
 stand-point. The old man liked the comfort and the cleanli- 
 ness which the girl's busy hands made in their humble 
 home ; the boy looked on with deep eyes, wonderingly, catch- 
 ing glimpses of her white soul, and knowing that it was far 
 above and beyond the sordid air it breathed. She went out 
 a great deal, wandering alone and fearlessly in the streets 
 always in the streets, because as yet she did not know that 
 even in that great city, where the roar and the din of life are 
 never still, and the air but seldom clear from the smoke of 
 its bustle, are to be found quiet resting-places where the gi'een 
 things of God grow in hope and beauty, giving their message 
 of perpetual promise tp the heart open to receive it. Gladys 
 would have welcomed that message gladly, ear and heart hav- 
 ing been early taught to wait and listen for it; but as yet she 
 believed Glasgow to be but a city of streets, of dull and dreadful 
 stones, against which the tide of life beat remorselessly for- 
 ever. And such life ! For very pity the child's heart grew 
 heavy within her often as she looked upon the stream of 
 humanity in these poor streets on the degraded, hopeless 
 faces, the dull eyes, the languid bearing of those who ap- 
 peared to have lost interest in and respect for themselves. 
 She beKeved it wholly sad. Standing on the outside, she 
 knew nothing of the homely joys, the gleams of mirth, the 
 draughts of happiness possible to the very poor. She 
 thought their laughter, when it fell sometimes upon her ears, 
 more dreadful than their tears. So she slipped silently about 
 among them quite unnoticed, looking on with large, sad eyes, 
 and almost as an angel might. 
 
 Sometimes, when Gladys looked up to the heavens, 
 which even the walls and the roofs of stone could not shut
 
 LIZ. 41 
 
 out, she wondered how God, who loved all with such a tender 
 love, could bear to have it so. It vexed her soul with doubts, 
 and made her so unhappy that even in her dreams she wept. 
 Of these things she did not speak to those about her yet, 
 though very soon it became a habit with her and Walter to 
 discuss the gravest problems of existence. The old man 
 offered no objections to the lessons, only stipulating that no 
 unnecessary candles should be consumed. He allowed but 
 one to lighten the gloom of the large kitchen, and every 
 evening after tea the same picture might have been seen 
 the old man dozing in the chimney-corner, and the two 
 young creatures at the little table with books and slates ; the 
 unsteady light of the solitary candle flickering on their ear- 
 nest faces. Teacher and taught! Yery often in the full 
 after years they looked back upon it, and talked of it with 
 smiles, which were not far off from tears. It is not too 
 much to say that the companionship of Walter was the only 
 thing which saved Gladys from despair. But for the bright 
 kinship of his presence she must have sunk under the bui'den 
 of a life so hard a life for which she was so unfitted. But 
 they comforted each other, and kept warm and true in their 
 young hearts faith in human kind and in the mercy of 
 Heaven. As the days went by, Walter dreaded yet more the 
 coming of Saturday, which meant that he must go home 
 spent in his own house in Bridgeton but as yet he had not 
 spoken of his great sorrow to Gladys. Only she was quick 
 to notice how, as the week went by and Saturday came, the 
 shadow deepened on his face. She felt for him keenly; but 
 her perception was so delicate, so quick, she knew it was a 
 sorrow with which she must not intermeddle. There were 
 very many things in life, Gladys was learning day by day, 
 more to be dreaded than death, which is so often, indeed, the 
 gentlest friend. One Monday morning Walter appeared 
 quite downcast, so unusual with him that Gladys could not 
 forbear asking what troubled him. 
 
 " It 's Liz," he said, relieved to be asked, though diffi-
 
 42 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 dent in volunteering information. " She 's ill very badly, 
 too and she is not looked after. I wish I knew what to do." 
 Gladys was sympathetic at once. 
 
 "What is it the matter I mean? Have they had a 
 doctor?" 
 
 " Yes ; it 's inflammation of the lungs. " She 's so much in 
 the streets at night, I think, when it 's wet ; that 's where 
 she 's got it." 
 
 " I am very sorry. Perhaps I could do something for 
 her. My father was often ill. He was not strong, and 
 sometimes caught dreadful chills painting outside. I always 
 knew what to do for him. I '11 go, if you like." 
 
 The lad's face flushed all over. He Avas divided between 
 his anxiety for his sister, whom he really loved, and his re- 
 luctance for Gladys to see his home. But the first pre- 
 vailed. 
 
 " If it would n't be an awful trouble to you," he said ; and 
 Gladys smiled as she gave her head a quick shake. 
 
 " No trouble. I shall be so glad. Tell me where to find 
 the place, and I '11 go after dinner, before it is dark. Uncle 
 Abel says I must not go out after dark, you know." 
 
 " It 's a long way from here, and you'll have to take two 
 cars." 
 
 " I know the Bridgeton car ; but may I not walk ?" 
 " No, please take these pennies. When you are going to 
 see my sister, I should pay. Yes, take them. 1 want 
 you to." 
 
 Gladys took the coppers, and put them in her pocket. 
 She knew very well they would reduce the hoard be was 
 gathering for the purchase of a coveted book ; but she felt 
 that in accepting them she was conferring a rare pleasure on 
 him. And it was so. Never was subject prouder of a gift 
 accepted by a sovereign than Walter Hepburn of the fact 
 that that day Gladys should ride in comfort through the wet 
 streets at his expense. It was another memory for the 
 after years.
 
 Liz. 43 
 
 In the afternoon, accordingly, Gladys dressed and went 
 out. Her uncle had provided her with a warm winter cloak, 
 which enveloped her from head to foot. It was not new. 
 Had Gladys known where it came from, and who had 
 worn it before her, she might net have enjoyed so much 
 solid satisfaction in wearing it ; but though she had been told 
 that it was an unredeemed pledge she would not have known 
 what it meant. It was a dry afternoon, though cloudy and 
 cold. It was so near Christmas that the shops were gay 
 with Christmas goods. But in those who have no money 
 to expend in such luxuries, the Christmas display can only 
 awaken a dull feeling of envy and discontent. By dint of 
 much asking after leaving the car, Gladys found the street 
 where the Hepburus lived. It was not so squalid as the im- 
 mediate neighborhood of her own home, but it was inex- 
 pressibly dreary ; one of those narrow, long streets with 
 high <: lands" on either side, entered by common stairs, and 
 divided into very small houses. Outwardly it looked even 
 respectable, and was largely occupied by the poorer laboring 
 class, who often divided their abodes by letting them out to 
 lodgers. It was one of the streets, indeed, where the over- 
 crowding had attracted the serious consideration of the author- 
 ities. A bitter wind, laden with the promise of snow, swept 
 through it from end to end, and caught Gladys in the teeth 
 as she entered it. It was not a very cheerful welcome, and 
 Gladys looked with compassion upon the children playing 
 on the pavement and about the doorways, but scantily clad, 
 though their blue fingers and pinched faces did not seem to 
 damp their merriment. The child-heart, full of glee and 
 ready for laughter, always will assert itself even in the most 
 unfavorable circumstances. Bound the door which Gladys 
 desired to enter a little band of boys and girls were engaged 
 playing the interesting game of " Here 'B the robbers pass- 
 ing by," and Gladys stood still, watching them with a kind of 
 quiet, tender interest, trying to understand the words, to 
 which they gave many strange meanings. They grew shy of
 
 44 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 the scrutiny by and by, and the spell was broken by an oath 
 which fell glibly from the lips of a small boy, showing that 
 it was no stranger to them. Gladys looked inexpressibly 
 shocked, and hastened in to the stair, which was very dirty, 
 and odorous of many evil smells. The steps seemed endless ; 
 but she was glad, as she mounted, to find the light growing 
 broader, until at last she reached the topmost landing, where 
 the big skylight revealed a long row of doors, each giving 
 entrance to a separate dwelling. The girl looked confusedly 
 at them for a moment, and then, recalling sundry directions 
 Walter had given, proceeded to knock at the middle one. It 
 was opened at once by a young woman wearing a rusty old 
 black frock and a large checked apron, a little shawl pinned 
 about her head quite tightly, and making her face look very 
 small and pinched. It was a very pale face, quite ghastly 
 in fact, the very lips white, and her eyes surrounded by 
 large black circles, which made Gladys think she must be 
 very ill. 
 
 "Well, Miss," she said, coolly and curtly, holding the 
 door open only about three inches. 
 
 "Does Mrs. Hepburn live here?" asked Gladys, thinking 
 she had made a mistake. 
 
 " Yes ; but she 's no at hame. Come back the morn. Eh, 
 Liz, will yer mither be oot the morn ?" 
 
 "Ay ; ask her what she wants," a somewhat husky voice 
 announced from the interior, followed by a fit of coughing 
 quite distressing to hear. 
 
 " 0, is that Walter's sister who is ill ?" said Gladys, eagerly. 
 " Please, may I come in ? Ask her. Tell her that I have 
 come from Colquhoun Street to see her. I am Gladys 
 Graham." 
 
 The-young woman disappeared into the interior, a whis- 
 pered consultation followed, and a general hurrying move- 
 ment of things being put straight, then Gladys was bidden 
 come in. 
 
 She stepped into the little, narrow, dark passage, closed
 
 LIZ. 45 
 
 the door, and entered the kitchen where the two girls were. 
 It was quite a comfortable place, clean and warm, though the 
 air was close and not wholesome. It had a few articles of 
 kitchen furniture, and two beds, one in each corner, whicTi 
 rather crowded the space. On one of the beds, half-lying, 
 half-sitting, was Liz, Walter's sister, with .a blanket pinned 
 round her shoulders, and a copy of the " Family Eeader " in 
 her hand, open at a thrilling picture of a young lady with an 
 impossible figure being rescued from a runaway horse by a 
 youth of extraordinary proportions. Gladys entered the 
 kitchen rather hesitatingly the young woman with the 
 sullen, gray face disconcerted her but when she looked at 
 Liz she smiled quite brightly, and came forward with a 
 quick, ready step. 
 
 "How are you? I am so sorry you are ill. Walter 
 thought I might come to see you. I hope you will soon be 
 better." 
 
 Liz allowed her hand to be shaken, and fixed her very 
 bright blue eyes keenly on the girl's sweet face. Gladys felt 
 that she was being scrutinized, that the measure of her sin- 
 cerity was gauged by that look, but she did not evade it. 
 With Liz, Gladys was much surprised. She was so different 
 from the picture she had drawn, so different from Walter. 
 There was not the shadow of a resemblance between them. 
 Many would have called Liz Hepburn beautiful. She was 
 certainly handsome after her kind, having straight, clear-cut 
 features, a well-formed if rather coarse mouth, brilliant blue 
 eyes, and a mass of reddish-brown hair, which set off the 
 extreme fairness of her skin. Gladys felt fascinated as she 
 looked, 'though she felt also that there was something fierce, 
 and even wild, in the depths of these eyes. Evidently they 
 found satisfaction in their survey of the stranger's face, for 
 she laid down the paper and gave her head a series of little nods. 
 
 " Gie her a chair. Teen, and shove the tea-pat on to the 
 hob," she said, offering to her guest such hospitality as was 
 in her power.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PICTURES OF" 
 
 LADYS sat down and suddenly became conscious 
 of what she was carrying, a little flower-pot, 
 in which bloomed a handful of Eoman hya- 
 cinths, their delicate and lovely blossoms nestling 
 among the tender green of their own leaves, 
 and a bit of hardy fern. It was her only treasure, which she 
 had bought for a few pence in the market one morning, and 
 she had nothing else to bring to Liz. 
 
 "Will you take this? Is it not very pretty ? I love it 
 so much ; but I have brought it for you. My father liked a 
 flower when he was ill." 
 
 Liz gave another enigmatical nod, and a faint, slow, mel- 
 ancholy smile gathered about the lips of Teen, as she sat 
 down to her work again, after having stirred the fire and 
 pushed the dirty, brown tea-pot on to the coals. In this 
 tea-pot a black decoction brewed all day, and was partaken 
 of at intervals by the two; sometimes they ate a morsel of 
 bread to it, but other sustenance they had none. Little 
 wonder the face of Teen was as cadaverous as the grave. 
 
 Then followed an awkward silence, during which Liz 
 played with the frayed edge of the blanket, and Teen 
 46
 
 PICTURES OF LIFE. 47 
 
 stitched away for dear life at a coarse garment, which ap- 
 peared to be a canvas-jacket, A whole pile of the same lay 
 on the unoccupied bed, and Glad}-s vaguely wondered 
 whether the same fingers must reduce the number, but she 
 did not presume to ask. She did not feel drawn to the mel- 
 ancholy seamstress, whose thin lips had a hard, cold curve. 
 
 " Were you reading when I came in ? I : m afraid I have 
 stopped you." said Gladys, at length. 
 
 "Ay, I was readin' to Teen, 'Lord Bellew's Bride ; or, The 
 Curse of Mountford Abbey;' splendid, isn't it, Teen?" said 
 Liz. quite brightly. ' We buy'd atwcen us every week. I'll 
 len' ye'd if you like. It comes oot on Wednesday. Wat 
 could bring'd on the Monday." 
 
 " Thank you very much," said Gladys. "I have n't much 
 time. I have a great deal to do in the house.'' 
 
 <( Hae ye ? Ay, Wat telt me ; an', michty. ye dinua look as 
 if ye could due onything. The auld sinner, I 'd pooshin him." 
 
 Liz looked quite capable of putting her threat- into exe- 
 cution, and Gladys shrank a little away from the fierceness 
 of her eyes. 
 
 " Ye are ower genty. His kind need somebody that '11 
 fecht. If he was my uncle, and had as muckle money as 
 they say he has, I 'd walk oot in silk and velvet in spite o' 
 his face. I 'd hing them a' up, an' then he 'd need to pay." 
 
 Gladys only vaguely understood, but gathered that she 
 was censuring the old man with the utmost severity. 
 
 " 0, I do n't think he is as rich as people say, and he is 
 very kind to me," said she, quickly. " If he had not taken 
 me when my father died, I do n't know what would have 
 become of me." 
 
 " Imphm. The tea 's bilin', Teen. Look in my goon 
 pocket for a. penny, an' rin doon for twa cookies." 
 
 The little seamstress obediently rose, pushed back the 
 tea-pot, and disappeared. 
 
 " If I wis you," said Liz, the moment they Avere alone, 
 and leaning forward to get a better look at Gladys, " I widna
 
 48 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 bide. Ye wad be faur better workin' for yoursel'. If ye 
 like, I '11 speak for ye whaur I work, at Forsyth's paper-mill 
 in the Gorbals. I ken Maister George wad dae anything I 
 ask him." 
 
 She flung back her tawny locks with a gesture of pride, 
 and the rich color deepened in her cheek. 
 
 " O, you are very kind ; but I do n't think I could work 
 in a mill. I do n't know anything about it, and I am quite 
 happy with my uncle, as happy as I can be anywhere, away 
 from papa." 
 
 Liz regarded her with a look in which contempt and a 
 vague wonder were oddly mingled. 
 
 " Woel, if ye are pleased, it 's na business o' mine, of 
 course. But I think ye are a fule. Ye wad hae yer liberty 
 ony way, and I could show ye a lot o' fun. There 's the 
 dancin' skule on Saturday nichts. It 's grand, an we 're to 
 hae a ball on Hogmanay. I 'm gettin' a new frock, white 
 book-muslin, trimmed wi' green leaves an' a green sash. 
 Teen 's gaun to mak' it. That 's what for I '11 no gang to 
 service, as my mither 's aye wantin'. No me, to be ordered 
 aboot like a beast. I '11 hae my liberty, an' maybe some day 
 I '11 hae servants o' my ain. Naebody kens. Lord Bellow's 
 bride in the story was only the gate-keeper's dochter, an' 
 that 's her on the horse, look, after she was my Lady Bellew. 
 Here 's Teen." 
 
 Breathless and panting, the little seamstress returned with 
 the cookies, and made a little spread on the bare table. 
 Gladys was not hungry, but she accepted the proffered hos- 
 pitality frankly as it was given, though the tea tasted like a 
 decoction of bitter aloes. She was horrified to behold the 
 little seamstress swallowing it in great mouthfuls without 
 sugar or cream. Gladys had sometimes been hungry, but 
 she knew nothing of that painful physical sinking, the result 
 of exhausting work and continued insufficiency of food, 
 which the poisonous brew for the time being overcame. 
 Over the tea the trio waxed quite talkative, and "Lord
 
 PICTURES OF LIFE. 49 
 
 Bellew's Bride " was discussed to its minutest detail. Gladys 
 wondered at the familiarity of the two girls with dukes 
 and duchesses, and other persons of high degree, of whom 
 they spoke familiarly, as if they were next-door neighbors. 
 Although she was very young, and knew nothing of their 
 life, she gathered that its monotony was very irksome to 
 them, and that they were compelled to seek something, if 
 only in the pages of an unwholesome and unreal story, to lift 
 them out of it. It was evident that Liz at least chafed intoler- 
 ably under her present lot, and that her head was full of dreams 
 and imaginings regarding the splendors so vividly described 
 in the story. All this time Gladys also, wondered more than 
 once what had become of the parents, of whom there was 
 no sign visible, and at last she ventured to put the question : 
 
 " Is your mother not at home to-day?" 
 
 This question sent the little seamstress off into a fit of 
 silent laughter, which brought a dull touch of color into her 
 cheeks, and very much improved her appearance. Liz also 
 gave a little short laugh, which had no mirth in it. 
 
 "No, she's not at name; she's payin' a visit at Duke 
 Street" and the little grave nod with which Gladys received 
 this information further intensified the amusement of the 
 two. 
 
 " Ye dinna see through it," said Liz, "so I'll gie ye'd flat. 
 My faith er and mither are in the jail for fechtin'. They 
 were nailed on Saturday nicht." 
 
 0h!" 
 
 Gladys looked genuinely distressed, and, perhaps, for the 
 first time, Liz thought of another side such degradation might 
 have. She had often been angry, had felt' it keenly in her 
 own passionate way, but it was always a selfish anger, which 
 had not in it a single touch of compassion for the miserable 
 pair who had so far forgotten their duty to each other and 
 to God. 
 
 " Gey bad, ye think, I see," said Liz soberly. " We 're 
 used to it, and dinna fash oiir thoombs. She '11 be hame the 
 
 4
 
 50 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 nicht ; but he 's gotten thirty days, an' we '11 hae a wee peace 
 or he comes oot." 
 
 Gladys looked at the indifferent face of Liz with a vague 
 wonder in her own. That straight, direct glance, which had 
 such sorrow in it, disconcerted Liz considerably, and she 
 again turned to the pages of Lord Bellew. 
 
 "Do n't you get rather tired of that work?'' asked 
 Gladys, looking with extreme compassion on the little seam- 
 stress, who was again hard at work. 
 
 "Tired! oo ay. We maun tire an' begin again," she 
 answered, dully. " It 's sair on the fingers." 
 
 She paused a moment to stretch out one of her scraggy 
 hands, which was worn and thin at the finger tips, and 
 pricked with the sharp points of many needles. 
 
 " It 's dreadful ; the stuff looks so hard. What do you 
 make?" 
 
 " Men's canvas jackets, number five, thirteen pence the 
 dizzen," quoted the little seamstress, mechanically. "An' 
 find your ain thread." 
 
 " What does that mean ?" asked Gladys. 
 
 " I get a penny each for them, an' a penny ower." 
 
 " For making these great things ?" 
 
 "O, I dinna mak' them a 1 . The seams are run up with 
 the machine afore I get them. I pit in the sleeves, the 
 neckbands, an' mak' the button-holes. There's mair wark 
 at them than ye wad think." 
 
 " Is the money not very little?" 
 
 " Maybe, but I 'm gled to get it. I 'in no able for the 
 mill, and I canna sterve. It keeps body an' soul thegither; 
 
 eh, Liz?" 
 
 " Nae mair," said Liz, abstractedly, again absorbed in her 
 
 paper. " But maybe our shot '11 come." 
 
 Gladys rose to her feet, suddenly conscious that she had 
 made a very long visit. Her heart was heavier than when 
 she came. More and more was the terrible realism of city 
 life borne in upon her troubled soul.
 
 PICTURES OF LIFE. 51 
 
 " I am afraid I must go away," she said, very quietly. 
 " I am very much obliged to } T OU for being so kind to me. 
 May I come again ?" 
 
 ' 0, if ye like," said Liz, carelessly. " But ye '11 uo see 
 Teen. She lives doon the street. My mither canna bide 
 her, an' win mi let her nose within the door; so we hand a 
 jubilee when she 's nailed." 
 
 "O please do n't speak like that of your mother." 
 
 Liz looked quite thunderstruck. 
 
 "What for no? I've never gotten anything fraehera' 
 my days but ill. I'll tell ye what if I had ta'en her advice, 
 I'd have gane to the bad lang sync. Although she is my 
 mither, I canna say black's white, so ye needna stare; and 
 it' ye are no pleased, ye needna come back. I didna spier 
 ye to come ony way." 
 
 "0 no pray forgive me if I have made a mistake. I 
 am so sorry for it all, only I can not understand it." 
 
 "Be thankfu' if ye dinna, then," replied Liz, curtly. 
 "I'm no very ceevil to you. I am much oblege to ye for 
 comin', for the fiooers, an' mair than a' for teachin' Wat to 
 read." 
 
 Her face became quite soft in its outline: the harshness 
 died out of her bright eyes, leaving them lovely beyond ex- 
 pression. Gladys felt drawn to her once more, and leaning 
 forward, without a moment's hesitation, she kissed her on 
 the brow. It was a very simple act, no effort to the child 
 who had learned from her Knglish mother to give outward 
 expression to her feelings; but its effect on Liz was very 
 strange. Her face grew quite red, her eyes brimmed with 
 tears, and she threw the blanket over her- head to smother 
 the sob which broke from her lips. Then Gladys bade 
 good-bye to the little seamstress, and slipped away down the 
 weary stair and into the grimy street, where already the 
 lamps were lit. Her mind was full of many new and 
 strange thoughts as she took her way home, and it was with 
 an effort she recovered herself sufficiently to attend to her
 
 52 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 simple duties for the evening. But when the old man and 
 the boy came down from the warehouse, supper was ready as 
 usual, and there was nothing remarked, except that Gladys 
 was perhaps quieter than usual. 
 
 "Yes, I have been ; and I saw your sister, Walter," she 
 said at last, when they had opportunity to talk alone. " She 
 is much better, she says, and hopes to get out soon." 
 " Did you see anybody else ?" 
 
 " Yes ; a friend, whom she called Teen I do not know 
 her other name," answered Gladys. 
 
 "Teen Balfour I ken her. An' what do you think 
 of Liz?" 
 
 He put the question with a furtive anxiety of look and 
 tone not lost on Gladys. 
 
 " I like her. At first I thought her manner strange ; but 
 she has a feeling heart, too. And she is very beautiful." 
 
 " You think so, too," said the lad, with a strange bitter- 
 ness ; "then it must be true." 
 
 "Why should it not? It is pleasant to be beautiful, I 
 think," said Gladys, with a little smile. 
 
 " For ladies for you, perhaps it is ; but not for Liz," said 
 Walter. "It would be better for her if she looked like 
 Teen." 
 
 Gladys did not ask why. 
 
 " I am very sorry for her, too. It is so dreadful, her 
 life, sewing all day at these coarse garments. I have many 
 mercies more than I thought. And for so little money ! It 
 is dreadful, a great sin ; do you not think so?" 
 
 " yes, it 's a sin ; but it 's the way o' the world," an- 
 swered Wattie, indifferently. " Very likely, if I were a man 
 and had a big shop, I 'd do just the same screw as much as 
 possible out of folk for little pay. That 's gospel." 
 
 Gladys laid her hand on his arm, and her eyes shone 
 upon him. " It will not be your gospel, Walter ; that I know. 
 Some day you will be a rich man, perhaps, and then you will 
 show the world what a rich man can do. Is n't there a verse
 
 PICTURES OF LIFE. 53 
 
 in the Bible which says, ' Blessed is he who considereth the 
 poor?' You will consider the poor then, Walter, and I will 
 help you. We shall be able to do it all the better because we 
 have been so poor ourselves." 
 
 It was a new Evangel for that proud, restless, bitter 
 young heart, upon which the burden of life already pressed 
 so heavily. Gladys did not know till long after that these 
 words, spoken out of the fullness of her sympathy, made a 
 man of him from that very day, and awakened in him the 
 highest aspirations which can touch a human soul.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Liz SPEAKS HER MIND. 
 
 |AT," said Liz Hepburn to her brother next time 
 he came home, ' what kind o' a lassie is thon ?" 
 
 It was a question difficult for Walter to an- 
 swer, and, Scotch -like, he solved it by putting 
 another : 
 
 " What do you think of her?' 
 " I dinna ken ; she 's no like ither folk.'' 
 " But you liked her, Liz," said-Walter, with quite evident 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Oo ay ; but she 's queer. How does she get on wi' 
 Skinny?" 
 
 " Well enough. I believe he likes her, Liz. if he would 
 let on." 
 
 Liz made a grimace. 
 
 " I daursay, if he can like onything. 1 telt her my mind 
 on the business plain, an' offered to get her into oor mill." 
 
 " O, Liz, you might have had more sense. Her work in 
 a mill !" cried Walter, with more energy than elegance. 
 
 "An* what for no?" queried Liz, sharply. "I suppose 
 she 's the same flesh an' bluid as me." 
 
 " Shut up, you twa," said a querulous, peevish voice 
 54
 
 LIZ SPEAKS HER MIND. 55 
 
 from the ingle-neuk, where the mother, dull-eyed, depressed, 
 and untidy, sat with her elbows on her knees. She was in 
 a poor state of health, and had not recovered from the last 
 week's outburst. It was Saturday night; but there was no 
 pay forthcoming from the head of the house, who was still 
 in Duke Street prison. Walter looked at his mother fixedly 
 for a moment, and the shadow deepened on his face. She 
 was certainly an unlovely object in her dirty, unkempt gown, 
 her hair half hanging on her neck ; her heavy face looking 
 as if it had not seen soap and water for long; her dull eyes 
 unlit by any gleam of intelligence. Of late, since they had 
 grow T n more dissipated in their habits, Walter had fallen on 
 the plan of keeping back his wages till the beginning of the 
 week the only way in which to insure them food. Seldom, 
 indeed, was anything left after Saturday and Sunday's 
 carousal. 
 
 "Is there anything the matter the day, mother?'' he 
 asked, quite kindly and gently, being moved by a sudden 
 feeling of compassion for her. 
 
 " No, naething ; but I 'am clean dune. Wad ye no bring in 
 a drap, Wat?" she said, coaxingly, and her eye momentai'ily 
 brightened with anticipation. 
 
 " It won't do you any good, mother, ye ken that," he said, 
 striving still to speak gently, though repulsion now mingled 
 with his pity. "A good dinner or supper would do ye more 
 good. I '11 bring in a bit steak, if ye '11 cook it." 
 
 "I 'vc nae stammick for meat," she said, relapsing into 
 her dull state. " I 'm no lang for this world, an' my wee 
 drap 's the only comfort I hae. Ye '11 maybe wish ye hadna 
 been as ill to me by an' by." 
 
 " I'm comin' alang some nicht, Wat," said Liz, who in- 
 variably treated such remarks with the most profound con- 
 tempt, ignoring them entirely. " D 'ye think Skinny '11 let 
 me in ?" 
 
 " I dare say," answered Walter, abruptly ; and sitting 
 down on the window-box, he looked through the blindless
 
 5G THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 window upon the masses of roofs and the twinkling lights 
 of the great city. His heart was heavy, his soul sick within 
 him. His home, so poor a home for him and for all who 
 called it by that sweet name, had never appeared a more 
 miserable and homeless place. It was not the smallness nor 
 the poverty of its furnishing which concerned him, but the 
 human beings it sheltered, who lay a burden upon his heart, 
 Liz was out of bed, crouching over the fire, with an old red 
 shawl wrapped around her, a striking-looking figure in spite 
 of her general desfiabille a girl at whom all men and many 
 women would look twice. He wished she were less striking; 
 that her appearance had matched the only destiny she could 
 look for gray, meager, commonplace, hopeless as a dull No- 
 vember day. 
 
 "Your courage is no up, Wat?" she said, looking at him 
 rather keenly. " What are ye sae doon i' the mooth for?" 
 
 Walter made no reply. Truth to tell, he would have 
 found it difficult to give expression to his thoughts. 
 
 "He's aye doon i' the mooth when he comes here, Liz/' 
 said the mother, with a passing touch of spirit. " We 're 
 ower puir folk for my lord, noo that he 's gettin' among the 
 gentry." 
 
 "The gentry of Argyle Street an' the Saut-market, 
 mother ?" asked Walter, dryly. " They '11 no do much for ye." 
 
 " Is Skinny no gaun to raise yer screw, Wat?" asked Liz. 
 " It 's high time he was thinkin' on't." 
 
 "I '11 ask him one o' these days ; but he might as well keep 
 the money as me. This is a bottomless pit," he said, with 
 bitterness. " It could swallow a pound as quick as five shill- 
 ings, an' never be kent." 
 
 "Ye 're richt, Wat; but I wad advise you to stick in to 
 Skinny. He has siller, they say, an' may be ye '11 finger it 
 some day." 
 
 One night, not long after, Liz presented herself at the 
 house in Colquhoun Street, to return the visit of Gladys. 
 As it happened, Walter was not in, having heard of a night-
 
 LIZ SPEAKS HER MIND. 57 
 
 school where the fees were so small as to be within the range 
 of his means. Gladys looked genuinely pleased to see her 
 visitor, though she hardly recognized in the fashionably 
 dressed young lady the melancholy-looking girl she had seen 
 lying on the kitchen bed in the house of the Hepburns. 
 
 " Daur I come in? Would he no be mad?" asked Liz, 
 when they shook hands at the outer door. 
 
 "Do you mean my uncle?" asked Gladys. "He will be 
 quite pleased to see you. Come in ; it is so cold here." 
 
 " For you, ay ; but I 'm as warm 's a pie, see, wi' my new 
 fur cape four an' elevenpence three farthings at the Poly- 
 technic. Is n't it a beauty, an' dirt cheap?" 
 
 Thus talking glibly about what was more interesting to 
 her than anything else in the world, Liz followed Gladys 
 into the kitchen, where the old man sat, as usual, in his arm- 
 chair by the fireside, looking very old and wizened and frail 
 in the flickering glow of fire and candle-light. 
 
 "This is Walter's sister, Uncle Abel," Gladys said, with 
 that unconscious dignity which singled her out at once, and 
 gave her a touch of individuality which Liz felt, though she 
 did not in the least understand it. The old man gave a lit- 
 tle grunt, and bade her sit down. But, though not talka- 
 tive, he keenly observed the two, and saw that they were 
 cast in a different mold. Liz looked well, flushed with her 
 walk, the dark, warm fur setting off the brilliance of her com- 
 plexion, her clothes fitting her with a certain flaunting style, 
 her manner free from the least touch of embarrassment or 
 restraint. Liz Hepburn feared nothing under the sun. 
 
 "And are you quite better, Liz?" asked Gladys, gently, 
 with a look of real interest and sympathy in her face. 
 
 "0, ay, I 'm fine. Wat 's no in?" she said, glancing in- 
 quiringly round the place. 
 
 "No, he has heard of a teacher who takes evening pupils 
 for book-keeping and these things, and has gone to make 
 arrangements with him." 
 
 Never had the nicety of her speech and her sweet, refined
 
 58 THE GUIXEA STAMP. 
 
 accent been more marked by Abel Graham. Ho looked at 
 her as she stood by the table a slender, pale figure, with a 
 strange touch of both child and maiden about her and he 
 felt glad that she was not like Liz. Not that he thought ill 
 of Liz, or did not see her beauty such as it was only he 
 felt that the maiden whom circumstances had cast into his 
 care and keeping was of a higher type than the red-cheeked, 
 bright-eyed damsel whom so many admired. 
 
 "An' when hae ye been oot, micht I ask V" inquired Liz, 
 calmly. " Ye 're a jimpy-looking thing." 
 
 "Not since Sunday." 
 
 " Sunday ! Mercy me ! an' this is Friday. She '11 sune 
 be in her grave, Mr. Graham. Folk maun hae fresh air. 
 What way d 'ye no set her oot every day?" 
 
 " She is welcome to go if she likes, Miss. I do n't keep 
 her in," answered the old man, tartly. 
 
 "Maybe no; but likely she has that muckle adae she 
 canna get," replied Liz, fearlessly. " It 's a fine nicht ; sup- 
 pose ye tak' a walk wi' me. The shops is no shut yet." 
 
 "Shall I go, uncle?" asked Gladys. 
 
 "If ye want, certainly; but come in in time of night. 
 Do n't be later than nine." 
 
 " Very well," answered Gladys, and retired into her own 
 room to make ready for her walk. Then Liz, turning round 
 squarely on her seat, fixed the old man fearlessly with her 
 eyes, and gave him a piece of her mind. 
 
 "I saw ye lookin' at her a meenit ago, Maister Graham, 
 an' maybe ye was thinkin' the same as me, that she 's no long 
 for this world. Is't no a sin an' a shame for a cratur like 
 that to work in a place like this ? But it's waur, if it be true, 
 as -folks say, that there 's nae need for it." 
 
 So astonished was Abel Graham by this plain speaking 
 on the part of a girl he had never seen in his life, that he 
 could only staro. 
 
 " It 's true," added Liz, significantly, " she 's yin o' the 
 kind they make angels o', and that 's no my kind nor yours.
 
 LI/. SPEAKS HER ML\T>. oiJ 
 
 If I were you I 'd see aboot it, or it '11 be the waur for ye, 
 may be, after/' 
 
 Happily, just then Gladys returned for her boots; and in 
 her mild excitement over having a companion to walk with, 
 she did not observe the very curious look on her uncle's face. 
 But Liz did, and gave an inward chuckle. 
 
 " How 's your father and mother?" he asked, making the 
 commonplace question a cover for the start he had got. 
 
 <! O, they are as well as they can expect to be," Liz re- 
 plied. " He cam' oot on Monday. I spiered if they had gien 
 him a return ticket available for a week/' 
 
 The hard little laugh which accompanied these apparently 
 heartless words did not in the least deceive Gladys; and, 
 looking up from the lacing of her boots, she flashed a glance 
 of quick sympathy upon the girl's face, which expressed 
 more than any words. 
 
 " They 're surely very ill-kinded," was Abel Graham's 
 comment, in rather a surprised tone. Liz had given him 
 more information about her people in five minutes than 
 Walter had done in the two years he had been with him. The 
 difference between the two was, that while sharing the bitter- 
 ness of their home-sorrows, the one found a certain relief in 
 telling the worst, the other shut it in his heart, a grief to be 
 brooded over till all life seemed tinged and poisoned by its 
 degradation. 
 
 " O, it 's drink," she said, carelessly. " The same auld 
 story. Everything sooms awa' in whisky they '11 soom 
 awa' theirsePs some day wi'd : that 's wan comfort. I 'm sure 
 that's wan thing Wat an' me 's no likely to 'meddle wi'. 
 We 've seen ower muckle o' the misery o' drink. It '11 never 
 be my ruin, onywa}*. Are ye read}-, Gladys?" 
 
 " In a minute just my hat and gloves/' Gladys answered, 
 and again retired. 
 
 " I say, sir, d' 3-0 no think ye should raise Wat's 
 wages? I had twa things to say to you the nicht, an' I 've 
 said them ; ye needna fash to flyte. I 'm no feared. If ye
 
 60 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 are a rich man, as they say, ye 're waur than oor auld yin, 
 for he haunds oot the siller as long as it lasts." 
 
 " You are a very impudent young woman," said Abel 
 Graham, "and not a fit companion for my niece. I can't 
 let her go out with you/' 
 
 " O, she 's gaun the nit-lit, whether you let her or no," was 
 the calm answer. ''And as to being impident, some folk 
 ca's the truth impidence, because they 're no accustomed to 
 it. But aboot Wat, ye ken as weel as me, ye micht seek 
 east an' west through Glesca an' no get sic anither. He 's 
 ower honest. You raise his wages or he '11 quit, if I should 
 seek a place for him mj'sel'." 
 
 The calm self-assertion of Liz, which had something al- 
 most queenly in it, compelled the respect of the old man, and 
 he even smiled a little across the table to the chair where she 
 sat quite at her ease, delivering herself of these remarkably 
 plain statements. In his inmost soul he even enjoyed them, 
 and felt a trifle sorry when Gladys appeared ready to go. 
 Liz sprang up at once, and favored the old miser with a 
 gracious nod by way of farewell. 
 
 " Guid-nicht to ye, then, an' mind what I 've said. I was 
 in deid earnest, an' I 'm richt, as ye '11 maybe live to prove. 
 An' mind that there 's ower a wee pickle angels in Glesca for 
 the ither kind, an' we 'd better tak' care o' what we hae."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 D TOOLS 
 
 |OO. whaur wad ye like to gang?'' inquired Liz, as 
 they shut the outer door behind them. 
 
 "Anywhere ; it is pleasant to be out, only the 
 air is not very good here. Do you think it is?" 
 :i Maybe no. We ; 11 look at the shops first. 
 anyhow, an' then we'll gang an' meet Teen Ba'four. D'ye 
 mind Teen?'' 
 
 '' O yes. Is she quite well ? She looked so ill that day 
 I saw her, I could not forget her face." 
 
 " O, she 's well enough. I think. I never asks. Oor kind 
 gangs on till they drap, and then they maistly dee," said Liz, 
 cheerfully. " But Teen will hing on awhile yet she 's tough. 
 I dinna see her very often. My mither disna like her. 
 She brings me the Reader on Fridays. Eh. wummin. 'Lord 
 Bellew's Bride' 's finished. Everything was cleared up at 
 the end, an' the young man Lord Bellew was jealous o' turns 
 oot to be only her brither. The last chapter tells about the 
 christenin' o' the heir, an' she wears a white brocade gown 
 trimmed wi' real pearls an' ostrich-feathers. Fancy you 
 an' me in a frock like that. Wad it no make a' the differ- 
 ence?" 
 
 61
 
 62 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " I do n't know, I' m sure. I never thought of it," an- 
 swered Gladys, quietly amused. 
 
 "Sae ye no? I often think o'd. If I lived in a big 
 boose, rode in a carriage, an' wore a silk dress everyday, I 
 wad be happy an' guid too, maybe. It 's easy to be guid 
 when \e ai*e rich." 
 
 " The Bible does n't say so. Do n't you remember how it 
 explains that it is so hard for a rich man to enter the king- 
 dom of heaven?" 
 
 Liz looked round in a somewhat scared manner into her 
 companion's face. 
 
 " D 'ye read the Bible ?" she asked, bluntly. " I never do ; 
 so I canna mind that. I never thocht anybody read it or 
 .believed it, I mean except ministers that are paid for it." 
 . " O. that is quite a mistake," said Gladys, warmly. "A 
 great many people read it, because they love it, and because 
 it helps them in the battle of life. I could n't live without 
 it. Walter and I read it every night." 
 
 Liz drew herself a little apart doubtfully, and looked yet 
 more scrutinizing!}* into the face of Gladys. 
 
 " Upon my word ye 're less fit than I thocht for this 
 warld. What were ye born for? You '11 never fecht your 
 way through," she said, with a kind of scornful pity. 
 
 " O yes, I will. Perhaps if it came to the real fight, I 
 should prove stronger than you, just because I have that 
 help. Dear Liz, it is dreadful, if it is true, to live as you do. 
 Are you not afraid ?" 
 
 "I fear nothing, except gaun into consumption, an' haein' 
 naebody to look after me," responded Liz. " If it came to 
 that, I 'd tak' something to pit an end to mysel'. My mind's 
 made up on that lang syne." 
 
 She looked quite determined, her full red lips firmly set, 
 and her eyes looking straight before her, calm, steadfast, un- 
 daunted, in corroboration of her boast that she feared nothing 
 in the world.
 
 EDGED TOOLS. G3 
 
 " But, Liz. tbat would be very wicked," said Gladys, in 
 distress. " We have never more to bear than we are able. 
 God takes care of that always. But I am sure you are only 
 speaking in haste. I think you have a great deal of courage 
 too much to do that kind of thing." 
 
 "Dinua preach, or we '11 no gree," said Liz, almost rudely. 
 ' Let 's look at the hats in this window. I '11 hae a new one 
 next pay. Look at that crimson velvet wi' the black wings ; 
 it 's awfu' neat, an' only six-and-nine. D 'ye no think it wad 
 set me?" 
 
 " Yery likely. You look very nice always," answered 
 Gladys, truthfully, and the sincere compliment pleased Liz, 
 though she did not say so. 
 
 " Well, look, it 's ten meenits past aicht. We were to 
 meet Teen in the Trongate at the quarter. We '11 need to 
 turn back." 
 
 " And where will we go after that?" inquired Glad}-s. 
 " The shops are beginning to shut."* 
 
 'You'll see. We've a ploy on. I want to gie you a 
 treat. You dinna get mony o' them." 
 
 She linked her arm with friendly familiarity into that of 
 Gladys, and began to chatter on again, chiefly of dress, 
 which was dear to her soul. Her talk was not interesting to 
 Gladys, who was singularly free from that feminine weakness, 
 love of fine attire. Xo doubt she owed this to her upbring- 
 ing, having been always alone with her father, and know- 
 ing very few of her own sex. But she listened patiently 
 to Liz's minute account of the spring clothes she had in view, 
 and even tried to make some suggestions on her own account. 
 It was with something of a relief, however, that she beheld 
 among the crowd at last the slight figure and pale counte- 
 nance of Teen. 
 
 " Guid e'enin' to you," Teen said, in her monotonous 
 voice, and without a smile or brightening of her face. " Fine, 
 dry nicht. We're late, Liz, ten minutes.''
 
 64 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " O, it doesna matter. We '11 mak' a sensation," said Liz, 
 with a grim smile. "A' the same, we better hurry up an' 
 get oor sixpence worth. 
 
 "Where are we going?" asked Gladys, rather doubtfully. 
 
 " 0, ye '11 see. I promised you a treat," answered Liz, and 
 tire trio quickened their steps until they came to a narrow 
 entrance, illuminated, however, by a blaze of gas-jets, and 
 adorned about the doorway with sundry bills and pictures of 
 music-hall artistes. 
 
 Before Gladys could utter the least protest she was whisked 
 in, paid for at the box, and hurried up-stairs into a brilliantly 
 lighted hall, the atmosphere of which, however, was reeking 
 with the smoke and the odor of tobacco and cheap cigars. 
 Somebody was singing in a high, shrill, unlovely voice, and 
 when Gladys looked towards the platform, behind the foot- 
 lights, she was horrified at the spectacle of a large, coarse- 
 looking woman, wearing the scantiest possible amount of 
 clothing, her face painted and powdered, her hair adorned 
 with gilt spangles, her arms and neck hung with sham jewelry. 
 
 " Who 's she ? Is it not awful ?" whispered Gladys, which 
 questions sent the undemonstrative Teen off into one of her 
 silent fits of laughter. 
 
 But Liz looked a trifle annoyed. 
 
 " Do n't ask such silly questions. That 's Mademoiselle 
 Frivol, and she 's appearing in a new character. It 's an 
 awful fanny song, evidently. See how they 're laughin'. Be 
 quiet, an' let 's listen." 
 
 Gladys held her peace, sank into the seat beside Liz, and 
 looked about her in a kind of horrified wonder. 
 
 It was a large place, with the gallery opposite the stage. 
 The seats in the body of the hall were movable, and not set 
 closely together, in order that the audience might be able to 
 move about. It was very full a great many young men, 
 well-dressed, and even gentlemanly, in outward appearance 
 at least; the majority were smoking. The women present 
 were mostly young, many of them mere girls, and there was
 
 EDGED TOOLS. 65 
 
 a great deal of talking and bantering going on between them 
 and the young men. 
 
 Those in the gallery were evidently of the poorer class, 
 and they accompanied the chorus of the song with a vigor- 
 ous stamping of feet and whistling accompaniment. "When 
 .Mademoiselle Frivol had concluded her performance with a 
 little dance, which brought down the house, there was a short 
 interval, and presently some young men sauntered up to the 
 three girls, and bade them good-evening in an easy, familiar 
 way, which made the color leap to the cheek of Gladys, though 
 she did not know why. She knew nothing about young men, 
 and had no experience to enable her to discern the fine shades 
 of their demeanor towards women ; but that innate delicacy 
 which is the safeguard and the unfailing monitor of every 
 woman until she willfully throws it away forever, told the 
 pure-minded girl that something was amiss, and that it was 
 no place for her. 
 
 "Who 's your chum, old girl?" asked a gorgeous youth, 
 who wore an imitation diamond breast-pin and finger-ring. 
 " Give us an introduction, Miss Hepburn." 
 
 He did not remove his cigar, but looked down upon the 
 pale face of Gladys with a kind of familiar approval which 
 hurt her, and made her long to flee from the place. 
 
 "No; shut up, an' let her a-be," answered Liz, tartly. 
 " Have ye a program ?" 
 
 " Yes, but you don't deserve it for being so shabby," said 
 the gorgeous youth, putting on a double eye-glass, and still 
 honoring Gladys with his attention. 
 
 " I hope you will enjoy the performance, Miss," he added. 
 " Did you hear Frivol's song? It was very clever, quite the 
 hit of the evening." 
 
 Gladys never opened her mouth. When she afterwards 
 looked back on that experience, she wondered how she had 
 been able to preserve her calm, cold unconcern, which very 
 soon convinced the youth that his advances were not wel- 
 come. Liz looked round at her, and noting the proud, con- 
 
 5
 
 68 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 temptuous curl of the girl's sweet lips, laughed up in his 
 face. 
 
 " It 's no go, Mr. Sinclair. Let 's see that program, an' 
 dinnabe mean." 
 
 But the discomfited Mr. Sinclair, in no little chagrin, 
 departed as rudely as he came. 
 
 " Ye dinna want a gentleman lover, Gladys," whispered 
 Liz. " He's struck, onybody can see that, an' he 's in busi- 
 ness for himsel". I 'm sure he 's masher enough for you. 
 Wull I gie him the hint to come back?" 
 
 " I 'm going home, Liz. This is no place for me, nor for 
 any of us, I know that," said Gladys, quite hotly for her. 
 
 "O no; you're no. We must hae oor sixpence worth. 
 Bide or nine, onyhoo. That's just twenty meenits. Here 's 
 the acrobats; ye '11 like that." 
 
 The acrobatic performance fascinated Gladys even, while 
 it horrified and almost made her sick. She watched every 
 contortion of the bodies with the most morbid and intense 
 interest, though feeling it to be hideous all the time. It ex- 
 cited her very much, and her cheeks flushed, her eyes shone 
 with unwonted brilliance. When it was over, she rose to her 
 feet. 
 
 "I'm going out, Liz. This is a bad place; I know it is. 
 I 'm going home." 
 
 Liz looked up with annoyance at the clock. 
 
 " Ps too bad; aichteen -pence aw a' 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 much the nicht anyway," answered 
 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
 
 EDGED TOOLS. 67 
 
 shoulder, and Gladys felt her hand tremble as it lay on 
 her arm. 
 
 'I maun say guid-nicht here, Gladys,' she said, hur- 
 riedly, and her cheeks were aflame. " I 'm vexed ye didna 
 like the play. I meant it weel. Ye '11 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 sec 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." 
 
 "Is she going to be married to him?" inquired Gladys, 
 with interest. 
 
 " She hopes sae ; but but I wadna like to swear by it. 
 He 's a slippery customer, an' aye was. I ken a lassie in 
 Dennistoun he carried on as far as Liz ; but I 'm no feared 
 for Liz. She can watch hersel'." 
 
 A strange feeling 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 she had that night made acquaintance. 
 Conversation did not flourish between them, and they were 
 glad to part at the corner of the Lane. Gladys ran up to 
 the house, feeling almost as if somebody pursued her, and 
 she was out of breath when she reached the door. 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 nerv- 
 ous 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
 
 88 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 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. 
 
 " 0, splendid ! What a thing it is to learn ! I feel as if 
 I could do anything, now I have begun," he cried, enthusi- 
 astically. " Mr. Kobertson was so kind. He will give me 
 Euclid as well for the same money. He says he sees I am in 
 earnest. Life is a fine thing after all, sometimes." 
 
 "Yes." Gladys looked upon his face, flushed with 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, seeing 
 that, for some unexplained reason, she was not so interested 
 as usual in his pursuits. " Where did she take you ?" 
 
 " To a music-hall not a nice place, Walter," said Gladys, 
 almost shamefacedly. His color, the flush of quick anger, 
 leaped in his cheek. 
 
 " A music-hall ! I should just say it is n'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,' 1 he began hotly ; but just 
 then the old man returned, and they kept silence. But the 
 evening's " ploy " disturbed them both all night, though in a 
 different way.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CHANGE. 
 
 T was an eventful year. Spring succeeded the 
 fogs and frosts of winter; sunny skies and 
 warmer airs came again, bringing comfort to 
 those who can not buy artificial heat, so making 
 gladness in cities, and a wonder of loveliness 
 in country places, where Xature'reigns supreme. The hardy 
 flowers which 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 trifle 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 
 high ambition for the future. And the child, Gladys, ap- 
 proaching womanhood also, contentedly performed her lowly 
 tasks, and dreamed her dreams likewise, sometimes wonder- 
 ing vaguely how long this monotonous, gray stream would 
 flow on, yet not wishing it disturbed lest greater ills than 
 she knew might beset her way. 
 
 69
 
 70 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 Again winter came ; and just when spring was gathering 
 up her skirts to spread them benignly over the earth, a great 
 change came a very great change indeed. 
 
 It was a March day cold, bitter, blustering, east winds 
 tearing through the streets, and 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 
 fire, 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 the doctor," said Gladys, in concern. " Shall I call him 
 now ?" 
 
 " No ; I '11 go to bed, and you can give me something. 
 There 's my keys ; you '11 get the medicine-bottle on the top 
 shelf of the press. 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 '11 have no doctors around 
 here." 
 
 Gladys knew very well that it was useless to dispute his 
 decision, and taking his keys ran lightty up-stairs to the 
 warehouse. 
 
 " 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, 3 T ou 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 
 do n't like his eyes. ' 
 
 She took the bottle down, and retired again with a nod 
 and a smile, the only inspiration known to the soul of Wai-
 
 AN IMPENDING CHANGE. 71 
 
 tor. It was not of the old man he thought as he busied 
 himself among the goods, but of the fair girl Avho had come 
 to him in his desolation as a revelation of everything lovely 
 and of good report. The effects of the compound sent the 
 old man off into a heavy sleep, during which he got a respite 
 from his racking cough. It was late afternoon when he 
 awoke, and Gladys was sitting by the fire in the fading light, 
 idle for a \vonder, though her 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 in- 
 tently, his face betokening thought of the most serious 
 kind. She was startled at length by his utterance of her 
 name. 
 
 "Yes, uncle, you have had a fine sleep, so many hours. 
 See, it is almost dark, and Walter will be down presently," 
 she said, brightly. "Are you ready for tea, now?" 
 
 She came to his bedside, and looked down upon him as 
 tenderly as if he had been the dearest being to her on 
 earth. 
 
 " You 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 away?" 
 
 "Almost ; it is not so bad, anyhow. Do you think I 'm 
 dying, Gladys?" 
 
 She gave a quick start, and her cheek blanched slightly 
 at this sudden question. 
 
 " O no ! "Why do you ask such a thing, uncle ? You have 
 only got a very bad cold a chill in that cold place up there. 
 I wonder you have escaped so long." 
 
 "Ay, it is rather cold. I 've been often chilled to the bone, 
 and I 've seen Walter's fingers blue with cold," he said. 
 " You '11 run up soon and tell him to haul all the soap-boxes
 
 72 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 out of the fire-place, and build up a big fire to be ready for 
 the morning, lighted the first thing." 
 
 " Very well, uncle ; but I do n't think I '11 let you up- 
 stairs to-morrow." 
 
 "It 's for Walter, not for me. If I 'm better, I 've some- 
 thing else to do to-morrow." 
 
 " Well, we '11 see," said Gladys, briskly. " Now, I 
 must set on the kettle. Would n'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 fire-place. 
 
 " 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 bless- 
 ings. 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 good 
 things of life," he said, with a slight touch of irritation. 
 
 " No, quite true ; but some poor people seem to make 
 more out of small things. That was what I meant," said 
 Gladys, meekly. " But we must not talk anything disagree- 
 able, uncle; it is not good for you." 
 
 " But I want to talk. I say, were you disappointed be- 
 cause I never took you into Ayrshire in the summer?"
 
 AN IMPENDING CHANGE. 73 
 
 "Yes, uncle, a little, but it soon passed. When summer 
 comes again you will take me, I 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 
 puzzled 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 youth. 
 It won't do him any harm," said the old man. "He won't 
 suffer by it. 1 promise you that." 
 
 "Perhaps not; but when he has educated himself which 
 won't be long now, Uncle Abel, he is getting on so fast he 
 will not stay here. We could not expect it." 
 
 " Why not, if there 's money in it?" 
 
 "7s there money in it?" 
 
 A shrewd little smile wreathed her lips, and her whole 
 manner indicated that her sense of humor 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 his opportunity.
 
 74 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 ' Money is not everything," Gladys replied, 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. " Do n'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 different way." 
 
 "But how? There are plenty rich and silly women in 
 Glasgow who are systematically fleeced by the undeserving 
 poor people who have no earthly business to be poor 
 who have hands and heads which can give them a com- 
 petence, only they are moral idiots. No woman should 
 be allowed full use of large sums of money. She is so 
 soft-hearted, she can't say no, and she 's imposed on half 
 the time." 
 
 " You are very hard on women, Uncle Abel," said Gladys, 
 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 prudent and careful by 
 experience." 
 
 "Ay, by experience, which would land you in the poor- 
 house. Have you no desire for the things other women 
 like fine clothes, trinkets, and such like?"
 
 ^A T IMPENDING CHANGE. 75 
 
 "I don't know, uncle, because I have never bad an}*,'' 
 said Gladys, with a little laugh. "I dare say I should like 
 them very well." 
 
 The old man gave a grunt, and turned on his pillow, as 
 if tired of talk. 
 
 Glad}-s 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 sat up 
 suddenly, as if he had something interesting and impor- 
 tant 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?" 
 
 "Nineteen." 
 
 "Nineteen, are you? "Well, you look it. You 've vastly 
 improved of late. I suppose you think yourself rather an 
 ill-used sort of person ill-used by 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 arise." 
 
 " Why have you staid here so long, if that is your mind ? 
 Nobody was compelling you." 
 
 "No; but I 've got used to the place, and I like it." re- 
 turned Walter, frankly; but he bent his eyes on his books, 
 as if there was 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 de'il 
 tak' the hindmost, as the}* say ; but I do n't think you '11 be 
 hindmost. Suppose, now, you were to find yourself the boss 
 of this concern, what would you do?"
 
 76 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " Carry it on as best I could, sir," answered Walter, in 
 surprise. 
 
 " Ay, but how? I suppose you think you 'd reorganize 
 it all," said the old man, rather sarcastically. 
 
 " Well, I would," 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 could n'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 its cruel to the poor wretches 
 who are always owing. They can't have any independence. 
 It's a poor way of doing business." 
 
 " 0, 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 ?" 
 
 " They may be high and mighty, sir, but they 're com- 
 mon 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 do n't know, of course ; but you always say you are a 
 poor man ?" replied Walter, as he put down the figures of a 
 sum on his slate. 
 
 " But you do n't believe it, eh ? Perhaps that 's why 
 you Ve stuck to me like a leech so long," he said, with his 
 most disagreeable smile ; but Walter never answered. They 
 had been together now for some years, and there was a curi- 
 ous sort of understanding, a liking even, between them. And 
 of late Walter had taken several opportunities of speaking his 
 mind with a candor which really pleased his strange old 
 master, though he always appeared to be in a state of indig- 
 nation. 
 
 " The only thing I am anxious about is the girl," he mut-
 
 AN IMPENDING CHANGE, 77 
 
 tered, more to himself than to the lad. " But she '11 find 
 friends more of them, perhaps, than she '11 want, poor thing ! 
 poor thing!'' 
 
 These words gave Walter something of a shock, and he 
 looked around in quick wonderment. But the return of 
 Gladys just then prevented him asking the question trem- 
 bling on his lips.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IN AYRSHIRE. 
 
 HE old 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 kitchen 
 soon after six o'clock. 
 
 "A lovely morning, uncle MO balmy and soft. You can't 
 think what a difference from yesterday, and there 's a bird 
 singing a spring song in my tree.'' 
 
 Often yet she said such tilings. The gray monotony of 
 her life had not quite destroyed the poetic vein, nor the love 
 of all things beautiful. 
 
 " Warm, is it? Have you been out?" 
 " Not yet ; but J opened my window and put my head 
 out, and the air was quite mild. A spring morning, Uncle 
 Abel the first we have had this year." 
 ' : Any sun?'' 
 
 "Not 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 when you have the fire on I '11 get up." 
 78
 
 IN AYRSHIRE. 79 
 
 " Do n't be rash, uncle. I really think you ought to stay 
 in bed to-day." 
 
 "No; I have something to do. How soon can you be 
 ready finished with your work, I mean ? Have you any- 
 thing you can leave ready for Wat's dinner?" 
 
 "Why, Uncle Abel?" asked Gladys, in surprise. 
 
 "Because I want you to go somewhere with me." 
 
 " You are not going out of this house one foot to- 
 day," she answered, quickly. " It would be very danger- 
 ous." 
 
 The old man smiled slightly, amused, but not displeased 
 by the decision with which she spoke. 
 
 " We '11 see, if it keeps fine, and the sun comes out. I 'm 
 going to-day, whatever the consequences, and you with me. 
 It 's been put off too long." 
 
 Gladj's 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 jour- 
 ney 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, what- 
 ever the consequences ; so get ready as fast as you like, so 
 that we may have the best of the da}*." 
 
 " Is it a far journey ?" 
 
 " You'll sec when you get there," he replied, rather 
 shortly; and Gladys, still wondering much, made haste with 
 her work and began to dress for this unexpected outing. 
 But she felt uneasy, and, stealing a moment, ran up to Wal- 
 ter, who was busy in the warehouse, and reveling in the 
 unaccustomed luxury of a blazing fire. 
 
 "How nice it is, and what a difference a fire can make, 
 to be sure !" she said, quickly. " I say, Walter, such a thing !
 
 80 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 Uncle Abel is going a journey a railway 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?" 
 
 " no ; and he says he is quite well. I do n't know what 
 to think. Perhaps I shall 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 happen ; I feel it ; something I 
 do n't like. I '.m oppressed with an awful, queer feeling. I 
 hope they 're not worse than usual at home." 
 
 "0 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 maiden went forth together. Both thought of that 
 iourney, 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 him. 
 It was impossible for her to dwell beside a human being, not 
 absolutely repulsive, without pouring some of the riches of 
 her affections upon him. As for him, Gladys herself 
 had not the remotest idea how he regarded her; did not 
 dream that she bad awakened in his withered heart a 
 slow and all-absorbing affection, the strength of which
 
 IN AYRSHIRE. 81 
 
 surprised himself. He bade her stand back while he went 
 to the booking-office for the tickets, and they were in the 
 train before she repeated her question regarding their 
 destination. 
 
 "L think it would only be fair, Uncle Abel, if you 
 told me now where we are going," she said, playfully. 
 For answer he held out the ticket to her, and in amaze- 
 ment she read "Mauchline" on it. The color flushed 
 all over her face, and she looked at him with eager, ques- 
 tioning eyes. 
 
 " O, Uncle Abel, what does it mean ? Why are you going 
 thereto-day? 1 can not understand it." 
 
 " I have my reasons, Gladys. You will know them, per- 
 haps, 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 as 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. 
 
 " O, Uncle Abel, it is so beautiful to see it, the wide coun- 
 try ; and the sky above is so clear and lovely. 0, there is room 
 to breathe !" 
 
 " I am sure it looks wintry and bleak enough," the old 
 man answered, with a grunt. " I do n't see much beauty in 
 it myself." 
 
 " How strange ! To me it is wholly beautiful. Is this 
 Ayrshire yet? Tell me when we come to Ayrshire." 
 
 A slow smile was on the old man's face as he looked and 
 listened. He enjoyed her young enthusiasm, but it seemed 
 to awaken in him some sadder thought; for once he sighed 
 heavily, and drew himself together 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 Gladys was told they had reached their
 
 82 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 journey's end. It was a lovely spring morning; the sun 
 shone out cheerfully from a mild, bright sky ; the air was 
 laden with the awakening odors 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 foot-bridge. " What 
 do you want most to see here?" 
 
 " Mossgiel and Ballochmyle, and the house where you lived 
 in Mauchline." 
 
 " "We '11 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 '11 take a trap and drive to the 
 other places." 
 
 " But that will cost a great deal," said Gladys, doubtfully, 
 recalled for the moment to the small economies it was her 
 daily lot to practice. 
 
 "Perhaps; but we '11 manage it, I dare say. It is impos- 
 sible 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 be- 
 neath 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 from Abel Graham, and he 
 became garrulous as a boy over these old landmarks which 
 he had never forgotten. He led Gladys by way of Poosie 
 Nancie's tavern, showed her its classic interior, and then, 
 turning into a little, narrow lane, pointed out the cottage 
 where he and her father had been boys together. 
 
 It was the girl's turn to be silent. She was trying to 
 picture the dear father a boy at his mother's knee, or run- 
 ning in and out that low doorway, or helping to swell the 
 boyish din in the narrow street. And when they turned to 
 go, her eyes were wet with tears.
 
 IN AYRSHIRE. 83 
 
 11 1 would rather have come here to-day, Uncle Abel, than 
 anywhere else in the whole wide world. But why did you 
 wish to come? Did you take a sudden longing to see the old 
 place?" 
 
 " JSTo, that was not my object at all. You will know 
 what it was some da} T . Now we '11 go to the inn and get 
 something to eat, while they get our machine ready. See, 
 there 's the old kirk ; there 's a lot of famous folk buried in 
 that kirk-yard. We 'd better go in, and I '11 show you where 
 I want to be laid." 
 
 They got the key of the church-yard gates, and, stepping 
 across the somewhat untidily kept graves, stood before an 
 uneven mound, surrounded by a very old, moss-grown head- 
 stone. 
 
 " There 's a name on it, child. You can't read it ; but 
 it doesn't matter," he said; but Gladys bending down 
 brushed the tall grass from the stone, and read the name, 
 "John Bourhill Graham, of Bourhill, and his spouse, Nancy 
 Millar." 
 
 "Whose names are these, uncle your father's and 
 mother's ?" 
 
 "0 no; they were not Grahams of Bourhill," he an- 
 swered, dryly. " That's generations back." 
 
 "But the same family?" 
 
 " I suppose so. Yes. I see you would like to explore 
 this place; but we can't. It's not the most cheerful occupa- 
 tion, anyhow. Come on ; let us go 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 Burns has immortalized, 
 arid which Gladys had so long yearned to see. Balloch- 
 myle, in lovely spring dress, so far exceeded her expec- 
 tation that she had no words wherein to express her deep 
 enjoyment. 
 
 i 'Do not let us hurry away, uncle," she pleaded, as the)
 
 84 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 wandered through the wooded glades, " unless you are very 
 tired. It is so warm and pleasant, and it can not be very 
 late." 
 
 " It, is not late, half-past two only ; but I want you to 
 see Eourhill, where our forebears lived when we had them 
 \vorth 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 church-yard." 
 
 "I will tell 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 list 
 ened 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?" 
 
 " 0, drink and gambling, and such like. My grandfather, 
 David Graham, kent the taste of Poosie Nancie'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 store-house of his memory a wealth of reminiscences 
 of those old times, mingled with many bits of personal his- 
 tory, which Gladys listened to with breathless interest. She 
 had never seen him so awakened, so full of life and vigor ; 
 she could only look at him in amazement. They drove leis- 
 urely 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.
 
 IN A YRSHJRE. 85 
 
 " O, Uncle Abel, Ayrshire is lovely. Look at these low 
 green hills in the distance, and the woods everywhere. I do 
 not wonder that Burns could write poetry here. There is 
 poetry everywhere." 
 
 "Ay, to your e} T es, 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 Troon Harbor ; and up there lies Tarbolton ; away 
 down there, the way we have come, Kilmarnock ; and do 
 you see that little wooded hill about two miles ahead to the 
 left? Among those 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 '11 drive up the avenue to 
 the house and back. I want you to see it." 
 
 " Does nobody live in it?" 
 
 "Not just now." 
 
 Another fifteen minutes brought them to an unpre- 
 tending iron gateway which gave entrance to an avenue 
 of fine old trees. The gate stood open, and though a 
 woman ran out from the lodge, when the trap passed she 
 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 lamily dwelling, with 
 a pillared doorway, and long, wide windows, about which 
 crept ivy of a century's growth. It was all shut up, and the 
 gravel sweep before the door was overgrown with moss and 
 weeds ; the grass on the lawns, which stretched away through 
 the shrubberies, was long and rank. Yet there 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 ambitions 
 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?"
 
 86 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " Yes, uncle ; but it is very desolate ; it makes me 
 sad." 
 
 ''It will not be long so, 1 ' he said, and drawing himself 
 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."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 DA.YS. 
 
 X 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 difficulty. Her 
 presence of mind did not desert her. She had 
 often seen her father in a similar state, and knew ex- 
 actly 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 go 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. 
 Hut his face was quite grave after his examination was made. 
 "I suppose my hour's come," said Abel Graham, in a 
 matter-of-fact way. " I do n't think much of your frater- 
 nity. I Ve never had many dealings with you ; but I sup- 
 pose you can tell a man what he generally knows himself 
 that he '11 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, straightforM T ard fellow, who knew and loved his 
 work. 
 
 87
 
 88 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 "You don't think highly of us, Mr. Graham; but I 
 dare say we have our uses. This young lady appears to be 
 an accomplished nurse. She 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 surroundings. 
 Walter Hepburn, standing in the background, 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 any- 
 thing more I can do, pray tell me, and I will follow your in- 
 structions faithfully." 
 
 " There is not so much we can do in such a case. I never 
 heard anything so foolhardy as to go off, as you say he did 
 yesterday, driving through the open country for hours on a 
 March day. I do n't think a man who takes such liberties with 
 himself can expect to escape the penalty, Mr. Graham." 
 
 " Well, well, it does n't matter. If my hour 's come, it 's 
 come, I suppose, and that 's the end of it," he retorted, irrita- 
 bly. " How long will I last ?" 
 
 "Years, perhaps, with care after this attack is con- 
 quered," replied the doctor ; and the old man answered with 
 a grim, sardonic smile : 
 
 " We '11 see whether you or I am right," he replied. 
 " You need n't stay any longer just now." 
 
 Gladys took the candle, and herself showed the doctor to 
 the outer door. 
 
 " Will he really recover, do you think ?" she asked, when 
 they were out of hearing. 
 
 " He may ; but only with care. The lungs are much con- 
 gested, and his reserve of strength is small. What relation is 
 he to you, may I ask ? Your grandfather?" 
 
 "No; my uncle." 
 
 "And do you live here always ?" 
 
 "Yes, this is my home," Gladys answered; and she could
 
 DARKENING DAYS. 89 
 
 scarcely forbear a smile at the expression on the young 
 doctor's face. 
 
 "Indeed! and you are contented? You seem so," he 
 said, lingering at the door a moment longer than he need 
 have done. 
 
 " yes, I have a great deal to be thankful for," she 
 answered. "You will come again to-morrow 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." 
 
 " O, I am very strong, I assure you," Gladys answered, 
 with a smile; and as she looked 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 minister 
 to pain. There was little any one could do now, however, 
 to help Abel Graham, the issue of his case 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 much, but he appeared to watch Gladys, and 
 to be full of thoughts concerning her. 
 
 " Po you remember that night I came, after your father 
 died?" he asked once. 
 
 "Yes," she answered in a low voice. "I remember it 
 well." 
 
 "You felt bitter and hard against me, did you not?" 
 
 " If I did, Uncle Abel, it has long passed," she answered. 
 ' There is no good to be got recalling what is past." 
 
 "Perhaps not; but, my girl, when a man comes to his 
 dying bed, it is the past he 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, Uncle Abel, I hope ; you are 
 not so old yet," she said, cheerfully.
 
 90 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " No, I 'm not old in yeai'S not sixty but old enough to 
 regret my youth," he said. "Are you still of the same mind 
 about the spending of money, if you should ever have it to 
 spend?" 
 
 " Yes; but it is so unlikely, Uncle Abel, that I shall ever 
 have any money to spend. It is quite easy saying what we 
 can do in imaginary circumstances. Reality is always dif- 
 ferent, and more difficult 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 ex- 
 cite and exhaust you," she said, in gentle remonstrance. 
 
 " 1 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, per- 
 haps, but which at least afforded her a peaceful and comfort- 
 able home. These signs were not unnoticed by the dying 
 man, and a faint, slow, melancholy smile gathered about his 
 haggard mouth. 
 
 " You believe, I suppose, that the Lord will provide for 
 you?" he said, grimly. 
 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 " Does He never fail, eh ?" 
 
 " Never. He does not always provide just as we expect 
 or desire, but provision is made all the same," answered the 
 girl, and her eyes shone with a steadfast light. 
 
 " It 's a very comfortable doctrine, but not practicable, 
 nor, to my thinking, honest. Do you mean to say that it is 
 right to sit down with folded hands waiting for the Lord to 
 provide, and living off other people at the same time?"
 
 DARKENING DAYS. 91 
 
 Gladys smiled. 
 
 " No, that is not right, but wrong, very wrong, and pun- 
 ishment always follows. Heaven helps those who help them- 
 selves; do n't you remember that?" 
 
 "Ay, well, I do n't understand your theology, I confess. 
 But we may as well think it out. What do you suppose will 
 become of me after I shuffle off, eh ?" 
 
 " I do n't know, uncle. You best know what your own 
 hope is," she replied. 
 
 " I have no hope, and I do n't see myself how anybody 
 can presume to have any. It 's all conjecture about a future 
 life. How does anybody know ? Nobody has ever come back 
 to tell the tale." 
 
 " No ; but we know all the same that there are many 
 mansions 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, with a touch of sarcasm; yet there was something 
 behind a great wistfulness, a consuming anxiety, which be- 
 trayed itself in his very eye, as he awaited her reply. It was 
 a curious moment a curious scene : The old, toil-worn, 
 world-weary man, who had spent his days in the most sordid 
 pursuit of gold gold for which he would at one time almost 
 have sold his soul hanging on the words of a young, un- 
 tried maiden, whose purity enabled her to touch the very 
 gates of heaven. It was a sight to make the philosopher 
 ponder anew on the mysteries of life, and the strange anom- 
 alies human nature presents. 
 
 She turned her sweet face to him, and there was a mix- 
 ture 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 can not know this, uncle ; only if you believe 
 that Christ died for you, you are one of God's children,
 
 92 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 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 re- 
 peated, with strange persistence. 
 
 " Perhaps 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, drily, and turning on his pillow closed his 
 eyes ; not to sleep 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 herself and began to move 
 about with swift but noiseless steps, fearing to awake him. 
 But he did not sleep. Lying there, with his face turned to 
 the wall, Abel Graham held counsel with himself, reviewing 
 his life, which lay before him like a tale that is told. None 
 knew better than he what a poor, mean, sordid, selfish life it 
 had been, how little it had contributed to the good or the 
 happiness of others ; and these memories tortured him now 
 with the stings of the bitterest regret. It was not known 
 to any save himself and his Maker what agony his awak- 
 ened soul passed through in the still hours of that spring 
 day. Seeing him lie apparently 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, 
 Gladys continued to perform her slight tasks as gently and 
 noiselessly 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 Gladys 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 presented to Ler view when she 
 opened the door; a man in shabby "workman's garb, dirty,
 
 DARKENING DAYS. 93 
 
 greasy, and untidy ; a man with a degraded type of counte- 
 nance, a heavy, coarse mouth, and small eyes looking out 
 suspiciously 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 re- 
 pulsion. So this was Walter's father. Poor Walter! A 
 vast compassion, greater than any misery she had before ex- 
 perienced, filled the girl's gentle soul. 
 
 "Yes; he is in, up-stairs in the warehouse. Will you 
 come in, please?" she asked; but before the invitation could 
 be accepted, Wat came bounding down the stairs, having 
 heard and recognized the voice, and there was no welcoming 
 light in his eyes as he gazed on his father's face. 
 
 "Well, what do you want?" he asked abruptly, and 
 Gladys, slipping 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 make him com- 
 fortable. 
 
 " 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 '11 come sure enough, and fast enough, oftener 
 than he 's wanted," he answered. " Who was that at the 
 door?" 
 
 " Walter's father."
 
 94 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 "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 given me that tea, I wish you 
 to take my keys from my coat-pocket and go up to the safe. 
 When you Ve opened it, you '11 find an old pocket-book, tied 
 with a red string. I want you to bring it down to me." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 Gladys did exactly as she was bid, and, leaving the old 
 man at his slender breakfast, ran up to the warehouse. To 
 her surprise she found Walter, usually so active and so ener- 
 getic, sitting on the office-stool, with his arms folded and his 
 face wearing a look of deepest gloom. Some new trouble 
 had come to him ; that was apparent to her at once. 
 
 " Why, Walter, how troubled you look ! No bad news 
 from home, I hope." 
 
 " Bad enough," he answered, in a kind of savage under- 
 tone. " I knew something was going to happen. Have n't I 
 been saying it for days ?" 
 
 "But what has happened? Nothing very bad I hope?" 
 
 "So bad that it could n't be worse," he said. "Liz has 
 run away."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 SETTINQ His HOUSE IN ORDER. 
 
 LADYS opened her eyes. 
 
 ".Runaway! How? Where? I don't un- 
 derstand." 
 
 "All the better if you don't," he answered, 
 harshly. 
 
 ' She ! s run away, anyhow, 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 
 heard 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 curi- 
 osity to know where Liz had run to. 
 
 "Have they quarreled, or what?" she asked. 
 " No, I do n't suppose there 's been any more than the 
 usual amount of scrimmaging," he said, with a hard smile. 
 ' ; I do n't blame Liz : she 's only what they 've made her. 
 I '11 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 
 
 95
 
 96 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 bring children into the world and then let them go to ruin, 
 there 's no justice in heaven, and I do n't believe in it." 
 
 Gladys shrank 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. 
 
 11 Dear Walter," she said, gently, " try to be brave. Per- 
 haps 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 anybody 
 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 that might have 
 soothed Walter's wounded spirit. 
 
 "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 for me." 
 
 Then Gladys intervened. Though she did not quite com- 
 prehend 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 may grieve and 
 cut you to the heart, it can not take away your honor or in- 
 tegrity; always remember that." 
 
 "Yes, it can," he said, impetuously. "That kind of dis- 
 grace hangs on to a man all his days. He has to bear the 
 sins of others. That is where the injustice comes in. The
 
 SETTING HIS HOUSE IN ORDER. 97 
 
 innocent must suffer for and with the guilty always. There 
 is no escape." 
 
 Gladys sighed, arid her face became pale and weary-look- 
 ing. Never had life appeared so hard, so full of pain and care. 
 Looking 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; looking at his face then, and seeing it so 
 shadowed by the bitterness of his lot her own simple faith 
 for the moment seemed to fail. 
 
 "You saw him, then, this morning; and I hope you ad- 
 mired him," said Walter, with harsh scorn. " Reeking with 
 drink, speaking thick through it at ten o'clock in the morn- 
 ing. What chance has 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. I don't know what 1 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 lifted her large, earnest eyes to his. 
 
 " How you talk ! You must learn to control yourself a 
 little more. It is self-control that makes a man," she said, 
 quietly. "I do not know how to comfort you, Walter, in 
 this trouble, which seems jao 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 depended so en- 
 
 7
 
 98 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 tirely on it for comfort apd strength, that her words carried 
 conviction with them. They fell on the riven heart of Wal- 
 ter like balm, and restored a measure of peace to it. Before 
 he could make any answer, a quick knocking, and the up- 
 lifting 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 safe door, and, with a nod to Wal- 
 ter, ran down -stairs. 
 
 "What kept you so long chattering up -stairs?" queried 
 the old man, with all the peevishness of a sick person. 
 "You do n't care a penny-piece, either of you, though I died 
 this very moment." 
 
 " 0, Uncle Abel, hold your tongue ; you know that is not 
 true," she said, quickly. " Walter is in great trouble this 
 morning. Something has happened to his sister." 
 
 "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 hope- 
 less if only we are on the right side," said Gladys, stoutly, 
 though inwardly her heart re-echoed sadly that dark creed. 
 
 " Well, well, you 're young, and nothing seems impossi- 
 ble," he said, good-naturedly. " Here, take off this string. 
 My fingers are as feckless as a threid." 
 
 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 begin- 
 ning to end with close attention, and gave a grunt of satis- 
 faction when he laid it down.
 
 SETTING HIS HOUSE IN ORDER. 99 
 
 " 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 do n't know Fordyce & Fordyce, the lawyers' office, 
 'lo you ?" 
 
 < : No ; but I can find it." 
 
 " Very well ; go just now and ask for old Mr. Fordyce. 
 If he is n'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 approach- 
 ing desolation was with her; and 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 'softness visited his heart, 
 though he could scarce believe one so fair and sweet could 
 really care for him. 
 
 Gladys made the utmost haste to do her errand, and to 
 her great satisfaction was told when 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 office waiting, unconscious that she was 
 the subject of remark and speculation among the clei-ks 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 a lapse of a few minutes the 
 office-boy ushered her into the private room of Mr. Fordyce, 
 senior. He was a fine, benevolent-looking, elderly gentle- 
 man, 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.
 
 100 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 "Well, my dear miss, what can I do for you, eh?" he 
 asked, beaming at her over the gold rims of his double eye- 
 glass 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 in Colquhoun Street." 
 
 "Abel Graham O, 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 as soon 
 as possible? He is very ill. lam afraid he thinks he is 
 dying." 
 
 The girl's voice trembled, and a tear fell like a dew-drop 
 from her long eyelashes. These things still more amazed 
 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, sin- 
 cerely grieving for the old man's distress, seemed the 
 most extraordinary thing of all. Mr. Fordyce rose, and, call- 
 ing the boy, bade him bring a cab to the door; then he began 
 to get into his great coat. 
 
 " I '11 drive you back, if you have nowhere else to go. So 
 you are his niece; well, there 's more sense and shrewdness 
 in the old man than I gave him credit 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
 
 SETTING HIS HOUSE IN ORDER. 101 
 
 many strange experiences, become familiar with many curi- 
 ous and tragic life-stories, but, he told himself, he had never 
 met a more interesting case than this. 
 
 "It's a romance, 1 " he said, out loud 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 this 
 this place ?" he inquired, significantly, as the cab rumbled over 
 the rough causeway of the Wynd into Colquhoun Street. 
 
 " Yes, I have been happy. I only know now, when I 
 think 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 her! Yes, 
 it 's a thrilling romance." 
 
 The greeting between the well-known lawyer and his 
 strange client was not ceremonious. It consisted of a couple 
 of nods and a brief good-morning. Then Gladys was re- 
 quested to leave them alone. Nothing loath, she ran up-stairs 
 to Walter, whose sorrow lay heavy on her heart. 
 
 " Your niece has surprised me, Mr. Graham," said the 
 lawyer. " Yes, very much indeed." 
 
 " Why? What did you expect to see, eh ?" 
 
 " Not a refined and lovely 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. She'll be a queen in 
 either." 
 
 This strange speech made the lawyer look at the old man 
 intently. He perceived that underneath his brusque, for- 
 bidding exterior, there burned the steady light of a great
 
 102 
 
 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 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 1113* 
 niece," he said, peevishly. " Bead that over, and tell me 
 if it's all right; if there's anything to be added or taken 
 away. There's a clause / want added about the boy, Walter 
 Hepburn. He's been with me a long time, and though he's 
 a veiy firebrand, he \s faithful and honest. He won't rue it." 
 
 Mr. Fordyce adjusted his eye-glass, 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 hopeful eyes, not knowing 
 that in the room below that very future was being assured 
 for them in a way they knew not.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LAST SUMMONS. 
 
 OT7 LL look after her, -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. "She will not 
 lack friends, you may rest assured. This," he added, tap- 
 ping the blue paper, ' will insure 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 unpro- 
 tected girl like her as their lawful prey. She '11 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 ; hut it does n't seem 
 
 103
 
 104 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 to be worrying her much. I never saw a person, old or 
 young, with greater powers of adapting themselves to any 
 circumstances any circumstances, mind you so you need n't 
 be exercised about her future deportment. She'll astonish 
 you, I promise 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 Iaw3 r er looked at him 
 keenly, almost wonderingly. He did not know him inti- 
 mately. Only within recent years had he been engaged to 
 manage his monetary affairs, and only six months before 
 had drawn up the will, which, it may be said, had consider- 
 ably surprised him. Looking at him just then, he wondered 
 whether there might not be depths undreamed of under the 
 crust of the miser's soul. 
 
 " You are behaving very generously to this young fellow, 
 Hepburn," he said then, leaving his deeper thoughts un- 
 spoken. "He may consider himself very fortunate. Such 
 a windfall comes to few in a position like his." 
 
 "Ay, ay. I dare say it depends on how you look at it/' 
 responded the old man indifferently. " Well, I 'm tired, and 
 there 's no more to talk about. Everthing is right and tight, 
 is it? No possibility of a muddle at the end ?" 
 
 " .None," answered Mr. Fordyce, promptly, as ho 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 do n't 
 offer you any reward. You '11 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 myself, I 
 was not above putting myself into the hands of a Christian 
 lawyer." 
 
 A curious, dry smile accompanied these words, but they 
 were spoken with the utmost sincerity. They conveyed one 
 of the highest tributes to his worth Gilbert Fordyce had 
 ever received. He carefully gathered together the loose
 
 THE LAST SUMMONS. 105 
 
 papers, and for a moment nothing was said. Then he bent 
 his keen and kindly eye full on the old man's wan and 
 withered face. 
 
 " Sir," he said, " if you are not a Christian, as you say, 
 what is your hope for the next world?" 
 
 " I have none," he answered, calmly. " I am no coward. 
 If it be true, as they say, that a system of award and punish- 
 ment prevails, then I 'm ready to take my deserts." 
 
 The lawyer could not reply to these sad words, because 
 Gladys at the moment entered the kitchen. 
 
 (i I have come," she said, brightly, " because I fear you are 
 talking too much, uncle. O, are you going away, Mr. For- 
 dyce? I am glad the business is all done. See, he is quite 
 exhausted." 
 
 She 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. The lawyer's eyes 
 met his, and he gravely nodded, understanding that that mute 
 sign asked a further promise. 
 
 Gladys 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 breath- 
 lessly. "He says he will die; but I have nursed my own 
 father through much worse attacks." 
 
 "He appears to have given up hope; but while life lasts 
 we need not despair," he said, kindly. " Good-bye. I shall 
 come back perhaps to-morrow." 
 
 He thought much of her all day; and, when he retm'ned 
 to his happy home at night, told the story to his wife, and 
 there is no doubt that the strong sympath} 7 of these two kind 
 hearts supported Gladys through the ordeal of that trying 
 time. In the evening "Walter took himself off to Bridgeton, 
 reluctant to go, yet anxious to hear further particulars regard- 
 ing the flight of Liz. He arrived at the dreary house to find 
 his mother engaged with the weekly wash. Now, there was
 
 106 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 no reason why the washing should be done at night, seeing she 
 had the whole day at her disposal ; but it seemed to take these 
 hours to rouse her up to sufficient 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 unfavorable and unseasonable hours for work 
 which upsets the whole house, had, no doubt, in the first in- 
 stance, 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 soap-suds 
 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 favorite seat. 
 
 "Always washing at night yet, mother," he said, discon- 
 tentedly. " Have you no time through the day?" 
 
 " No, it 's meat-makin' frae mornin' till nicht. This is the 
 only time there 's a mecnit'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. 
 
 " I was oot a' Tuesday nicht ; an' when I cam' in on the 
 back o' eleven she was aff, bag an' baggage. Mrs. Turnbull 
 says she gaed doon the stair wi' her Sunday claes on, an' 
 cariyin' her tin-box, a wee efter aicht. 'Are ye for jauntin', 
 Liz?' says she; but Liz never gied her an answer, guid or 
 bad, an' that's a' I ken." 
 
 "Did she never give a hint 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 aff, onyhoo !" 
 
 " Do you think she has gone away with any one a man, I 
 mean?" asked Walter then, and his face flushed as he asked 
 the question.
 
 THE LAST SUMMONS. 107 
 
 "I couldna say, I 'm sure," answered his mother, with 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 '11 get it," 
 she said, sourly. "At Teen's. Eh, she 's an ill hizzio. 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?" 
 
 " O, 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 along draught. 
 
 " A body needs something to keep them up when they 've 
 to wash i' the nicht-time," was her only apology; but almost 
 immediately she became much more talkative, and began to 
 regale Walter with sundry minute and highly-spiced anec- 
 dotes about the neighbors' 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, stol- 
 idly; 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 rapping at the door of the attic 
 where his sister's friend, Teen, supported existence.
 
 108 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 "O, it's you! Come in," she said, when she recognized 
 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 per- 
 ceived she was in complete ignorance of the affair. "What 
 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 meager and bare ; but it was clean and tidy, and more 
 comfortable in every way than the one he had just left. A 
 dull fire smoldered at the very bottom of the grate, and the 
 inevitable tea-pot sat upon the hob. The little seamstress 
 was evidently very busy, piles of her coarse, unlovely work 
 lying on the floor. 
 
 "Has onything happened Liz?" she asked, in open-eyed 
 wonder and interest. 
 
 "Yes. I suppose it has. She's run off, bag and bag- 
 gage on Tuesday, my mother says, and this is Thursday." 
 
 "O, 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. 
 " NFy, 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. Do n't you think so?"
 
 THE LAST SUMMONS. 109 
 
 " Maybe. It 's likely, only I think she micht V 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 '11 fin' oot." 
 
 " Did you know him ? Who was he?" asked Walter. 
 
 " O, 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 '11 dae that. How are you gettin' on yersel' ? an' 
 thon queer deil o' a lassie. I canna mak' onything o' her." 
 
 " I 'm getting on fine, thank you," Walter answered, 
 rather shortly. " Good-night to you, and thank you. 
 Maybe Liz will write to you." 
 
 " Very likely. I '11 let ye ken ony way. If she writes to 
 onybody it '11 be to me," Teen answered, with a kind of quiet 
 pride. " She telt me a'thing she didna keep to hersel'. But 
 I dinna think mysel' there 's a beau in this business. The 
 theater wad be maire like it. She had aye a desire to be an 
 actress." 
 
 " Indeed," 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 heart was not quite so heavy as he retraced his steps 
 to Colquhoun Street. If Liz, tired of the gray monotony 
 and degradation 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 she 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 evi- 
 dently suffering painfully from his breathing; and over his
 
 110 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 pinched features had crept that gray shadow which even the 
 unpracticed 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 hands, her golden head bowed in deep and bitter 
 silence. She saw her last friend drifting toward 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. 
 
 "llush," 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, be- 
 lieves the answer will be given. The 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 painful 
 whisper, and his struggling ceased. 
 
 " It's all over," said the doctor, reverently. And it was. 
 Ay, all over, so far as this world was concerned, with Abel 
 Graham.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THOSE LEF^T BEHIND. 
 
 HAT was a sail night for Gladys Graham and 
 for Walter. Feeling that she required the help 
 and presence of a woman. Walter ran up for the 
 kind-hearted Mrs. Macintyre. whom (iladys 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 
 kindness: deeds of true neighborliness. 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 \vay. to do all that was necessary, 
 and to take the burden otV the young shoulders so early in- 
 ured to care. When their work was done, and Abel Graham 
 lay placidly upon the pure linen of his last bed, Mrs. Mat- 
 in tyre 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, and ye 're welcome to it." 
 Gladys shook her head. 
 
 ' ; I do n't mind staying here. I assure you. I have seen 
 
 111
 
 112 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 death before. It is not dreadful to me," she said, glancing 
 at the calm, reposeful face of her uncle, and being most ten- 
 derly struck by the resemblance to her own father. Death 
 is always kind, and will give us, when we least expect it, 
 some sudden compensation for what he takes from us. That 
 faint resemblance composed Gladys, and gave her yet more 
 loving thoughts of the old man. He had been kind when, in 
 his own rugged way, the first harshness of his bearing 
 towards her had swiftly been mellowed by her own sweet, 
 subtle influence. We must not too harshly blame Abel Gra- 
 ham. His environment had been of a kind to foster the 
 least beautiful attributes of his nature. The only being 
 Gladys could think of to help her with the other arrange- 
 ments was Mr. Fordyce. She seemed to turn naturally to 
 him in her time of need. A message sent to St. Vincent 
 Street in the morning brought him speedily, and he greeted 
 her with a mixture of fatherly compassion and sympathy 
 which broke her down. 
 
 " You see it has not been long," she said, with a quiver 
 of the lips. " I do not know what to do, or how to act. I 
 thought you would know everything." 
 
 " I know what is necessary here, at least, my dear, and it 
 shall be done," he responded, kindly. " The first thing I 
 would suggest is, that you should come home with me just 
 now." 
 
 Gladys looked at him wonderingly, and shook her head. 
 
 " You are very kind, but that is quite impossible," she 
 said, quickly. 
 
 " I shall not leave here until all is over, and then I do 
 not know what I shall do. God will show me." 
 
 The lawyer was deeply moved. 
 
 "My dear young lady, has it never occurred to you that 
 there might be something left for you, a substantial provision 
 which will place you at once above the need of considering 
 what you are to do, so far as providing for yourself is con- 
 cerned?"
 
 THOSE LEFT BEHIND. 113 
 
 "I have not thought about it. Is it so?'' she asked, 
 quickly yet not with the eager elation of the expectant heir. 
 
 " You are very well left, indeed," he answered. " If you 
 like I can explain it to you now." 
 
 But Gladys shrank a little as she glanced toward the bed. 
 
 " Xot now. Let it be after it is all over. It does not 
 matter now. I know it will be all right.'' 
 
 "Just as you will; but I can not bear to go and leave 
 you here, Miss Graham. Will you not think better of it? 
 My wife and daughters will be glad to see you, and they will 
 be very kind and sympathetic, I can assure you of that. Let 
 me take you away." 
 
 But Gladys, though grateful, still shook her head. 
 
 " I promised your uncle to take care of you," he urged. 
 " If I go and leave you in such sad circumstances here, so 
 alone, I should feel that I am not redeeming my promise." 
 
 " I thank you, and I shall come, perhaps, after, if you are 
 so kind as to wish me to come; but not now. And I am not 
 quite alone here. I have Walter." 
 
 Mr. Fordyce did not know what to say. It was impos- 
 sible for him to suggest that Walter's very presence in the 
 house was one reason why she should quit it. She knew 
 nothing of conventionalities or proprieties, and this was not 
 the time to suggest them to her mind. He could only leave 
 the whole matter at rest. 
 
 " Can I see this Walter?" he asked then. "1 have papers 
 concerning him also. I may as well see him now." 
 
 " He is up-stairs. Shall I call him down ?" 
 
 " No. I shall go up," answered the lawyer, and Gladys 
 pointed him to the stairs leading up to the warehouse. Wal- 
 ter rose from his stool at the desk, and stood at the door of 
 the little office. 
 
 " Good morning," both said, and then they looked at each 
 other quite steadily for a moment. Mr. Fordyce was as- 
 tonished at the lad's youth, still more at his manly and inde- 
 pendent bearing, and he told himself that his strange client
 
 114 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 had exhibited considerable shrewdness in the disposal of his 
 worldly goods. 
 
 " This is a very sad affair," said the lawyer. " Sad and 
 sudden. Mr. Graham was an old man, but he has always 
 been so robust, he appeared to have the prospect of still 
 longer life. It will make a great change here " 
 
 " It will, sir." Walter placed a chair for him, and a look 
 of genuine relief was visible on his face. " I am very glad 
 you have come up. I was sitting here thinking over things. 
 It is a very strange case." 
 
 "You know something, I presume, of this business, 
 whether it was a paying concern or not," said the lawyer, 
 keenly. 
 
 " It is a large business done in a small way, sir a wor- 
 rying, unsatisfactory kind of business. I know that much ; 
 but my master always kept his books himself, and I had no 
 means of knowing whether it really paid or not. I know 
 there were bad debts, a lot of them ; but I am quite ignorant 
 of the state of affairs. I have only one hope, -sir, which I 
 trust will not be disappointed." 
 
 "Well?" inquired the lawyer, steadily, when the young 
 man stopped hesitatingly, 
 
 " That there will be something left for Miss Gladys. 
 That has troubled rne ever since the master took ill." 
 
 "You may set your mind at rest, then. Miss Graham 
 will bo a rich woman." 
 
 " Walter looked incredulous at these words. 
 
 "A rich woman ?'' he repeated ; " a rich woman ? 0, 1 am 
 glad of it!" 
 
 His face flushed, his eye shone with the intensity of his 
 emotion. He was very young; but these signs betrayed an 
 interest in the fate of Gladys Graham which stirred a vague 
 pity in the lawyer's heart. 
 
 " Yes, a rich woman ; and you are not forgotten. There 
 is a will, which, however, Miss Graham desires shall not be 
 read till after the funeral ; but there is no harm in telling
 
 THOSE LEFT BEHIND. 115 
 
 you a part of its contents which concerns you. Mr. Graham 
 had the Very highest opinion of your character and ability, 
 and though he may not have seemed very appreciative in 
 life, he has not forgotten to mark substantially his 
 approval. You are left absolutely in control of this busi- 
 ness, with the power to make of it what you will, and 
 there is a legacy of five hundred pounds to enable you to 
 carry it on." 
 
 Walter became quite pale, and began to tremble, though 
 he was not given to such exhibitions of nervousness. 
 
 " 0, sir, there must be some mistake, surely," he said, 
 quickly. " It can not be true." 
 
 "It is quite true, and I congratulate you and wish you 
 every success. There are very few young men in similar 
 circumstances who have such an opportunity given them. 
 I hope you will be guided to use both means and oppor- 
 tunity for the best possible end. I shall be glad to be of any 
 service to you at any time. Do not scruple to ask me. I 
 mean what I say." 
 
 " You are very kind." 
 
 They were commonplace words, but spoken with an ear- 
 liest sincerity which indicated a deeper feeling. 
 
 Mr. Fordyce looked round the large, dingy warehouse 
 with a slightly puzzled air. 
 
 " Who would think that there was so much money in 
 this affair?" he said, musingly. "But I suppose it was 
 carried on at very little expense. Well, the poor old man 
 had little pleasure in life. It was a great mistake. He 
 might have blessed himself and others with his means in 
 his life-time. It is strange that the young lady should 
 appear to mourn so sincerely for him. It was an awful life 
 for her here." 
 
 " He was never unkind to her/' answered Walter. "And 
 latterly he could not do enough for her. She won him com- 
 pletely, and made a different man of him." 
 
 " I quite believe it One of the weak things of the
 
 116 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 world," he said more to himself than to his listener. 
 " There 's a different life opening up for her it will be a 
 great change to her. Well, good-morning. I wish you well, 
 and you '11 remember rny desire to be a friend to you should 
 you ever need me." 
 
 " I won't forget," cried Walter, with beaming eye. " Miss 
 Gladys said you would make all the arrangements for the 
 funeral." 
 
 " I will. They are easily made, because Mr. Graham left 
 the most explicit directions. He desires to be buried by his 
 own folk in the churchyard of Mauchline. I am going out 
 this afternoon." 
 
 Then the lawyer went away, but before proceeding to the 
 station he wrote a note to his wife, and sent it by messen- 
 ger to his house at Kelvinside. About four o'clock in the 
 afternoon, as Gladys was putting a black ribbon in her hat, 
 a cab rattled over the rough causeway, and a knock came 
 to the house door. And when Gladys went to open it, 
 what was her surprise to behold on the threshold a lady 
 richly dressed, but wearing on her sweet, motherly face 
 a look so truly kind that the girl's heart warmed to her 
 at once! 
 
 "I am Mrs. Fordyce," the lady said. " You, I think, are 
 Miss Graham. May I come in?" 
 
 "Certainly, madam." 
 
 Gladys held open the door wide, and Mrs. Fordyce entered 
 the dark and gloomy passage. 
 
 " We have a very small, poor place," said Gladys, as she 
 led the way. " I ought to tell you that I have no room to 
 show you intq, except where my poor uncle lies." 
 
 " My dear, I quite know. Mr. Fordyce has told me. It is 
 you I have come to see." 
 
 When they entered the kitchen she laid her two kind hands 
 on the girl's shoulders, and turned her face to the light. 
 Then, with a sudden impulse, she bent down and kissed her 
 brow. Gladys burst into tears, It was the first kiss she
 
 THOSE LEFT BEHIND. 117 
 
 had received since she came to Glasgow, and that simple 
 caress with its accompanying tenderness of look and man- 
 ner opened the flood-gates of her pent heart, and taught her 
 her own loneliness and need. 
 
 " I can not leave you here, my dear child. My carriage 
 is at the door. You must come home with me. I shall 
 bring } r ou back quite early to-morrow, but I must insist 
 on taking you away to-night. It is not possible } T OU can 
 stay here." 
 
 " I must. I will. You are truly kind ; but I shall not 
 leave my home till I must. I have my own little room, and 
 I am not quite alone. Walter is up-stairs." 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce saw that she was firm. She looked at her 
 in wonder, noting with practiced eyes the neat refinement of 
 her poor dress, her sweet grace, and delicate beauty. To find 
 a creature so fair in such a place was like coming suddenly 
 on a pure flower blooming in a stony street. 
 
 " Your position is very lonely ; but you will not find your- 
 self without friends. We must respect your wish to remain 
 here, though the thought will make me unhappy to-night," 
 said the kind woman. " You will promise to come to us 
 when all is over." 
 
 "If you still wish it; only there is poor Walter. It will 
 be so dreadful for me to leave him quite alone." 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce could not restrain a smile. The child-heart 
 still dwelt in Gladys, though she was almost a woman grown. 
 
 "Ah, my dear, you know nothing of the world. It is 
 like reading a fairy story to look at you and hear you speak. 
 I hope I hope the world will not spoil you." 
 
 "Why should it spoil me? I can never know it ex- 
 cept from you," she said, simply. 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce looked round the large, dimly-lighted 
 place with eyes in which a wonder of pity lay. 
 
 " My child, is it possible that you have lived here almost 
 two years, as my husband tells me, with no companion but 
 an old man and a working lad?"
 
 118 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 "I have been quite happy," Gladys replied, with a slight 
 touch of dignity not lost upon the lawyer's wife. 
 
 " Perhaps because you knew nothing else. We will show 
 you what life can hold for such as you," she answered 
 kindly, and there came a day when Gladys reminded her of 
 these words in the bitterness of a wounded heart. 
 
 When her visitor left, Gladys ran up-stairs to Walter. 
 They had so Jong depended on each other for solace and 
 sympathy, that it seemed the most natural thing in the 
 world for her to share this new experience with him. 
 
 "You heard the lady speaking, did you not, Walter?" 
 she asked, breathlessly. " It was Mr. Fordyce's wife ; she is 
 so beautiful and so kind. Just think ! she would have 
 taken me away with her in her carriage." 
 
 "And why did n't you go ?" asked Walter, in a dull, even 
 voice, and without appearing in the least interested. 
 
 " 0, because I could not leave just now," she said, 
 slowly, quite conscious of a change in his voice and look. 
 
 " But you will go, I suppose, after?" 
 
 "I suppose so. They seem to wish it very much." 
 
 "And you want to go, of course. They are very grand, 
 West-end swells.. I know their house a big mansion look- 
 ing over the Kelvin," he said, not bitterly, but in the same 
 even, indifferent voice. 
 
 " I do n't know anything about them. If that is true, it is 
 still kinder of them to think- of such a poor girl as I." 
 
 To the astonishment of Gladys, Walter broke into a 
 laugh, not a particularly pleasant one. 
 
 " Six months after this you '11 may be take a different 
 view," he said, shortly. 
 
 " Why, Walter, what has come to you? You have so 
 many moods now I never know quite how to talk to y.ou." 
 
 " That 's true," he answered, brusquely. " I 'm a fool, and 
 nobody knows it better than I."
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 INHERITANCE. 
 
 X the cheerful sunshine, the following afternoon 
 a small funeral party left the house in Col- 
 quhoun Street, and drove to the railway station. 
 It consisted of Mr. Fordyce the lawyer, the 
 minister of the parish, Walter Helpburn, and 
 Gladys. It was her own desire that she should go. and they 
 did not think it necessary to dissuade her. She was a sin- 
 cere mourner for the old man. and he had not so many that 
 they should seek to prevent that one true heart paying its last 
 tribute to his memory. So, for the first time for many years, 
 the burying-ground of the Bourhill Grahams was opened, 
 somewhat to the astonishment of Mauchline folks. The name 
 was almost forgotten in the place; only one or two of the 
 older inhabitants remembered the widow and her two boys, 
 and these found memory dim. Nevertheless a few gathered 
 in the old churchyard, viewing with interest the short pro- 
 ceedings, and with very special interest the unusual specta- 
 cle of a young, fair girl standing by the grave. They 
 did not dream how soon her name was to become a house- 
 hold word, beloved from one end of Mauchline to the other. 
 The two elderly gentlemen Avere very kind and tender to 
 
 119
 
 120 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 her, and the clergyman regarded her with a curious 
 interest, having had a brief outline of her story from 
 Mr. Fordyce. But it was noticeable that she preferred 
 "Walter's company, that she spoke oftenest to him; and 
 when the lawyer and the minister went into the inn to 
 have some refreshment while waiting for the train, the 
 two young people walked up the road to Mossgiel. Walter 
 was very gloomy and downcast, and she, quick to notice 
 it, asked the cause. 
 
 " You know it quite well," he said, abruptly. " I suppose 
 you are going away to these grand folks to-night, and there 's 
 an end of me." 
 
 "An end of you, "Walter ! "What do you mean ?" she asked, 
 with a puzzled air. 
 
 " Just what I say. "When J T OU turn your back on Col- 
 quhoun Street, it 's bound to be forever. You '11 be 
 West, I East. There 's no comings and goings between 
 the two." 
 
 " I think you are very unkind to speak like that, and silly 
 as well," she said, quickly. 
 
 " Maybe, but it 's true all the same," he answered, with a 
 slight touch of bitterness. 
 
 "And you deserve to be punished for it," she continued, 
 with her quaint dignity. " Only I can not quite make up 
 my mind how to punish you, or, indeed, to do it at all to-day. 
 Look, Walter," she stopped him on the brow of the hill with 
 a light touch on his arm which thrilled him as it had never 
 yet done, and sent the blood to his face. 
 
 " See, away over there, almost as far as you can see, on 
 yon little hill where the trees are so green and lovel}', is Bour- 
 hill, where the Grahams used to live. I told you how Uncle 
 Abel said papa had such a desire to buy it. If I were a rich 
 woman, I think I should buy Bourhill." 
 
 " So you will. I wish I could give it to you," cried Walter, 
 quickly. 
 
 "Do you? You are very good. You have always
 
 HER INHERITANCE. 121 
 
 been so good and kind to me, Walter," she said, dreamily. 
 "Yes, that is y Born-hill ; and just think, you. can see the 
 sea from it the real sea, which I have never seen in 
 in}- life." 
 
 "You '11 get everything and see everything you want 
 soon," he said in a quiet, dull voice. "And then you '11 for- 
 get all that went before." 
 
 "AVe shall see." 
 
 She was hurt by the abrupt coldness of his manner, 
 and, having her own pride of spirit, did not seek to 
 hide it. 
 
 " See, that is Mossgiel there, and we have not time to go 
 up. I think Mr. Fordyce said we must turn here," she said, 
 changing the subject, woman-like, when it did not please 
 her. " But when it is summer 3*011 and I will come to 
 Mauchline for a day together, and gather some daisies from 
 the field where Burns wrote his poem to the daisy ; that is," 
 she added with a smile, " if 3*011 are not disagreeable, which 
 I must sa3*, Walter, 3*011 are -to-da}* most disagreeable, 
 indeed." 
 
 She turned and looked at him then for a moment, with an 
 earnest, somewhat critical look ; and she saw a tall, slender 
 3*outh, whose figure had not attained to its full breadth and 
 stature, but whose face grave, earnest, noble even spoke 
 of the experience of life. These two 3'ears had done much 
 for Walter Hepburn ; and she became aware of it, suddenh- 
 and with secret amazement. 
 
 "Why do you look at me like that?" he asked, 
 almost angrily. " Is there anything the matter with my 
 clothes?" 
 
 "No, nothing, 3*ou cross bo3*. I was only thinking that 
 you had grown to be a man without any warning, and I am 
 not sure that I did not like 3*ou better as a boy." 
 
 " That is more than likely," he answered not in the 
 least gently ; but Gladys only smiled. Her faith in him 
 was so boundless and perfect, that she never misunderstood
 
 122 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 him. In her deep heart she guessed that the shadow of 
 the coming parting lay heavy on his soul. It lay on hers 
 likewise, but was brightened in some subtle fashion by a 
 lovely hope, which she did not understand nor seek to 
 analyze, but which seemed to link the troubled past and the 
 unknown future by a band of gold. Wherever she might go, 
 or whatever might become of her, she could never lose Wal- 
 ter out of her life. It was the love of the child merging 
 into the mysterious hope of the woman ; but she did not un- 
 derstand it yet. Had he known even in part how she felt, 
 it had saved him many a bitter hour. But as yet that solace 
 was denied him. That hot, rebellious young heart must 
 needs go through the very furnace of pain to bring forth its 
 fullness of sweetness and strength. As the two came side 
 by aide up the middle of the village street, the lawyer and 
 the minister stood upon the steps at the inn door. 
 
 "Is it a case of love's young dream?" asked the latter, 
 significantly. Mr. Fordyce laughed, as he shook his 
 head. 
 
 " Scarcely. They 've been companions in misfortune, I 
 had almost said for a long time, and it is natural that they 
 should feel kindly towards each other. Miss Bourhill 
 Graham must needs aim a little higher. I like the young 
 fellow, however. There's an honesty of purpose and a fear- 
 less individuality about him which refreshes one. Odd, 
 is n't it, to find two such gems in such a place?" . 
 
 " Eather ; but I do n't agree with all you say," replied the 
 minister; "and I'll watch with interest the development of 
 Miss Graham's history. If that determined-looking youth 
 does n't have a hand in it I 've made a huge mistake, 
 that 'sail." 
 
 Mr. Fordyce had made his plans for the day, and ar- 
 ranged with his wife to bring the carriage to Colquhoun 
 Street at five o'clock. Gladys had been made acquainted 
 with this arrangement, and acquiesced in it. It was about 
 four o'clock when they returned to the empty house, which
 
 HER INHERITANCE. 123 
 
 looked more cheerless than usual, after the beauty and fresh- 
 ness of the country. 
 
 " .N"ow, my dear," said the lawyer, " we must have a little 
 talk before Mrs. Fordyce comes. I have a great deal to say 
 to you. You remember you would not allow me to speak to 
 you about business affairs until all was over." 
 
 " Yes," answered Gladys, and seated herself obediently, 
 but without betraying the slightest interest or anticipation. 
 
 " I shall be as brief and simple as possible," he continued. 
 " I told you that you need have no anxiety about your 
 future, that it was assured by your uncle's will. You were 
 not aware, I suppose, that he died a rich man ?" 
 
 " No; I have heard people call him rich, but I never be- 
 lieved it. He spoke and acted always as if he were very 
 poor." 
 
 " That is the policy of many who have earned money 
 hardly, and are loath to spend it. Well, it is you who will 
 reap the benefit of his economy. About six months ago 
 your uncle called upon me at my office for the first time in 
 connection with the purchase of a small residential estate in 
 Ayrshire. He wished to buy it, and did so at a bargain, for 
 there were few offers for it. That estate was Bourhill, and 
 it was for you it was bought. You are absolutely its owner 
 to-day." 
 
 " i owner of Bourhill?" she repeated slowly, and as if she 
 did not comprehend. " I owner of Bourhill?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear young lady. I congratulate you not only 
 as mistress of Bourhill, but also as mistress of what, to you, 
 must seem a large fortune. Your uncle has left you Bour- 
 hill and the sum often thousand pounds." 
 
 She received this announcement in silence, but all the 
 color left her face. 
 
 " O," she cried at length, in a voice sharp with pain, 
 " how wrong, how hard ! To live here in such poverty, to 
 be so hard on others, to act a lie; it was that, Mr. Fordyce. 
 O, my poor uncle !"
 
 124 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 Her distress was keen. It showed itself in her heaving 
 breast, her saddened e_ye, her drooping lips. She could not 
 realize her own great fortune; she could only think of what 
 it had cost. The lawyer was deeply moved, and yet not sur- 
 prised. It was natural that a nature so fine, so conscien- 
 tious, and so true should see at once the terrible injustice of 
 it all. 
 
 " My dear, I must warn you not to dwell on the morbid 
 side. We must admit that it was a great pity, a very great 
 pity, that your poor uncle did not realize the responsibility 
 of wealth, did not even take some comfort for himself from 
 it. But I may tell you it was a great, an inexpressible joy to 
 him to leave it in your hands. I daresay he felt assured, as 
 I do, that, though so young, you Avould know how to use it 
 wisely." 
 
 It was the right cord to touch. The color leaped back to 
 her cheek, the light to her eyes, her whole manner changed. 
 
 O, I will I will! God will help me. I will do the 
 work his work. If only he had told me how he wished 
 it done." 
 
 " I have a letter for you. written by his own hand the day 
 he died. But it is not here. I will bring it when I come 
 from my office at night ; and meanwhile, my dear, I would 
 suggest that you should get ready to go. My wife will be 
 here very shortly." 
 
 Immediately thought was diverted into another channel, 
 and a great wistfulness stole over her face. 
 
 "And what," she asked, in a low voice, " what will become 
 of Walter?" 
 
 " Has he not told you what his future is likely to be?" 
 
 " No, he has told me nothing." 
 
 " Your uncle has left him this business to make of it what 
 he likes, and five hundred pounds to help him to carry it on. 
 It is a very good lift for a friendless young fellow a waif of 
 the streets." 
 
 " He is not a waif of the streets," cried Gladys, hotly.
 
 HER INHERITANCE. 125 
 
 <; He has a homo; not so happy as it might be, perhaps, but 
 it is a home. It is this dreadful drink which ruins every- 
 thing it touches which has destroyed Walter's home. I am 
 so glad for him. He will get on so quickly now, only he will 
 be so dreadfully lonely. I must come and see him. very, 
 very often." 
 
 " My dear, I do not wish 3*011 to turn your back on your 
 old friend; but it might be better for you both, but more 
 especially for him, if you let things take their course. Your 
 life must be very different henceforth." 
 
 " I do not understand you," said Gladys, quite calmly. 
 " Please to explain." 
 
 Xot an easy task for Mr. Fordyce, with these large, sor- 
 rowful, half-indignant eyes fixed so questioningly on his 
 face, but he did his best. 
 
 "1 mean, my dear, that for you, as Miss Graham of 
 Bourhill, a new life is opening up a life in which it will bo 
 quite wise to forget the past. Your life' here, I should 
 think," he added, with a significant glance around the place, 
 - ; has not held much in it worth remembering. It will pass 
 from you like a dream in the midst of the many new interests 
 which will encompass you now." 
 
 It was the wisdom of the world, not harshly nor ungently 
 conveyed, but it sounded cruel in the girl's ears. She rose 
 to her .feet, and somewhat wearily shook her head. 
 
 " You do not know, 3*011 can not understand," she said, 
 faintl3*. " I can never forget this place. I pray I ma3 T never 
 Avish to forget it. If 3*011 will excuse me, I shall get read\* 
 now, so as not to keep Mrs. Fordyce waiting when she 
 comes."
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 HE carriage was at the door, and they stood face 
 to face, the young man and the maiden, in the 
 little office up-stairs face to face, to say farewell. 
 "I am quite ready, Walter," Gladys said, in 
 a still, quiet voice. "I am going away." 
 'Are you? Well, good-bye." 
 
 He held out his hand. His face was pale, but his mouth 
 was set like iron, and these apparently indifferent words 
 seemed to force themselves from between his teeth. Sign of 
 emotion or sorrow he exhibited none ; but the maiden, who 
 understood and who loved him yes, who loved him was 
 not in the least deceived. 
 
 " Have you nothing else to say than that, Walter? It is 
 very little, when I am going away," she said, wistfully. 
 
 " No," he replied in the same steady, even tone, " nothing. 
 
 You had better not keep them waiting, these grand people, 
 
 any longer. They are not used to it. and they do n't like it." 
 
 "Let them wait, and if they don't like it they can go 
 
 away," she answered, with unwonted sharpness. " I want 
 
 to say, Walter, that if I could have staid here, I would. T 
 
 would rather be here than anywhere. Tt once seemed very 
 
 126
 
 FAREWELL. 127 
 
 dreadful to me, but now I love it. But though I am going 
 away I will come to see you, very often, very often indeed." 
 
 "Don't come," he. answered, sharply. "Don't come 
 at all." 
 
 A vague terror gathered in her eyes, and her mouth 
 trembled. 
 
 " !Now you are unkind, Walter unkind and unreasonable. 
 But men are often unreasonable, so I will forgive you. If I 
 may not come here, will you promise to come to Bellair's 
 Crescent and see me?" 
 
 Then Walter flung up his head and laughed that laugh 
 which always stabbed Gladys. 
 
 " To have the door slammed in my face by a footman or 
 a smart servant; no, thank you." 
 
 "Very well, good-bye. If you cast me off, Walter, I 
 can't help it. Good-bye, and God bless you. I hope I shall 
 see you sometimes ; and if not, I shall try to bear it, only it 
 is very hard." 
 
 She was a woman in keenness of feeling a very child in 
 guilelessuess. She could not hide her pain. Then Walter, 
 feeling it all so keenly, and hating himself with a mortal 
 hatred for his savage candor, condescended to make an 
 explanation. 
 
 "In a week," he began, "you will view eveiything in a 
 different light. You are going away to be a great lady, and 
 you '11 soon find that you want nothing so badly in this 
 world as to forget that you ever knew this place or me. It 
 will be far better to understand and make up my mind to it 
 at the very beginning. Perhaps some day it wilt be differ- 
 ent; but, in the meantime, I know I am right, and you '11 
 soon be convinced of it, too, and perhaps thank me for it." 
 
 "If that is what you think of me, Walter, it will indeed 
 be better as you say. Good bye." 
 
 She scarcely touched his hand, nor looked at him as she 
 turned away. She was wounded to the heart, and the poor 
 liid, putting a fearful curb upon himself, suffered her to leave
 
 1 28 THE G UINEA STAMP. 
 
 him. He did not even go down to the door to see the car- 
 riage leave, and in a few minutes the rattle of wheels across 
 the stony street fell upon his ears like a last farewell. Then, 
 there being none to witness his weakness, he laid his head 
 down upon the battered old desk, and wept as he had not 
 wept since his childhood. He had a proud spirit, and cir- 
 cumstances had made him morbidly sensitive. He was very 
 young to indulge in a man's hopes and aspirations ; but age 
 is not always determined by years. Already he had dreamed 
 his dreams; had his visions of a glorious future, in which he 
 should build up a home for himself. Yet not for himself 
 alone it could be no home unless light was given to it by 
 her who had been the day-star of his boyhood. The very 
 loneliness and bitterness of his experience had caused his 
 heart, capable of a strong and passionate affection, to center 
 with greater tenacity upon the gentle being who had shown 
 to him the lovelier side of nature and life, and had awakened 
 in him strivings after all that was highest and best. But 
 this morbid sensitiveness, which is the curse of every proud 
 spirit, and turns even the sweets of life to ashes in the 
 mouth, had him in bitter bondage. He lashed himself with 
 it, reminding himself constantly of his origin and his envi- 
 ronment, and magnifying these into insuperable barriers 
 which would forever stand blankly in his way. Although 
 common sense told him that there was no other course open 
 to Gladys than to accept the kindness offered her by the 
 lawyer and his wife, and though in his inmost better heart he 
 did not doubt her, it pleased his harder mood to regard him- 
 self as being despised and trampled on. There was a cer- 
 tain luxury in the indulgence which afforded him a melan- 
 choly pain. By and by, however, better thoughts came, as 
 they always will if we give them the chance they seek. Out 
 of his feai-ful dejection arose a manlier, nobler spirit, which 
 betrayed itself in his look and manner. He rose from the 
 stool, walked twice across the narrow office floor out to the 
 warehouse, and finally down-stairs. In a word, he took an
 
 FAREWELL. 129 
 
 inventory of the whole place, and it suddenly came home to 
 him with a new accession of hope and strength that it was 
 his, that he was absolutely monarch of all he surveyed, and 
 could make or mar it as he willed. It was not a stupendous 
 heritage, but to one nameless and unknown it was much. 
 Xay, it was his opportunity the tide in his affairs which 
 might lead him on to fortune. Wandering the length and 
 breadth of his kingdom only a drysalter's warehouse, but 
 still his kingdom hope took to herself white wings again, 
 and, fluttering over him, built for him many a castle in the 
 air castles high enough to reach the skies. Then and there 
 Walter Hepburn took courage and began to face his life ; laid 
 his plans, which had for its reward a maiden's smile and a 
 maiden's heart. And for these men have conquered the 
 Avorld before, and will again. Love still rules, and will, 
 thanks be to God, till the world is done. 
 
 Meanwhile Gladys, all unconscious alike of his deep de- 
 jection and his happier mood, sat quite silently in the corner 
 of the luxurious carriage, her ej'es dim with tears. Her 
 kind friend, noticing that she was moved, left her in peace. 
 Her sympathy was true, and could be quiet; and that 
 is much. 
 
 "Suppose you sit up and look out, my dear," she said at 
 last. " We are crossing Kelvin Bridge. Have you been as 
 far west before?' 1 
 
 Gladys sat up obediently, and looked from the carriage 
 window upon the river tumbling between it banks. 
 
 "Is this Glasgow?" she asked, wondering to see the trees 
 waving greenly in the gentle April breeze. 
 
 " Yes, my dear, of coui*se ; and we are almost home. I 
 am sure you will be glad, you look so tired," said Mrs. For- 
 dyce, kindly. "Never mind, you shall have a cup of tea im- 
 mediately, and then you shall lie down and sleep as long as 
 you like." 
 
 " O, I never sleep in the daytime, thank you," said Gladys ; 
 and as the carriage swept along a handsome terrace and into 
 
 9
 
 130 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 Bellair's Crescent, where the gardens were green with all the 
 beauty of earliest summer, her face visibly brightened. 
 
 " It is quite like the country," she said. " I can not be- 
 lieve it is Glasgow." 
 
 " Sometimes we feel it dingy enough, my love. We are 
 talking of the coast already, but perhaps we shall fall in 
 love with the Crescent a second time through you. Eh, my 
 dear?" She said, with a nod : ." Well, here we are." 
 
 The carriage drew up before the steps of a handsome 
 house, the door was opened, and a dainty maid ran down to 
 take the wraps. Gladys looked at her curiously, and thought 
 of Walter. Well, it was a great change. Gladys had an 
 eye for the beautiful, and the arrangement of the hall, with 
 its soft rugs, carved furniture, and green plants, with gleams 
 of statuary here and there, rested and delighted her. 
 
 "We '11 just go to the drawing-room at once. My girls 
 will be out of all patience for tea/' said Mrs. Fordyce. " Nay, 
 my dear, do n't shrink. I assure you they are happy, kind- 
 hearted girls, just like yourself." 
 
 Gladys long remembered her first introduction to the 
 brighter side of life. She followed Mrs. Fordyce somewhat 
 timidly into a large and handsome room, and saw at the 
 farther end, near the fire-place, a dainty tea-table spread, 
 and a young girl in a blue serge gown cutting a cake into a 
 silver basket. Another knelt at the fire. Gladys was struck 
 by the exceeding grace of her attitude, though she could 
 not see her face. 
 
 " My dears," said Mrs. Fordyce, quickly, " here we are. 
 I hope tea is ready We are quite ready for it." 
 
 " It has been up an age, mamma ; Mina and I were think- 
 ing to ring for some fresh tea. Is this Miss Graham?" 
 
 It was the one who had been kneeling by the fire who 
 spoke, and she came forward frankly and with a pleasant 
 smile, though her eyes keenly noted every detail of the 
 stranger's appearance and attire.
 
 FAREWELL. 131 
 
 " This is Clara, my elder daughter, my dear, and this is 
 Mina. Is Leonard not home? 1 ' 
 
 '' Yes, but he won't come up. Leonard is our brother," 
 Clara explained to Gladys. "Bather a spoiled boy, and he 
 is mortally afraid of new girls, as he calls them. But you 
 will see him at dinnei 1 ." 
 
 In spite of a natural stateliness of look and manner, Clara 
 had a kind way with her. She took off their guest's cloak 
 and drew a comfortable chair forward to the tea-table, while 
 her sister made out the tea. 
 
 "Where 's papa? Did he not come with you?" she asked 
 her mother, leaving Gladys moment to herself. 
 
 "Xo, he went off at St. Vincent Street. He has been 
 away from business all day, you know/' 
 
 " yes. This has been a sad day for you," said Clara, 
 sympathetically, turning to Gladys. '' Mamma has told us 
 how lonely you are; but we shall try to cheer you. Won't 
 we, Mina?" 
 
 " Suppose you begin by giving her some tea," said Mrs. 
 Fordyce. " Then she must have a little rest. She has very 
 long cared for others. She must have a taste of being cared 
 for now." 
 
 Gladys could not speak a word. She felt at home. A 
 vague, delicious sense of rest stole over her as she listened to 
 these kind words, and felt the subtile, beautiful influences 
 of the place about her. It was only a pleasant family room, 
 which taste and wealth had appointed and adorned; but it 
 seemed like a king's palace to the girl, who had long walked 
 in the darker places of the earth. Seeing her thus moved, 
 mother and daughters talked to each other, discussing the 
 pleasant gossip of the day, which always seems to gather 
 round the table at five-o'clock tea. 
 
 "Now Clara, you will take Miss Graham up-stairs. I 
 think you must allow us to call you Gladys, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Fordyce. " I am going to leave you in charge of Clara.
 
 132 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 When you know us better you will find out that it takes 
 Mina all her time to take charge of herself." 
 
 Mina shook her finger at her mother, and a slight blush 
 rose to her happy face. 
 
 "Too bad, mamma, to prejudice Miss Graham against 
 me. The difference between my sister and me," she added, 
 turning to Gladys, " is that Clara is always proper and con- 
 ventional, and I am the reverse. You can never catch her 
 unawares, or in an untidy gown. She is always just as 
 immaculate as you see her now while I am well just as 
 the spirit moves me." She swept a little mocking courtesy to 
 her sister, who only smiled and shook her head, then taking 
 Gladys by the arm, led her from the drawing-room. 
 
 "You must not mind Mina. She often speaks without 
 thinking; but she never wishes to hurt any one," she said. 
 " We have both been so sorry for you since papa told us 
 about you, and we hope you will feel happy and at home 
 with us here." 
 
 "O, I am sure I shall, you are all so kind," cried Gladys, 
 impulsively. It was natural that she should exaggerate any 
 little courtesy or kindness shown to her. She had known so 
 little of it in her life. m 
 
 "It is such a romance! To think you are an heiress, 
 and that beautiful Bourhill is all your own," continued Clara, 
 
 " Do you know it?" interrupted Gladys, with more inter- 
 est than she had yet betrayed. 
 
 " Yes. I have been there. We have a house at Troon, 
 and of course when we are there we drive a good deal. Papa 
 pointed it out to us one day, and said it was sad to see it 
 going to decay. We had no idea then that we should ever 
 know you. This is your room. It is quite close to Mina's 
 and mine. See, the river is just before the windows. I al- 
 ways think the Kelvin looks so pretty from here, because 
 one can not see its impurity. 
 
 " It is beautiful ; a great change for me," said Gladys, 
 dreamily, as her eyes roamed round the spacious and elegant
 
 FAREWELL. 133 
 
 guest-chamber. '-How pleasant it must be always to live 
 amqng so many beautiful things! I have loved them all 
 my life; but I have seen > so few since I came from the fen 
 country with my uncle." 
 
 " It was very strange that he, so rich, should keep you in 
 that wretched place,'' said Clara. " How much better had he 
 shared it all with you while he lived !" 
 
 " Yes, but I think he was happier as it was ; and it pleased 
 him at the end, I know, to think that he had given me Bour- 
 hill." 
 
 " I am sure it did. Well, I shall go now, dear, and leave 
 you to unpack. You will find the wardrobe and all the 
 drawers empty. Mamma will be coming to you immedi- 
 ately, likely." 
 
 With a nod and a smile Clara took herself off to the 
 drawing-room again. 
 
 "What do you think of Miss Graham, of Bourhill?" asked 
 Mina, with her mouth full of cake. 
 
 " Quite to the manner born. Do n't you think so?" 
 
 " Quite ; and is n't she lovely ? Wait till mamma has taken 
 her to Eedfern. and then you and I may retire, my dear we 
 shall be eclipsed." 
 
 " If so, let us be resigned. One thing I know you do n't 
 believe in presentiments, of course, you matter-of-fact young 
 person but I feel that she is to be mixed up with us in some 
 mysterious way, and that some day, perhaps, we may wish 
 we had never seen Miss Graham, of Bourhill."
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE 
 
 |OW Gladys had her opportunity of seeing the 
 beautiful side of life. Her taste, being naturally 
 refined and fastidious, found a peculiar satisfac- 
 tion in the beauty of her surroundings. It was 
 a very real pleasure to her to tread upon soft 
 carpets, breathe a pure air, only sweetened by the breath of 
 flowers, rest her eyes with delicate combinations of color and 
 the treasures of art to be found in the lawyer's sumptuous 
 house. Never had she moi*e strikingly betrayed her special 
 gift, of which Abel Graham had spoken on his death-bed, 
 " ability to adapt herself to any surroundings ;" she seemed, 
 indeed, as Mina Fordyce had said, "to the manner born." 
 
 She endeared herself at once by her gentleness of manner to 
 every inmate of the house; and very speedily conquered the 
 boy Leonard's aversion to " new girls." In less than a week 
 they were chums, ami she was a frequent visitor to his den 
 in the attic, where he contrived all sorts of wonderful 
 things, devoting more time to them than to his legitimate 
 lessons, which his soul abhorred. But though she was in- 
 variably cheerful, ever ready to share and sympathize with 
 134
 
 THE WEST END. 135 
 
 till the varied interests of the house, there was a stillness of 
 manner, a " dreamy far-offness," as Mina expressed it, which 
 indicated that sometimes her thoughts were elsewhere. 
 
 The three girls were sitting round the drawing-room fire 
 one wet, boisterous afternoon, chatting cozily, and waiting 
 for tea to come up. Between Clara and Gladys there seemed 
 to be a peculiar understanding; though Mr. Fordyce's elder 
 daughter was not the favorite of the family. Her manner 
 was too stiff, and she had a knack at times of saying rather 
 sharp, disagreeable things. But not to Gladys Graham. In 
 these few days they had become united in the bonds of a love 
 which was to stand all tests. Clara was sitting on a low 
 chair, Gladys kneeling by her side, with her arm on her 
 knee. So sitting, they presented a contrast, each a fine foil 
 to the other. The stately, dark beauty of Clara set off the 
 fairer loveliness of the younger girl ; neither suffered by the 
 contrast. These days of peace and restful, luxurious living 
 had robbed Gladys of her Avearied listlessness, had given to 
 her delicate cheek a bloom long absent from it. Her simple 
 morning-gown, made by a fashionable modiste who had de- 
 lighted to study her fair model, seemed part of herself. She 
 was a striking and lovely girl ; of a higher type than the 
 two beside her. 
 
 "0, girls!" cried Mina, with a yawn, and tossing back 
 her brown, unruly locks with an impatient gesture, "isn't 
 it slow? Can't 3^011 wake up? You have n't spoken a word 
 for half an hour." 
 
 "Do you never want to be quiet, Mina?" asked Gladys, 
 with the gleam of an amused smile. 
 
 "No, never. I'm not one of your pensive maidens. 
 One silent member in a family is enough, or it would stag- 
 nate. Clara sustains the dignity, I the life of the house, my 
 dear. O, I wish somebody would come in ! I guess half a 
 score of idle young women in the three houses of this Cres- 
 cent are consumed with the same desire. But nobody ever 
 does come in, by any chance, when you want them. When
 
 136 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 you do n't, then they come in in shoals. I say, Clara, is n't it 
 ages since we saw any of them from Pollockshields?" 
 
 " Yes ; but you know we ought to have gone to ask for 
 Aunt Margaret long ago." 
 
 " I suppose so. We do n't love our aunt, Gladys. It 's 
 the misfortune of many not to love their relations. Can you 
 explain that mystery?" 
 
 " Perhaps they are not very lovable," suggested Gladys, 
 smiling. 
 
 " That 's it exactly. Aunt Margaret is Well, you '11 
 see her some day, and then you '11 admit that, if she possesses 
 lovable qualities, she does n't wear them every day. They 
 are so rich, so odiously rich, that you never can forget it. 
 She does n't allow you to. And Julia is about as insuffer- 
 able." 
 
 " Eeally, Mina, you should not speak so strongly. You 
 know papa and mamma would n't like it," protested Clara, 
 mildly; but Mina only laughed. 
 
 " It is such a relief, on a day like this, to c go for ' some 
 one, as Len would say, and why not for one's relations ? It 's 
 their chief use. And yon know Julia Fordyce has more airs 
 than a duchess. George is rather better, and he is so di- 
 vinely handsome that you can 't remember that he has a 
 single fault." 
 
 Was it the firelight, or did the color heighten rapidly in 
 Clara's cheek ? 
 
 " Such nonsense you talk, Mina," she said, hastily. 
 
 " It is n't nonsense at all. Have we never exhibited the 
 photograph of our Adonis, Gladys?" 
 
 "I don't think so," answered Gladys, with a smile. 
 " Suppose you let me see it now ?" 
 
 "Of course; that was an unpardonable oversight which 
 his lordship would never forgive. He is frightfully con- 
 ceited, as most handsome men unfortunately are. It is n't 
 their fault, poor fellows; it's the girls who spoil them. Here 
 lie is!"
 
 THE WEST END. 137 
 
 She brought a silver frame from a cabinet, and, with an 
 absurd assumption of devotion, dropped a kiss on it before 
 she gave it to Gladys. Gladys sat up, and holding the pho- 
 tograph up between the light, looked at it earnestly. It was 
 the portrait of a man in hunting dress standing by his horse, 
 and certainly no fault could be found with his appearance. 
 His figure was a model of manly grace, and his face remark- 
 ably handsome, so far as fine features can render handsome 
 a human face. Yet there was a- something, it might be only 
 a too conscious idea of his own attractions, which betrayed 
 itself in his expression, and in the eyes of Gladys detracted 
 from its charm. 
 
 " It is a pretty picture," she said, innocently. " The horse 
 is a lovely creature." 
 
 Then Mina threw herself back in her chair, and laughed 
 till the tears ran down her cheeks, a proceeding which ut- 
 terly perplexed Gladys. 
 
 O, Clara, isn't that lovely? If I don't tell George 
 Fordyce that the first time I see him. It 'lido him all the 
 good in the world. Only, Gladys, he will never forgive 
 you." 
 
 " Why? I have not said anything against him." 
 
 "No, you have simply ignored him, and that is an un- 
 pardonable offense against my lord. You must let me tell 
 him, Gladys. It is really my duty to tell him, and we 
 should always do one's duty by one's relations, should we 
 not?" 
 
 "I am sure I do n't mind in the least if you do tell him," 
 replied Gladys, serenely. " Do you think I said anything 
 very dreadful, Clara?" 
 
 " Not 1 1 Never mind Mina, dear. You should be learn- 
 ing not to mind anything she says." 
 
 " There's the bell ; that's mother, I hope. We never miss 
 mother more than at tea-time," said Mina, jumping up. Love 
 for her mother was the passion of her soul. It shone in her 
 face, and betrayed itself in a hundred little attentions which
 
 138 TEE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 touched Gladys inexpressibly. Clara was always more re- 
 served, but though her feelings found slower expression, 
 they were not less deep and keen. And though Gladys felt at 
 home and happy with every member of that singularly 
 united house-hold, it was to Clara, who was so seldom the 
 favorite outside, that her heart went out in love. 
 
 "It is not mother; it's callers, I do believe," cried Mina, 
 giving her hair a tug before the mirror, and shaking out her 
 skirts, while her face brightened with expectation. 
 
 " Mr. and Miss Fordyce." 
 
 Clara rose and went hastily forward to receive her cousins, 
 while the irrepressible Mina strove to hide her laughter, 
 though her eyes danced in the most suspicious manner. It 
 was with rather more than ordinary interest that Gladys re- 
 garded the new-comers. They were certainly a handsome 
 pair; and so closely resembling each other that their rela- 
 tionship was at once apparent. 
 
 " To what do we owe this unexpected felicity?" inquired 
 Mina, banteringly. " On such a day, too." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, we quite expected to see you in the house 
 we have just left," said Julia, a little stiffly. 
 
 " Where, where ?" 
 
 " Evelyn Stuart's. Have you forgotten this is her first 
 reception-day?" 
 
 " So it is, and we forgot all about it. Clara, whatever 
 shall we do? Was there a crowd?" 
 
 " Yes, an awful crowd." 
 
 While answering Mina, Miss Julia inclined her head in 
 recognition of Gladys, to whom Clara introduced her. The 
 slightest possible surprise betrayed itself in the uplifting of 
 her straight brows, as her keen, flashing eyes took in every 
 detail of the girl's appearance. Needless to say, the new in- 
 mate of the lawyer's household had been freely discussed by 
 the Pollockshields Fordyces, and it was in reality curiosity 
 to see her which had brought them to Bellair's Crescent that 
 afternoon.
 
 THE WEST END. 139 
 
 "I should just say it was a crowd," added George, giving 
 his immaculate mustache a pull. <! I was sorry for Stuart, 
 poor beggar. Eeally, though a fellow marries, he should not 
 be subjected to an ordeal like yon. I do n't see anything to 
 hinder a fellow's wife from receiving folks herself. It 's an 
 awful bore on a fellow, you know." 
 
 He spoke languidly, and all the time from under his 
 drooping lids surveyed the slender figure and fair face of 
 Gladys. She was so different from the brilliant and showy 
 young ladies he met in the society they moved in that he 
 was filled with a secret admiration. 
 
 " So the unfortunate young woman who marries you, 
 George, may know what to expect. Do you hear that, girls ? 
 Be warned in time," cried Mina, " Won't you take off your 
 cloak, Julia, and stay a little? Mother and tea will be here 
 directly." 
 
 "I dare say we have half an hour have we, George? 
 You are not going back to the mill, are you?" 
 
 " Not I ; my nose has been pretty much at the grind- 
 stone for the last month. And now, girls, what 's the best 
 of your news? "We 're waiting to be entertained. How do 
 you like the West End of Glasgow, Miss Graham?" 
 
 "Very much, thank you," answered Gladys, and some- 
 how she could not help speaking distantly. There was some- 
 thing about the young man she did not like. Had she 
 looked at Clara just then she would have seen her eyes filled 
 with a lovely wavering light, while a half-trembling con- 
 sciousness was infused into her whole appearance. These 
 signs to the observant are not difficult to read. Clara loved 
 her handsome cousin, and unfortunately he was not blind to 
 the fact. 
 
 " We are going to Troon first week in May, Julia," she 
 said, quickly. " Has Aunt Margaret thought or spoken of 
 your going yet?" 
 
 "She has spoken of it, but we haven't encouraged it," 
 replied Julia, languidly, as she drew off one of her perfectly
 
 140 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 fitting gloves, and displayed a long, firm, white liand, spark- 
 ling with diamonds. " I know she has written to the house- 
 keeper to have Seaview aired ; but I suppose it depends on 
 the weather." 
 
 "If you are all going down, it would n't be half bad, 
 Julia. We must see what the Mater says. Does Miss Gra- 
 ham go with you?" 
 
 " Of course," replied Clara, with a smiling glance at 
 Gladys, She replied by an answering smile, so sw T ift and 
 lovely that George Fordyce looked at her with a sudden 
 access of admiration. Gladys shrank just a little under the 
 continued persistence of his gaze; and when he saw it, it 
 added a new zest to his interest in her. He was accustomed 
 to find his admiration or attention always acceptable to the 
 young ladies of his acquaintance, and the demeanor of Gladys 
 was at once new and interesting to him. He determined to 
 cultivate her acquaintance, and to awaken that fair, statu- 
 esque maiden into life. 
 
 Just tlien tea came up, and, rising lazily, he began to make 
 himself useful to his cousin Clara, murmuring some nonsense 
 to her over the tea-table, which deepened the lovely light in 
 her eyes. He enjoyed seeing the delicate color deepening in 
 her face, and excused himself for bringing it there, on the 
 ground of cousinship. But when he carried her cup to 
 Gladys, he remained by her side, while Julia entertained the 
 other two with a description of the bride's drawing-room 
 and reception -gown. 
 
 " It 's an awful romance, Miss Graham ; upon my word it 
 is," began George, standing with his back to the others, and 
 looking down most impressively into the girl's face; "your 
 story I mean, of course. Uncle Tom has told us how you, 
 the heiress of Bourhill, have lived in the slums positively 
 the slums, wasn't it?'' 
 
 !Now, though his words were not particularly well chosen 
 or in good taste, his manner was so impressively sympa- 
 thetic that Gladys felt insensibly influenced by it. And he
 
 THE WEST END. 141 
 
 was very handsome, and It was quite pleasant to have 
 him standing there, looking as if there was nobody in the 
 world half so interesting to him as herself. For the very 
 first time in her life Gladys felt the subtle charm of flattery 
 steal into her soul. 
 
 " I suppose you would call it the slums," she answered. 
 " My uncle lived in Colquhoun Street." 
 
 " Do n't know it, but I guess it was bad enough and for 
 you, too, who look fit for a palace. And did you live there 
 all alone with the old miser?" 
 
 " Do n't call him that, please. He was very kind to me, 
 and I can not bear to hear him hardly spoken of," she said, 
 quickly. " There Avere three of us, and we were very happy, 
 though the place was so small and poor." 
 
 "Who was the third?" 
 
 He managed to convey into his tone just sufficient ag- 
 gressiveness as to suggest that he resented the idea of a 
 third person sharing anything with her. 
 
 " Walter Hepburn, my uncle's assistant." 
 
 Had she looked at him then, she must have been struck 
 by the strange expression, coupled with a sudden flush, 
 which passed over his face. 
 
 "Ah, yes, just so. Well, I'm glad the fates have been 
 kind, and brought you at last where there 's a chance of be- 
 ing appreciated," he said, carelessly. " Nice little girls, my 
 cousins; awfully good-hearted little souls, though Mina's 
 tongue is a trifle too sharp. Yes, miss, I 'm warning Miss 
 Graham against you," he said, when Mina uttered his name 
 in a warning note. 
 
 " Now, to punish you, I shall tell you my latest anecdote," 
 Mina said, and, heedless of the half-laughing, half-eager pro- 
 test of Gladys, she related the incident of the portrait, with a 
 little embellishment which made him appear in rather a 
 ridiculous light. 
 
 In the midst of the laughter which her relation pro- 
 voked, Mrs. Fordyce entered the room.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 DAYS THAT ARE NOT." 
 
 HE last days of April came, the family in Bel- 
 lair's Crescent were making preparations for 
 an immediate departure to the Ayrshire coast, 
 and as yet Gladys had neither seen nor heard 
 anything of Walter. She had a longing to revisit 
 the old home, and yet a curious reluctance held her back. 
 She felt hurt, and even a trifle irritated, against Walter ; and 
 though she understood, and in a measure sympathized with, 
 his feelings, she thought him needlessly morbid and sensi- 
 tive regarding their new relation toward each other. 
 
 " Gladys," said Clara one day, when she had watched in 
 silence. the girl's sweet face, and noticed its half-sad, half- 
 wistful expression, " what is the matter with you? You are 
 fretting about something. Tell me what it is. Do you not 
 wish to go to Troon with us, or would you rather go to 
 Bourhill? Do tell us what you wpuld like best to do?'' 
 
 They were quite alone in the little morning-room which 
 had been given up to the girls of the house to adorn as they 
 liked. It was a pretty corner, dainty, home-like, cozy, with 
 a long window opening out to the gai'den, which was as 
 beautiful as it is possible for a city garden to be. 
 142
 
 " THE DAYS TEAT ARE KOT." 143 
 
 Gladys gave a little start, and colored slightly under 
 Clara's earnest gaze. 
 
 " I am quite happy at the idea of going to Troon ; re- 
 member I have never seen the sea," she answered, quickly. 
 ""What makes you think I am unhappy?" 
 
 " My dear, you look it. You can't hide it from me, and 
 you are going to tell me this very moment what is vex- 
 ing you." 
 
 Clara knelt down on the rug, and, with her hands folded, 
 looked up in her friend's face. Gladys passed her hand 
 lightly over the smooth braids of Clara's beautiful hair, and 
 did not for a moment speak. 
 
 "Did you ever have a great faith in any one, who after a 
 time disappointed you?" she asked, suddenly. 
 
 " No, I do n't think so. I am not naturally trusting, 
 Gladys. I have to be very sure before I put absolute faith 
 in any one." 
 
 "I can not believe that of you, Clara. How kind you 
 have been to me, an utter stranger ! You have treated me 
 like a sister since the first happy day I entered the house." 
 
 " 0, that is different. You know very well, you little 
 fraud, that your very eyes disarm suspicion, as somebody 
 says. You are making conquests everywhere. But now we 
 are away from the point. What is vexing you? Shall I 
 make a guess?" 
 
 " O, if you like," answered Gladys, with interest. 
 
 " Well, you are thinking of past days. You have not for- 
 gotten the companions of the old life, and it is grieving you 
 because it would appear that they have forgotten you." 
 
 "He might have come, only once," cried Gladys, rebell- 
 iously, not for a moment seeking to deny or admit in words 
 the truth of Clara's words. " We were a great deal to each 
 other. It is hard to be forgotten so soon." 
 
 " Gladys, dear, listen to me." 
 
 Clara's voice became quite grave, and she folded her hands 
 impressively above her companion's.
 
 144 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " You must not be angry at what I am going to say, be- 
 cause it is true. Has it not occurred to you that this young 
 man, in thus keeping a distance from you, shows himself 
 wiser than you?" 
 
 " How?" asked Gladys, coldly. " It can never be wise to 
 wound the feelings of another." 
 
 - " My dear, though your simplicity is the loveliest thing 
 about you, it is awfully difficult to deal with," said Clara, per- 
 plexedly. " You must know, must admit, Gladys, that every- 
 thing is changed ; and that while you might be quite court- 
 eous, and even friendly after a fashion, with this Mr. Hepburn, 
 anything more is quite out of the question. He must move 
 in his own sphere, you in yours. People are happier in their 
 own sphere. To try and lift them out of it is always a mis- 
 take, and ends in disaster and defeat. Would you have liked 
 mamma to invite him here?" 
 
 " He would not come," said Gladys, proudly. " He would 
 never come. He said so, again and again." 
 
 " Then it seems to me that it is you who are lacking in 
 proper pride," said Clara, calmly. 
 
 " What is proper pride?" 
 
 Gladys smiled with the faintest touch of scorn as she 
 asked the question. 
 
 " You know what it is just as well as I can tell you, only 
 it pleases you to be perverse this morning," said Clara, goad- 
 humoredly. " And I am not going to say any more." 
 
 " Yes, you are. I want to understand this thing. Is it 
 imperative that the mere fact that my uncle has left me 
 money and a house should make me a different person alto- 
 gether?" 
 
 " It affects your position, not necessarily you. Do n't be 
 silly and aggravating, Gladys, or I must shake you," said 
 Clara, with the frank candor of a privileged friend. " And 
 really I can not understand why you should be anxious to 
 keep in touch with that old life, which was so awfully mean 
 and miserable."
 
 " THE DAYS THAT ARE NOT." 145 
 
 "It had compensations," said Gladys, quickly. "And I 
 do think that, if it is all as you say, there is more sincerity 
 among poor people than among rich. There is no court paid 
 anyhow to money and position." 
 
 "My dear, you are not at all complimentary to us," 
 laughed Clara. "Your ingenuousness is truly refreshing." 
 
 " I am not speaking about you, and you know it quite 
 well," answered Gladys. "But if the world is as fond of 
 outward things as you say, I do not wish to know anything 
 of it. I could not feel at home in it, I am sure." 
 
 " My dear little girl, wait till your place is put in order, 
 and you take up your abode in it, Miss Graham of Bourhill, 
 the envied and the admired of a whole county, and you will 
 change your mind about the world. Just wait till the next 
 Hunt ball at Ayr, and we '11 see what changes it will bring." 
 
 There was no refuting Clara's good-natured worldly wis- 
 dom, and Gladys had to be silent. But she pondered many 
 things in her heart. 
 
 " When do we go to Troon ? Is n't it next week ?" 
 
 " Yes, on Tuesday." 
 
 " Do you think," she asked then, with a slight hesitation, 
 " that Mrs. Fordyce would allow me to pay a little visit to 
 my old homo before I go, for the last time?" 
 
 There was all the simplicity and wistfulness of a child in 
 her manner, and it touched Clara to the quick. 
 
 "Gladys, are you a prisoner here, dear? Do n't vex me 
 saying things like that. Do you not know that you can go 
 out and in just as you like. Of course, you shall go. I 
 will take you myself, if mamma can not, and wait for you 
 outside." 
 
 True to her promise, Clara ordered the brougham on 
 Monday afternoon, and carried Gladys off to Colquhoun Street. 
 Clara was, like most quiet people, singularly observant, and 
 she noted with interest, not unmixed with pity, how nervous 
 Gladys became as they neared their destination. Mingling 
 with her pity was a great curiosity to see the young man 
 
 10
 
 146 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 whose image seemed to dwell in the constant heart of Gladys. 
 It was a romance, redeemed from vulgarity by the beauty 
 and the sweet individuality of the chief actor in it. 
 
 "I shall not knock. Do n't let James get down," cried 
 Gladys, when the carriage stopped at the familiar door. " I 
 shall just run in. I have a fancy to enter unannounced." 
 
 Clara nodded, and Gladys, springing out, opened and 
 closed the familiar door. Her very limbs shook as she went 
 lightly along the dark passage and pushed open the kitchen 
 door. It was unchanged, yet somehow sadly changed. A 
 desolateness chilled her to the soul as she looked round the 
 wide, gaunt place, saw the feeble fire choking in the grate, 
 and the remains of a poor meal on the uncovered table. The 
 light struggling through the barred windows had never 
 looked upon a more cheerless picture. All things, they say, 
 are gauged by contrast. Perhaps it was the contrast to what 
 she had just left which made Gladys think she had never 
 seen her old home look more wretched and forlorn. 
 
 So lightly had she entered, and so lightly did she steal up 
 the warehouse stair, that the solitary being making out ac- 
 counts at the desk was not aware of her presence until she 
 spoke. And then, how timid her look and tone, just as if 
 she feared greatly her reception ! 
 
 "Excuse me coming in, Walter. I wanted so much to 
 see you, I could not help coming. I will not hinder you 
 long." 
 
 He leaped up, in the greatness of his surprise, in his agi- 
 tation knocking over the stool on which he had been sitting. 
 His face was dusky red, his firm mouth trembling, as he 
 touched for a moment the outstretched, daintily gloved hand. 
 
 " O, it is you. Won't you sit down? It is a battered old 
 chair; but if you will wait a moment I '11 bring you another," 
 he said, awkwai'dly. 
 
 " No, do n't. I have often sat on this box. I can sit on 
 it again," she said, unsteadily. " I won't sit on ten chairs, 
 Walter, though you should bring them to me this moment."
 
 " THE DA YS THAT ARE NOT." 147 
 
 She sat down ; and her movement sent a faint whiff of 
 perfume about her, dainty as herself. And then there was 
 just a moment's 'painful silence. The awkwardness of the 
 moment dwelt with them both ; it would be hard to say 
 which felt it more. 
 
 "I suppose," said Walter, stiffly, "you are getting on all 
 right." 
 
 " Yes. I thought you would have come to see me before 
 this, Walter," said Gladys, quietly. 
 
 "You need not have thought so. I said I wouldn't 
 come; that nothing would induce me to come," he answered, 
 shortly. 
 
 "We are going away into Ayrshire, so I thought I must 
 come to say good-b} T e," Gladys said, then. 
 
 "To your estate?" 
 
 " Xo ; to Troon, where the sea is." 
 
 11 O, and will you stay long?" 
 
 " Perhaps all the summer. How are you getting on here 
 all alone, Walter? You must tell me that." 
 
 " O, well enough." 
 
 " Does Mrs. Macintyre come to work for you?" 
 
 "Yes; morning and night she looks in. I'm going to 
 make this thing pay." 
 
 He looked as if he meant it. His square jaw was 
 firmly set; his whole look that of a man determined to 
 succeed. 
 
 " I hope you will, Walter. I feel sure of it," she said, 
 brightly. 
 
 "It'll be awful drudgery for awhile," he continued, 
 almost in the confidential tones of yore. " To have so much 
 money, yom- uncle had the poorest way of doing business. 
 He had the customers all under his thumb, and made them 
 fetch and carry what they wanted themselves. In that way 
 he saved a man's wages. I 'm not giving anything on credit ; 
 and after they 've once freed themselves, and can pay cash for 
 what they get, they '11 want it delivered to them, and quite
 
 148 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 right. Then I '11 get a man and a horse and cart ; and when 
 I once get that, the thing will grow like a mushroom." 
 
 "How clever you are to think of all that!" said Gladys, 
 admiringly. " I am quite sure you will succeed." 
 
 "I mean to," he said, soberly, but with a quiet determina- 
 tion which convinced Gladys how much in earnest he was. 
 
 " But do n't let success make you hai'd, Walter," she said, 
 gently. " Eemember how we used to plan what we should do 
 for the poor if we were rich." 
 
 " Your opportunity is here, then," he said, sharply. 
 " Mine is only to come." 
 
 The tone, more than the words, wounded her afresh. 0, 
 this was not the Walter of old ! She rose from the old box a 
 trifle wearily, and looked around her with a slightly sad- 
 dened air. 
 
 "Have you heard anything of your sister?" she asked 
 him. 
 
 " No, nothing." 
 
 " She has never written to any one?" 
 
 " No. I think she has gone to London to join a theater. 
 The girl who was her chum thinks so too." 
 
 " Are your father and mother well?" 
 
 " As well as they deserve to be. They wanted to come 
 here and live. Had they been decent and respectable, it 
 would n't have been a bad arrangement. As they are, I 
 simply wouldn't have it. I 'd never get on. Of course, they 
 cast my pride in my teeth ; but I have little enough to be 
 proud of." 
 
 His mood cast its dark spell over the girl's sensitive 
 heart, and she turned to go. 
 
 "It's all so different," she said, in a low voice. " But the 
 difference is not in me. Shall we never meet now, Walter?" 
 
 " It will be better not. If I ever succeed and I have 
 determined to do it we may then meet on more equal 
 ground," he sftid, steadily; and not a sign of the unutterable
 
 THE DAYS THAT ARE NOT." 
 
 149 
 
 longing in his heart betrayed itself in his set face. His 
 pride was as cruel as the grave. 
 
 "Till then, it is good-bye, then, I suppose,' 1 she said, 
 quietly. 
 
 t; Yes, till then. The day will come, or I shall know the 
 reason why.'' 
 
 ' But it may be too late then, Walter, for us both." 
 
 With these words, destined to ring their warning 
 changes in his ears for many days, she left him without 
 touch of the hand or other farewell. 
 
 <; Well, dear," said Clara, with a slightly quizzical smile, 
 " has it made you happier to revive the ghosts of the past?" 
 
 "Xo; you were right, and I was wrong," said Gladys, as 
 she sank into the cushioned seat. " It was a great mistake." 
 
 But even Clara did not know how dark was the shadow 
 which had settled down on the girl's gentle soul.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 SWEETS OK LIKE. 
 
 ROM that day a change was observed in Gla- 
 dys Graham. It was as if she had suddenly 
 awakened from a dream, to find herself sur- 
 rounded by the realities of life. Her Hstlessness 
 vanished, her pensive moods became things of 
 the past. None could be more interested in every plan and 
 project, however small, in which the Fordyce household 
 were concerned. She became lively, merry, energetic; it 
 seemed impossible for her to be still. 
 
 " Now, what do you suppose is the matter with Gladys, 
 Clara?" said Mina, the morning of the day they were to 
 leave town. " You, who pretend to be a philosopher and 
 a reader of character, ought to be able to solve that 
 mystery."' 
 
 " What do you see the .matter with her?" inquired Clara, 
 answering the question by another, as was her way when 
 she did not want to commit herself to an expression of 
 opinion. 
 
 " Why, she is a different girl. Do n't tell me you 
 have n't noticed it. She carries that Len to outrageous 
 150
 
 THE SWEETS OF LIFE. 151 
 
 lengths ; and if you do n't call her behavior at Aunt Mar- 
 garet's last night the most prominent flirtation, I do n't 
 know what it is." 
 
 'Just put it to Gladys. Mina. If she ever heard the 
 word flirtation, I am positive she does n't know what it 
 means." 
 
 ' c O, fiddle-de-dee! Every w T oman, unless she is a fool, 
 knows intuitively what flirtation means, and can put it in 
 practice. But it struck me last night that Aunt Margaret 
 rather encouraged George to pay attention to Gladys. Of 
 course, it was quite marked." 
 
 " Why should she encourage it?" asked Clara, with a slight 
 inflection of huskiness in her voice. 
 
 " Clai - a, really you are too obtuse, or pretend to be. Of 
 course it would be a fine thing for them. She belongs to an 
 old Ayrshire family, and poor Aunt Margaret adores lineage. 
 If she could with any effrontery assume it herself, she would ; 
 but, alas ! every body knows where the Fordyces came from. 
 They '11 angle for our dear little ward this summer, and bait 
 the hook with gold." 
 
 " Eeally you are vulgar, Mina," said Clara, a trifle coldly, 
 and, bending over an open trunk, busied herself with some of 
 the trifles in the tray. 
 
 " We. are sure to forget a thousand things. Do you think 
 everything is here which ought to go?" she said, deliberately 
 changing the subject. 
 
 " O, I do n't know. We shall be glad of any excuse to 
 come up in a week. If it is fearfully slow, I 'm coming back 
 to keep Leonard company. Well, I suppose we must make 
 haste. The cabs will be here directly." 
 
 " Not till after breakfast, surely. There is the gong. 
 Are you ready ?" 
 
 "Yes; just put in this stud for me, like a dear. How 
 immaculate you are, just as if you had stepped from a band- 
 box ! How do you manage to be so tidy, and yet always so 
 elegant? When I am tidy, I am stiff as a poker."
 
 152 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 Clara laughed, and, having fastened the refractory collar 
 button, bent her stately head, and gave her sister a kiss. 
 
 "Don't attempt to be too tidy; it will spoil your indi- 
 viduality." 
 
 " They were two sisters of one race, 
 She was the fairest in the face," 
 
 sang Mina, as she bounded down-stairs, not disdaining, in 
 spite of her eighteen years, to slide down the last few feet ot 
 the bannisters. Only she took care to see that nobody but 
 Clara was in sight. 
 
 It was a very happy breakfast-table, though Leonard, 
 whose classes kept him in town, affected a melancholy mood. 
 
 " I have only one piece of advice to give you, Gladys, in 
 addition to my parting blessing," he said, teasingly. " How 
 much will you give for it?" 
 
 " How much is it worth?" she flashed back in a moment, 
 her eye dancing with fun. 
 
 " Untold gold, as you will find if you take it." 
 
 " I can't buy it at that price," she answered, demurely. 
 
 " Well, I '11 give it for nothing, in gratitude for the peace 
 I shall enjoy this evening. Mamma, may n't I come down 
 Wednesday nights as well as Fridays?" 
 
 " No, my dear, you may n't," replied Mrs. Fordyce, 
 shaking her head. " If you work hard all week, you will 
 enjoy your Saturdays all the more." 
 
 "All right. Papa and I will have high jinks, see if we 
 do n't," said the lad, with a series of little nods towards the 
 newspaper which hid his father's face. Mr. Fordyce did not 
 hear this remark, though he looked up in mild surprise at 
 the laughter it provoked. 
 
 " You seem very merry, Len, my boy. It is time you 
 were off." 
 
 " Yes, I know. That's the way a fellow 's treated in this 
 house not allowed five minutes to eat a decent breakfast. 
 Well, I 'm off. Good-bye, all." 
 
 " The advice, Leonard ?" asked Gladys, when he came
 
 THE SWEETS OF LIFE. 153 
 
 round to her chair. He bent down, whispered something in 
 her ear, and ran off. 
 
 "What did he say, Gladys? Do tell us!" cried Mina, in 
 curiosity. 
 
 " I must, because I do n't understand it," answered Gladys. 
 " He said, ' Do n't let them take you for a walk on the Bal- 
 last Bank.' What did he mean?" 
 
 " O, the Ballast Bank is the only promenade Troon can 
 boast of, and Len has a rooted aversion to it," replied Mina. 
 " He is a most absurd boy." 
 
 In spite, however, of Leonard's advice, many a delightful 
 blow did Gladys enjoy on the Ballast Bank. 
 
 The spring winds had not yet lost their wintry touch on 
 the Ayrshire coast. Sweeping in from the sea, they made 
 sport with the golfers on the Links, and taxed their skill to 
 the utmost. The long stretch of gray sand, upon which the 
 great green waves rolled in and broke with no gentle mur- 
 mur ; the wide expanse of the still wintry-looking sea ; the en- 
 chanted pictures to bo seen in the clear morning light, where 
 the Arran hills stood out so bold and rugged against the sky ; 
 and at sunset, when the tossing waters were sometimes 
 stilled into an exquisite rest, all these were revelations to the 
 girl, who had the soul and the eye of an artist, and she drank 
 them in with no ordinary draught of enjoyment. 
 
 She lived out of doors. Wind and weather could not 
 keep her in the house. When the rain-drops blew fierce and 
 wild in the gale, she would start across the garden, out 
 by the little gate to the beach, and, close by the edge of 
 the angry sea, watch the great waves rolling in to her feet; 
 and as she looked her eyes grew large and luminous, and she 
 would draw great breaths of delight. The wideness of the sea 
 satisfied her ; its wildest moods only breathed into her soul 
 an ineffable calm. 
 
 In the course of a week the Pollockshields Fordyces also 
 arrived at their coast residence, and there began to be a quite 
 unprecedented amount of friendly coming and going between
 
 154 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 the two families. It became evident, before long, tbat 
 George Fordyce appeared to find some great attraction at 
 the Anchorage, though in former years he had only pre- 
 sented 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 dif- 
 ferent 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 atten- 
 tions women love, and in his manner towards Gladys man- 
 aged to infuse a certain deference not untouched by tender- 
 ness, which she found quite gratifying. 
 
 She had so long lived a meager, barren existence that she 
 seemed almost greedy of the lovely and pleasant things of life. 
 She enjoyed wearing her beautiful gowns, living in luxurious 
 rooms, eating dainty food at a well-appointed table; in all 
 that there was nothing unnatural. It was but the inevitable 
 reaction after what she had gone through. She began to 
 understand that life has two sides one for the rich and one for 
 the poor and she was glad with an honest, simple gladness 
 that she had been permitted to taste the best at last. She 
 retained her simple, genuine manner; but her soul had had 
 its first taste of power, and it found it surpassing sweet. 
 Beauty and riches had proved themselves valuable in her 
 eyes, and there were times when she looked back upon the 
 old life with a shudder. 
 
 In the intoxication of that first summer of her new life, 
 memory of Walter grew dim in her heart. She thought of 
 him but seldom, never of her own free will. Unconsciously 
 she was learning a lesson which wealth and power so arro- 
 gantly strive to teach to put away from her all unpleasant 
 thoughts. Let us not blame her. She was very young, and 
 experience has to lead the human heart by many tortuous 
 ways to full understanding. So Gladys lived her happy, 
 careless, girlish summer by the sea, enjoying it to the full.
 
 THE SWEETS OF LIFE. 155 
 
 "Tom,'' said Mrs. Fordyce, to her husband one afternoon 
 as they sat at the drawing-room window watching the young 
 folks in the garden, "do you thing there is anything serious 
 between Gladys and George Fordyce?'' 
 
 " Eh, what? No, I do n'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 color 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 com- 
 panion's words. His attitude and bearing were certainly 
 lover-like, and his handsome head was bent rather nearer the 
 big sun-hat than Mrs. Fordyce altogether approved. 
 
 "Well, I must say, my dear, it looks rather like it; only 
 I have heard the girls say that George is a great flirt." 
 
 "He is, but I do n't think it's flirting in this case," said 
 Mrs. Fordyce, serioush r . " I am afraid we, or at least I, 
 have been very indiscreet." 
 
 "You would n't approve then, Isabel. George is a trifle 
 vain and silly, but I never heard anything against his 
 character." 
 
 " I suppose not. We would be the last to hear any such 
 rumors. But it isn't fair to the girl; she has not had a 
 chance. Do you know what people will say of us, Tom? 
 That we took her away down here, and shut her up among 
 ourselves for the very purpose of match-making. It is a 
 blessing our Leonard is only a boy ; but it is bad enough that 
 it should be our nephew." 
 
 " There's a good deal of truth in what you say; but the 
 world must just wag its stupid tongue. If the thing is to 
 be, we can't prevent it." 
 
 " We can ; we must. She is only a child, Tom.' I feel 
 quite convicted of my own sinful want of observation. I 
 have been thinking of it all day, and my mind is made up, 
 provided you, as her guardian, will give your consent. She
 
 156 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 must go abroad. Do 3^011 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. Do n't you 
 remember our own case?" he asked, referring with a smile 
 to the old romance which had kept them true through years 
 of opposition and discouragement. 
 
 " I have n't forgotten it," she said, with an answering 
 smile ; " only it is impossible these two in so short a time can 
 be seriously involved. I '11 find out this very day." 
 
 " You are not in favor of it, Isabel, and a willful woman 
 must have her way." 
 
 "It's not altogether fear of the world's opinion, Tom; 
 there 's something about George I do n't nay, can't like. 
 He is very handsome, and can be very agreeable ; but I never 
 feel that he is sincere, and he is profoundly selfish. Even 
 his mother says that." 
 
 "Ah, well, she would need kind dealing, Isabel; she is a 
 high-strung creature," said the lawyer, thoughtfully, and 
 the subject dropped.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 HILE these golden days were speeding by the 
 sea, Bourhill was being put in order for its 
 young mistress. Her interest in the alterations 
 was very keen ; there were very few days in 
 which they did not drive to the old house, and 
 Mrs. Fordycc was surprised alike at the common sense and 
 artistic taste she displayed in that interest. 
 
 " Do you think, dear Mrs. Fordyee.' 1 she asked one day, 
 when they happened to be alone together at Bourhill "do 
 you think the house could be ready for me by the end of 
 September, when you return to Glasgow?'' 
 
 ' It will be ready, of course ; there is really very little to 
 do now," replied Mrs. Fordyce. i But why do you ask?" 
 
 " Why, because if it is read} 7 , 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 kind- 
 ness,'' said Gladys, thoughtfully. 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce could not forbear a smile. 
 " How old are you, my dear? I do not know that I have 
 ever heard your age exactly.' 1
 
 158 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 "I shall be eighteen next mouth." 
 
 " Eighteen next month ? not a very responsible age. Is 
 it possible, my dear, that you feel perfectly fit to take pos- 
 session here, that you would have no tremors regaining your 
 lonely position and your responsibility?" 
 
 " I have no such feeling, Mrs. Fordyce. I could live here 
 quite well. Is there any reason why I should not?" she 
 asked, observing the doubtful expression on the face of her 
 kind friend. 
 
 "It is quite impossible, my dear, whatever your feelings 
 may be altogether out of the question that you should 
 live here alone." 
 
 "But tell me why? I am not a child. I have always 
 seemed to occupy a responsible position where I have had to 
 think and act for myself." 
 
 "Yes, you have; but your position is entirely altered 
 now. It would not be proper for you to live in this great 
 house alone, with no company but that of servants. Mr. 
 Fordyce would but poorly fulfill 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 sim- 
 ple 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 Belgian officer, and who is now left 
 widowed in poor circumstances in Bruges. You would be 
 most happy and comfortable with Madame Bonnemain. She 
 is one of the sweetest and most charming of women. Musical 
 and cultured, her companionship would be invaluable 
 to you." 
 
 " I do not think I wish to go abroad, meanwhile. Would 
 you and Mr. Fordyce think it ungrateful if I refused to go?" 
 
 " Well, no," replied Mrs. Fordyce, though with a slight
 
 PLANS. 159 
 
 accent of surprise. "But can you tell me what is your ob- 
 jection ?" 
 
 " I want to come here and live just as soon as it is possi- 
 ble," said Gladys, looking round .the dismantled house with 
 wistful, affectionate eyes. " I want to have my very own 
 house. I can never feel that it is mine until I live in it; and 
 I have many plans." 
 
 "Would you mind telling me some of them?" said Mrs. 
 Fordyce, rather anxiously. She was a very practical person, 
 attentive to the laws of conventionality, and she did not 
 feel at all siu*e of the views entertained by her husband's 
 ward. 
 
 " I want to be a help to people, if I can," said Gladys. 
 " especially to working-girls in Glasgow to those poor creat- 
 ures who sew in the garrets and cellars.' I know of them. 
 I have seen them at their work, and it is dreadful for 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 forget fulness. You see. if I do 
 not help where I knoic of the need, I am not a good steward 
 of the mone}' God has given me. ;> 
 
 "But tell me, my dear child, how would you propose to 
 help?" asked Mrs. Fordyce, inwardly touched, but wishing 
 to understand clearly what Gladys wished and intended to 
 do. There seemed no indecision or wavering about her. 
 She spoke with all the calm dignity of a woman who knew 
 and accepted her responsibilities. 
 
 " I can help them in various wa}-s. I can have them here 
 sometimes, especially when they are not strong; so many of 
 them are not strong. Mrs. Fordyce. I have been so sorry 
 for them, and some of them have never, never been out of 
 these dreadful streets. O, I can help them in a thousand 
 ways !" 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce was silent, not knowing very well how to 
 answer. She saw many difficulties ahead, yet hesitated to 
 .chill the girl's young enthusiasm., which seemed a beautiful
 
 160 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 and a heavenly thing even to the woman of the world, who 
 believed that it could never come to fruition. 
 
 " There is something else which might be done. What 
 would you say to Madame Bonnemain coming here to live 
 with you as housekeeper and chaperon ?" 
 
 " If you, knowing us both, think it would be a happy 
 arrangement, I shall be happy," Gladys said, and the wis- 
 dom 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 sor- 
 row and care have materially changed Henrietta Bonnemain, 
 anybody could live with her," she said, cheerfully. " Sup- 
 pose we take a little trip to Belgium and see what 'can be 
 done to arrange it?" . 
 
 " 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 Gair- 
 loch, and we went to Brussels to school together. She never 
 came back married at eighteen, Gladys and only a wife 
 five years. She has had a hard life," said Mrs. Fordyce, and 
 her eyes grew dim over the memories of her youth. 
 
 " Can we go soon, then ?" asked Gladys, fervently. " Just 
 when they are finishing the house. Then we could bring 
 Madame back with us." 
 
 " My dear, you will not let the grass grow under -your 
 feet, nor allow any one else to loiter by the way," said Mrs. 
 Fordyce, with a laugh. " Well, we shall see what Mr. For- 
 dyce has to say to-night to these grand plans." 
 
 Some days after that conversation, Mrs. Macintyre was 
 laboring over her washing-tub in her very limited domain in 
 the back court off Colquhoun Street, when a quick, light 
 knock came to her door. 
 
 " Come in," she said, not thinking it worth while to look 
 round, or to lift her hands from the suds.
 
 PLANS. 161 
 
 "Good-morning, Mrs. Macintyre; how are you to-day?" 
 she heard a sweet voice say, and in a moment she became in- 
 terested and excited. 
 
 "Mercy me, Miss, is 't you? an' me in a perfick potch," 
 she said, apologetically. " No a corner for ye to step dry on, 
 nor a seat to sit doon on. Could ye no jist tak' a walk the 
 length o' the auld place or I redd up a wee?" 
 
 "No, no, Mrs. Macintyre," replied Gladys, with a laugh. 
 " Never mind, I '11 get a seat somewhere. I have come to 
 see you very particularly, and I 'm. not going to take any 
 walks till our business is settled. And are you quite well ?" 
 
 " 'Deed, I 'm just middlin'," said the good woman, and 
 then, with one extraordinary sweep of her bare arm, she gath- 
 ered all the soiled linen off the floor and pushed it under 
 the bed ; then vigorously rubbing up a chair, she spread a 
 clean apron on it, and having persuaded Gladys to sit down, 
 stood straight in front of her, looking at her with a species 
 of adoring admiration. 
 
 " Ye micht hae let a body ken ye were comin'. Sic a 
 potch I" she said, ruefully. " My, but ye are a picter, an' nae 
 mistak'." 
 
 Gladys laughed ; and the sound rang through the place 
 like sweetest music. 
 
 " Have you not been quite well? I think you are thin- 
 ner," she said, kindly. 
 
 " No I 've no been up to muckle ; fair helpless some days 
 wi' rheumatics. The washin's no extra guid for them, but a 
 body maun dae something for meat. I 've anither mooth 
 to fill noo. Myguid-brither, Bob Johnson's deid since I saw 
 ye, an' I ve been obliged to tak' Tammy, no an ill loon. He ' 
 at the skule or ye wad hae seen him." 
 
 " I do n't suppose you would be sorry to leave this place 
 and give up the washing if you tjould get something easier," 
 said Gladys. 
 
 " No me, a' places are the same to me. Hae ye been up 
 by?" asked Mrs. Macintyre, significantly. 
 
 11
 
 162 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 Gladys shook her head. 
 
 " I came to see whether you would come and live in the 
 lodge at my gate. It is a nice little house, and 1 would like 
 to have you near me ; you were a kind friend in the old days." 
 
 Mrs. Macintyre drew her rough hand across her eyes, and 
 turned somewhat sharply back to her wash-tub; and for 
 the moment she gave no answer, good or bad. 
 
 " What about Tammy?" she asked at length. 
 
 " 0, he could come with you, of course. He could go to 
 school in Mauchline just as well as in Glasgow. Just say 
 you '11 come. I 've set my heart on it, and nobody refuses 
 me anything just now." 
 
 "I'll come fast enough," said Mrs. Macintyre, rubbing 
 away as for dear life at her wash-board, upon which the big 
 salt tears were dropping surreptitiously. " Me no want to 
 leave this place? I 'm no that fond o't. Sometimes it '8 si 
 perfect wee hell in this stair ; it 's no guid for Tammy or ony 
 wean. 'Deed it 's no guid for onybody livin' in sic a place ; 
 but if ye are puir an' tryin' to live decent, ye jist have to pit 
 up wi' what ye can pay for. Ay, I '11 come fast enough, an' 
 thank ye kindly. But ye micht get a mair genty body for 
 your gate. I 'm a rough tyke, an' aye was." 
 
 " It is you I want," replied Glad} T s ; then in a few words she 
 explained the very liberal arrangement she had in view for 
 her old friend. After that a little silence fell upon them, and 
 a great Avistfulness gathered in the girl's gentle eyes. 
 
 " So ye hinna been up by," said Mrs. Macintyre. "Are 
 ye gaun ?" 
 
 " Not to-day. Is Walter well ?" 
 
 " Ay, he is weel. He's a fine chap, an' he's in terrible 
 earnest aboot something," said Mrs. Macintju-e, thought- 
 fully, as she shook out the garment she had been rubbing. 
 " There 's a something deep doou in thon heart no mouy can 
 see. But the place is no the place it was to him or to me. 
 What way wull ye no gang up? Eh, but he wad be fell glad 
 to see ye, my lady "
 
 PLANS. 163 
 
 " I am not going to-day," replied Gladys, quietly, and 
 even with a touch of coldness. "You can tell him, if you 
 like, that I was here, and that I hoped he was well." 
 
 "Ay, I '11 tell him. And are ye happy, my doo?" 
 
 It was a beautiful and touching thing to see the rare ten- 
 derness in the woman's plain face as she asked that question. 
 
 " Yes I think so," Gladys replied, but she got up sud- 
 denly from her seat, and her voice gave a suspicious tremor. 
 ' Money can do a great deal, Mrs. Macintyre; but it can not 
 do everything not everything." 
 
 " Aweel no. I dinna pray mucklc there 's no muckle 
 encouragement for sic releegious ordinances this airt but I 
 whiles speir at the Lord no to mak' siller a wecht for ye to 
 cairry. Weel, are you awa?" 
 
 " Yes. good-bye. When you come down to Bourhill after I 
 come back, we 11 have long talks. J shall be so glad to have 
 you there.'' 
 
 " Aweel. wha wad hae thocht it ? Ye '11 no rue 'd, my doo, 
 if I 'm spared : that 's a' the thanks I can gie. An' wull ye 
 no gang up by?" 
 
 There was distinct anxiety in her repetition of the question. 
 But Gladys, with averted head, hastened toward the door. 
 
 " Xot to-day good-bye." she said, quickly, and, with a 
 warm hand-shake, which anew convinced the honest woman 
 that the girl remained unchanged, she went her way. 
 
 But instead of going back through the lane to Argyle 
 Street, she continued up the familiar dull sti-eet 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 aloud 
 chirp, and, joining a neighbor on the old stunted tree, made 
 so much noise that it was just possible he was delivering his 
 opinion of the whole matter.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ACROSS THE CHANNEL. 
 
 OR the first time in her life Gladys tasted the 
 novelty of foreign travel. It was quite a lady's 
 party, consisting of Mrs. Fordyee and her 
 daughters ; though Mr. Fordyee had promised to 
 join them somewhere abroad, especially if they 
 remained too long away. Also, there were vague promises 
 on the part of the Pollockshields cousins to meet them in 
 Paris, after the main object of their visit to Belgium was 
 accomplished. 
 
 They staid a week in London ; not the London Gladys 
 remembered as in a shadowy dream. The luxurious life of 
 a first-rate hotel had nothing in it to remind her of the poor, 
 shabby lodging on the Surry 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 ap- 
 peared to have sat but lightly during all these hard years. 
 She was visibly affected at meeting with her old school-friend. 
 164
 
 ACROSS THE CHANNEL. 105 
 
 " Why, Henrietta, you are not one bit clanged ; you 
 actually look younger than ever," exclaimed Mrs. Fordyce, 
 when the first agitation of the meeting wa over. " Posi- 
 tively, you look as young as you did in Brussels eight- 
 and-twenty years ago. Just look at me. Yes, these are 
 my daughters, and this is Gladys Graham, whom I am so 
 anxious to see under your care." 
 
 The bright, sharp eyes of Madame Bonnemain took in 
 the three girls at one comprehensive glance ; then she shook 
 her head with a half-arch, half-regretful smile. 
 
 "A year ago such a prospect would have seemed to lift me 
 to paradise. Times have been hard with me, Isabel never 
 harder than last year; but it is always the darkest hoar be- 
 fore the dawn, as we used to say in Brussels when the days 
 seemed interminably awful just before vacation. Two car- 
 riages we must have for so many women. Ah ! I am so glad 
 my house is quite, quite empty." 
 
 Beckoning to the drivers of two rather rickety old car- 
 riages, somewhat resembling in form the old English chaise, 
 she put all the girls in one, and seated herself beside Mrs. 
 Fordyce in the other. 
 
 "Now we can talk. The children will be happier with- 
 out us. How good, how very good, it is to see you again, 
 Isabel, and how my heart warms to you even yet!" 
 
 " It was your own fault, Henrietta, that we did not meet 
 oftener. You have always refused my invitations some- 
 times without much ceremony," said Mrs. Fordyce, rather 
 reproachfully. 
 
 "Pride, my dear Scotch pride; that is what kept me 
 vegetating in this awful place when my heart was in the 
 Highlands. Tell me about Gairloch and Helensburgh, and 
 dear old Glasgow. I have never forgotten it, though I was 
 too proud to parade my poverty in its streets." 
 
 "I will tell you nothing, Henrietta, till I hear what all 
 this means. Have you really been worse off lately?" 
 
 " My dear, for twelve months I have not had a creature in
 
 166 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 my house," said Madame Bonnemain, and her face grew 
 graver and older in its outline. " Positively not a creature. 
 Bruges has gone down as a place for English residents, and 
 I do n'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 nar- 
 rowness 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 1 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 gray 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 staid so long, then, Henrietta, among 
 such undesirable surroundings?" 
 
 " Because it is cheap. Thei-e is no other reason in this 
 world would keep anybody in Bruges," replied Madame, 
 promptly. 
 
 " But you have not yet told me why you can not take 
 the position offered you." 
 
 Then maclame turned her bright eyes, overrunning with 
 laughter, to her friend, and there was a blush, faint and rosy 
 as a girl's, on her cheek. 
 
 lf Because, my dear, I have accepted another situation a 
 permanent one. I am going to marry again."
 
 ACROSS THE CHANNEL. 167 
 
 " 0, Henrietta, impossible !" 
 
 " Quite true, my clear." 
 
 "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, gray, 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 Eonnemain had so long struggled for existence. 
 All were charmed with it and with her. She made them feel 
 at home at once. Often Gladys looked at her, and felt her 
 heart drawn towards her. Yes, with that bright, sympa- 
 thetic little woman she could be happy at Bourhill. But 
 somewhat late that night Mrs. Fordyce came into her room 
 and sat down by her bed. 
 
 "My dear, are you asleep? We have come on a fruitless 
 errand ; Madame Bonnemain can not come to you. She is 
 going to be married 'almost immediately,' so what are we to 
 do now?" 
 
 " It is a great disappointment," said Gladys. " I like her 
 so much. Yes, what are we to do now?" 
 
 "You must just come to us for another winter, Gladys; 
 there is nothing else for it." 
 
 Gladys lay still a moment, revolving something in her 
 mind. 
 
 " Would it be proper for me to have an unmarried 
 lady to live with me, Mrs. Fordyce?" she asked, suddenly. 
 
 " Quite, if she were old enough."
 
 168 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 "How old?" 
 
 "Middle-aged, at least." 
 
 " Then I know somebody who Avill do ; it is a beauti- 
 ful arrangement," cried Gladys, joyfully. " In the little Fen 
 village where we lived, my father and I, there is a lady, Miss 
 Peck we lived in her house. She was very kind to us, and 
 yet so poor; yes, I think she would come." 
 
 " Is she a lady, Gladys ?" 
 
 " If to be a lady, is to have a heart of gold, which never 
 thinks one unselfish thought, she is one, Mrs. Fordyce," said 
 Gladys, warmly. 
 
 " These are the attributes of a lady, of course, Gladys ; but 
 there are other things, my dear, which must be considered. 
 If this Miss Peck is to sit at your table, help you to guide your 
 household, and be your constant companion, she must be a 
 very superior person." 
 
 " She was well brought up. I think her father was a sur- 
 geon in Boston," said Gladys; and these words at once .re- 
 lieved the lawyer's wife. 
 
 " If that is so, she may be* the very person for whom we 
 are seeking. You are sure she is still there?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Gladys, reluctantly. " I wrote to her in the 
 summer. Mr. Fordyce allowed me to send her some money, 
 but not in charity; it was the payment of a just debt; and 
 when she replied, I knew by her letter that she was still very 
 poor. I have always meant to have her come to me at Bour- 
 hill, but it will be delightful if she can come altogether." 
 
 "You have a good heart, Gladys; you will not forget 
 those who have befriended you." 
 
 " I hope not, I pray not ; only sometimes, I am afraid, it 
 is harder for some reasons to be rich than poor." These 
 words slightly surprised Mrs. Fordyce, though she did not 
 ask an explanation of them. 
 
 " Try to sleep, my child, and do n't worry your dear 
 brain with plans," she said, and, with a motherly kiss, re- 
 turned to the little salon to enjoy the rare luxury of recalling
 
 ACROSS THE CHANNEL. 1G9 
 
 old memories she had shared with the friend of her youth. 
 They sat far on into the night, and before they parted Mrs. 
 Fordyce was in full possession of the whole story of these 
 weary and sordid years through which Henrietta Bonne- 
 main had uncomplainingly borne her burden of poverty and 
 care. 
 
 "Then the colonel turned up," she concluded, with^ a 
 curious little tender smile. " Just when my affairs were at the 
 lowest ebb, he came here to visit an old regimental friend 
 who lives over the way. So we met, and, both being unat- 
 tached, we drew to each other, and next month we are to be 
 married." 
 
 "Tell me about him, Henrietta; tell me all about him. I 
 declare I am as silly and curious as a school-girl far more 
 curious about this new lover of yours than I ever was about 
 the old." 
 
 " There is no comparison between the two, Isabel none 
 at all. Captain Bonnomain was a good man, and he loved 
 me dearly; but it is nearly always a mistake to marry a 
 foreigner. It seems a cruel thing to say, but I never felt to 
 poor Louis as I felt to the noble English gentleman who has 
 done me so great an honor." 
 
 Her e}^es were full of tears. Mrs. Fordyce saw that she 
 was deeply moved. 
 
 " I do not know what he sees in me. He is so handsome, 
 so noble, and so rich. He might marry whom he willed. He 
 has no relatives to be angry over it; and he says, if it pleases 
 me, we can buy a place in Scotland, on the very shores of 
 the Gairloch. Think of that, Isabel ; think of your exiled 
 Henrietta returning to that. God is too good, and I too 
 happy." 
 
 She bent her head and wept; and these tears betrayed 
 what her exile had been to the Scotch woman s heart. 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce was scarcely less moved. It was a pathetic 
 and beautiful romance. 
 
 The Scotch travelers spent a happy week in the old Flem-
 
 170 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 ish town ; and Gladys, who had the artist's quick eye for 
 beauty of color and pieturesqueness of detail, carried away 
 with her many little " bits " to be finished and perfected at 
 
 home. 
 
 Madame Bonnemain journeyed with them to Brussels; 
 
 but declined their invitation to accompany them to Paris. 
 They would all meet, she said, after a certain happy event 
 was over, in the dear land over the sea. 
 
 George Fordyce alone joined them in Paris, and, some- 
 what to his aunt's distress, constituted himself at once as 
 cavalier to Gladys. Often, very often, the good lady was on 
 the point of speaking plainly to him, but, remembering her 
 husband's warning, decided to let matters take their course. 
 She watched Gladys narrowly, however, but could discover 
 nothing in her demeanor but a frank kindliness, almost such 
 as she might have displayed towards a brother. George 
 Fordyce, who had really learned to care for the girl, felt that 
 the close companionship of these da} 7 s in Paris had not ad- 
 vanced his cause. He did not know that her mind was so 
 engrossed by great plans and high ideals for the life of the 
 coming winter that she had no time to bestow on nearer in- 
 terests. He was a prudent youth, and decided to bide his 
 time. 
 
 After a month's pleasant loitering abroad they returned 
 to London. George took his cousins home, and Mrs. For- 
 dyce went with Gladys into Lincolnshire. 
 
 And they found the Fen village as of yore, in no wise 
 changed, except that a few new graves had been added to 
 the little church-yard. The little spinster still abode in her 
 dainty -cottage, not much changed, except to look a trifle 
 more aged and careworn. The fastidious eye of the lawyer's 
 accomplished wife could detect no flaw in the demeanor of 
 Miss Peck, and she added her entreaties to those of Gladys. 
 In truth, the poor, little careworn woman was not hard to 
 persuade. She had no ties save those of memory to bind
 
 ACROSS THE CHANNEL. 
 
 171 
 
 her to the Fen country, so she gave her promise freely, ac- 
 cepting her new home as a gift from God. 
 
 " I shall come one more time here only,'' Gladj-s said. 
 'To take papa away. Mr. Fordyce promised to arrange it 
 for me. He must sleep with his own people ; and when he 
 is in the old churchyard I shall feel at home in Bourhill." 
 
 All these things were done befoi'e the year was out ; and 
 Christmas saw Gladys Graham settled in her new home, 
 ready and eager to take up the charge she believed God had 
 intrusted to her the stewardship of wealth, to be used for 
 his glory.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 this time nothing had been heard of Liz. 
 She was no longer known in her old haunts ; 
 was almost forgotten, indeed, save by one or 
 two. Among those w 7 ho remained faithful to 
 her memory was the melancholy Teen, and she 
 thought of her hour by hour, as she sat at her monotonous 
 work ; thought of her with a great wonder in her soul. 
 Sometimes a little bitterness intermingled, and she felt her- 
 self aggrieved at having been so shabbily treated by her old 
 chum. She had in her quiet way instituted a very thorough 
 inquiry into all the circumstances of her flight, and had kept 
 a watchful eye on every channel from which the faintest 
 light was likely to shine upon the mystery; but at the 
 end of six months it was still unsolved. Liz was as irrev- 
 ocably lost, apparently, as if the earth had opened and 
 swallowed her. 
 
 Teen had come to the conclusion that Liz had veritably 
 emigrated to London, and was there assiduously, and proba- 
 bly successfully, wooing fame and fortune. Sometimes the 
 weary burden of her toil was beguiled by dreams of a bright 
 day on which Liz, grown a great lady, but still true to the 
 172
 
 HELPING HAND. 173 
 
 old friendship, should come, perhaps in a coach and pair, up 
 the squalid sti'eet, and remove the little seamstress to be a 
 sharer in her glory. In one particular Teen was entirely and 
 persistently loyal to her friend. She believed that she had 
 kept herself pure ; and when doubts had been thrown on that 
 theory by others who believed in her less, she had closed their 
 tattling mouths with language such as they were not accus- 
 tomed to hear from her usually reticent lips. These gossip- 
 mongers, who flourish in the quarters of the poor and rich 
 alike, speedily learned that it was just as well not to mention 
 the name of Liz Hepburn to Teen Balfour. One day a vis- 
 itor in the shape of a handsomely-dressed young lady did 
 come to the little seamstress's door. Teen gave a great start 
 when she saw the tall figure, and her face flushed all over. 
 In the semi-twilight which always prevails on the staircases 
 of these great, grim " lands" of houses, she had imagined her 
 dream to come true. 
 
 " 0, it's you, miss," she said, recognizing Gladys Graham 
 at last. " I thought it was somebody else. Ye can come in 
 if ye like." 
 
 The bidding was ungracious the manner of it as repel- 
 lent as of yore. But Gladys, not easily repulsed, followed 
 the little seamstress acroSs the threshold and closed the door. 
 The heavy, close smell of the place made a slight faintness 
 come over her, and she was glad to sink into the nearest 
 chair. 
 
 "Do you never open your window? It is very close 
 in here." 
 
 " Xo, I never open it. It takes me a' my time to keep 
 warm as it is. There 's a perfect gale blaws in, ony boo. at 
 the chinks. Jist pit your hand at the window, an' ye '11 
 see." 
 
 Gladys glanced pitifully round the place, and then fixed 
 her lovely, compassionate eyes on the figure of the little 
 seamstress as she took up her position again on the stool by 
 the fire and lifted her work.
 
 174 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " You. look just as if you had been sitting there con- 
 tinuously since I saw you last," Gladys said, involuntarily. 
 
 "So I have, maistly," replied Teen, dully; "an 1 will sit 
 or they cairry me oot." 
 
 " O, I hope not. Indeed you will not. Have you had a 
 hard summer?" 
 
 "JVIiddlin'. It's been waur. Five weeks in July I had 
 nae wark ; but I 've been langer than that, in winter too. 
 In summer it 's no sae bad. When you 're cauld, you feel the 
 want o' meat waur." 
 
 "Have you really sometimes not had food?" asked 
 Gladys, in a shocked voice. 
 
 " "Whiles. Do you ken onything abootLiz?" she asked, 
 suddenty, breaking off and lifting her large, sunken eyes to 
 the sweet face opposite to her. 
 
 "No; that is one of the things I came about to-day. 
 Have you not heard anything of her?" 
 
 "No a cheep. Naebody kens. I gaed up to Colquhoun 
 Street one day to ask Walter, but he didna gie me muckle 
 cuttin'. I say, he's gettin' on thonder." She flashed a 
 peculiar, sly glance at Gladys, and under it the latter's sensi- 
 tive color rose. 
 
 " I always knew he would," she replied, quietly. "And 
 he has not heard anything, either? Do you ever see her 
 father and mother ?" 
 
 " No ; but it 's the same auld sang. They 're no carin' a 
 button whaur Liz is," said Teen, calmly. 
 
 " Have you no idea?" asked Gladys. 
 
 "Not the least. I may think what I like; but I dinna 
 ken a thing," replied the girl, candidly. 
 
 " What do } T ou think, then ? You knew her so intimately. 
 If you would help me, we might do something together," 
 said Gladys, eagerly. 
 
 Teen was prevented answering for a moment by a fit of 
 coughing, a dry, hacking cough, which racked her weary
 
 HELPING HAND. 175 
 
 frame, and brought a dark, Blow color into her cadaver- 
 ous cheek. 
 
 " Well, I think she's in London," she replied, at length. 
 " But it 's only a guess. She '11 turn up some day, nae doot ; 
 we maun just wait till she does." 
 
 " I am very sorry for you. Will you let me help you? I 
 am living in my own home now in Ayrshire. It is lovely 
 there just now ; almost as mild as summer. Won't you come 
 down and pay me a little visit ? It would do you a great 
 deal of good." 
 
 Teen laid down her heavy seam, and stared at Gladys 
 in genuine amazement; then gave a short, strange laugh. 
 
 " Ye 're takin' a len' o' me, surely," she said. " AVhat wad 
 ye dae if I took ye at your word ?" 
 
 " I mean what I sa}'. I want to speak to you, anyhow, 
 about a great many things. How soon could } T OU come? 
 Have you any more work than this to do?" 
 
 " No; I tak' this hame the nicht," replied Teen. " I can 
 come when I like." 
 
 " If I stay in town all night, would you go down with me 
 to-morrow?" 
 
 II Maybe ; but, I say, what do ye mean ?" 
 
 She leaned her elbows on her knees, and, with her thin 
 face between her hands, peered scrutinizingiy into her vis- 
 itor's face. There was a great contrast between them, the 
 rich girl and the poor; each the representative of a class so 
 widely separated that the gulf seems impassable always. 
 
 II 1 do n't mean anything except that I want to help 
 Avorking girls. I so wished for Liz, she was so clever and 
 shrewd. She could have told me just what to do. You 
 can help me if you like. You must take her place, and at 
 Bourhill you will have a rest nothing to do but eat and 
 sleep and walk in the country. You will lose that dreadful 
 paleness which has always haunted me whenever I thought 
 of you."
 
 176 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 A curious tremor was visible on the face of the little 
 seamstress; a movement of every muscle, and her nerveless 
 fingers could not grasp the needle. 
 
 " A' richt," she replied, rather huskily. " I' 11 come. 
 What time the morn ?" 
 
 "What time can you be ready? It is quite the same to 
 me when I go. I have nothing to do." 
 
 " Well, I can be ready ony time efter twelve ; but I say, 
 what if, when I come back, they' ve gien my wark to some- 
 body else. That 's certain ; ye should see the crood waitin' 
 for it fechtin' for it almost like wild-cats." 
 
 Gladys shivered, and heavy tears gathered in her eyes as 
 she rose from the chair. 
 
 " Never mind that. It will be my concern that is, if you 
 are" willing to trust me." 
 
 Teen rose also, and for a moment their eyes met in a 
 steady look. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I trust you, though I diuna, for the life 
 o' me, ken what you mean." 
 
 There was no demonstration of gratitude on the part of 
 the little seamstress ; Gladys even felt a trifle chilled and dis- 
 heartened thinking of her after she had left the house. But 
 the gratitude was there. That still, cold, self-constrained 
 heart, being awakened to life, never slept again. Both lived 
 to bless that bleak November day when the first compact had 
 been made between them. 
 
 From the city Gladys went by car to Kelvinside, and 
 walked up to Bellairs Crescent. Habit is very strong ; not 
 yet could the girl, so long used to the strictest and most 
 meager economies, bear to indulge herself in small luxuries. 
 The need of the world was always with her. She thought 
 always of the many to whom such small sums meant riches. 
 She was not expected at Bellairs Crescent, and she found her 
 friends entertaining at afternoon tea. Some one was singing 
 when she reached the drawing-room door, and when the song 
 was over, she slipped in surprised, and a little taken aback to
 
 HELPING BAND. 177 
 
 see so many people in the room. Anumberof them were known 
 to her; there had been many pleasant gatherings at Troon 
 in the summer, and as was natural, Miss Graham, of Bour- 
 hill, with her interesting personality and her romantic his- 
 tory, had received a great deal of attention from the 
 Fordyces' large circle of friends. 
 
 The warmth of the greeting accorded to her made the 
 lovely color flush high in her cheek, and her eyes sparkle 
 with added brilliance. 
 
 " Yes, 1 came up only at noon. I have been in the city 
 since then," she replied, in answer to many questions. " O, 
 how do you do, Mr. Fordyce? I did not expect to see 
 you." 
 
 "Nor I you," said George Fordyce, impressively. "I 
 was dragged here by Julia against my will, and this is the 
 reward of fraternal virtue." 
 
 It was a daring speech, and the manner conveyed still more 
 than the words. The color broke again over her face in a 
 wavering flood, and her eyes down-dropped under his ardent 
 gaze. These things were noted by several present, and con- 
 clusions rapidly drawn. 
 
 " You must not talk nonsense to me," she said, recovering 
 herself and speaking with her quaint, delightful dignity. 
 " Eemember your promise at Paris." 
 
 " What promise? Did I make one?" 
 
 "You know you did," she said, reproachfully. "We 
 agreed to be friendly, and between friends there should never 
 be any foolish compliments." 
 
 " Well, I can't keep faith ; it 's impossible to see you and 
 remember any such promise; besides, it's sober truth," he 
 replied, growing bolder still. " Let me get you some tea. 
 Isn't it rather lively here? Doesn't it make you regret 
 having buried yourself in the backwoods at the very begin- 
 ning of the season?" 
 
 "No; I don't care anything about the season," replied 
 Gladys, truthfully. " Yes, you may bring mo some tea, if 
 
 12
 
 178 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 you do n't stay talking after you have brought it. How 
 beautiful Clara is looking to-day !" 
 
 " Clara yes ; she 's a handsome girl," said George, regard- 
 ing his cousin with but a languid approval. She looked very 
 handsome and stately in her trained gown of brown velvet, 
 with a touch of yellow at the throat; but her expression was 
 less bright than usual. The two who spoke of her at the 
 moment did not guess that they were responsible for the sud- 
 den change from gay to grave in her demeanor. 
 
 " 0, Gladys, we were coming down on Saturday, Len and 
 I," whispered Mina at her elbow. " But now you will stay, 
 and that will do as well. How are you supporting life down 
 there just now? and how is that sweet little oddity, Miss 
 Caroline Peck ?" 
 
 "If you call her an oddity, Mina, I can not talk to you," 
 said Gladys, with a laugh and a shake of the head. " I am 
 going home to-morrow. Could Leonard and you not go down 
 with me?" 
 
 " Going home to-morrow ! Not if we know it. The people 
 are just going away, and we shall have a delightful, cozy 
 chat. Here's that tiresome George; but isn't he looking 
 handsome? Eeally one is proud to have such a cousin." 
 
 It was now half-past five, and the company began to dis- 
 perse. In about ten minutes there were no guests left but 
 Gladys and the two cousins from Pollockshields. 
 
 "Now I can talk to you, my dear child," said Mrs. For- 
 dyce. " Why did n't you let us know you were coming to 
 town, and one of the girls, at least, would have come to 
 meet you ?" 
 
 " I had something to do in the city, dear Mrs. Fordyce," 
 replied Gladys. "There is something troubling me a good 
 deal just now." 
 
 " What is it? Nothing must be allowed to trouble Miss 
 Graham, of Bourhill. Her star should always be in the 
 ascendant," said Mina, banteringly. 
 
 " It is a mystery a lost girl," said Gladys, rather gravely.
 
 HELPING HAND. 
 
 179 
 
 " Some one 1 knew in the old life, who has disappeared, and 
 nobody knows where she has gone.'' 
 
 "How exciting! Has she not gone ' ower the border an' 
 awa'. wi' Jock o' Hazeldene?' " asked Mina. "Do tell us 
 about her. What is her name? " 
 
 " Lizzie Hepburn. She is the sister of Walter, who was 
 with my uncle.'' said Gladys, gravely. " It is the strangest 
 thing." 
 
 " George, my dear, look what you are doing. O, my 
 beautiful gown !" 
 
 It was Mrs. Ford^yce who thus turned the conversation. 
 Her nephew, handing the cup of tea she had never found 
 time to drink while her guests were present, had deliberately 
 spilled it on the front of her tea-gown. 
 
 The incident was laughed over in the end; and the only 
 person present who thought of associating his awkwardness 
 with the name Gladys had mentioned was Mina, the shrewd- 
 est of them all. But though she had many a strange and 
 
 ~ / O 
 
 anxious thought on the subject, she held her peace.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 REAL AND IDEAL. 
 
 5V.EK had the little seamstress been out of Glas- 
 gow. Even the Fair holidays, signal for an 
 almost universal exodus " doon the water.'' 
 brought no emancipation for her. It may be 
 imagined that such a sudden and unexpected 
 invitation to the country filled her with the liveliest antici- 
 pation. By eight o'clock that night she had finished her 
 pile of work, and immediately made haste with.it to the 
 warehouse which employed her. When she had received 
 her meager payment and had another bundle rather con- 
 temptuously pushed towards her by the hard-visaged fore- 
 woman, she experienced quite a little thrill of pride in refus- 
 ing it. 
 
 "No, thank you, Mrs. Galbraith, I dinna need ony mair 
 the day," she said, and her face flushed under the fore- 
 woman's strong, steady stare. 
 "O, what's up?" 
 
 " I 'm gaun .into the country to visit a lady," said Teen, 
 proudly. 
 
 "O, all right, there 's a hundred waiting on the job; but, 
 
 180
 
 R'EAL AND IDEAL. 181 
 
 do n't expect to be taken on the moment you like to show 
 your face. We can afford to be as independent as you." 
 
 " I do n't expect to need it," said Teen, promptly, though 
 in truth her heart sank a little as she heard these words of doom. 
 
 If Gladys failed her, she knew of no other place in that 
 great and evil city where she could earn her bread. She 
 even felt a trifle despondent as she retraced her steps to her 
 garret ; but trying to throw it off, she set herself imme- 
 diately on entering the house to inspect her wardrobe. This 
 was a most interesting occupation, and after much delibera- 
 tion she took her best black skirt to pieces, and proceeded to 
 hang it as nearly as possible in the latest fashion. Then she 
 had her hat to re-trim, and a piece of clean lace to sew on 
 her neck-band. At four o'clock her last candle expired in 
 its socket, and she had to go to bed. At the gray dawn she 
 was astir again, and long before the brougham had left Bel- 
 lairs Crescent with Gladys, Teen was waiting, tin-box in 
 hand, on the platform of the Central Station. 
 
 Mrs. Fordyee accompanied Gladys to the station, and 
 when Teen saw them she felt a wild desire to run away. 
 Gladys Graham, sitting on a chair in the little attic, talking 
 familiarly of the Hepburns, and Gladys Graham outside, 
 were two very different beings. Gladys glanced sharply 
 round, and, espying her, smiled reassuringly, and advanced 
 with frank, outstretched hand. 
 
 "Ah, there you are. I am glad to see you. Mrs. Fordyce, 
 this is Teen. Christina Balfour. I must begin to call yon 
 Christina. 1 think it is much prettier. Is n't this a pleasant 
 day? The country will be looking lovely." 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce smiled and bowed graciously to the seam- 
 stress, but did not offer her hand. Her manner was kind, 
 but distant; her very smile measured the gulf between 
 them. Teen felt it just as plainly as if she had spoken it in 
 words, and felt also intuitively that her presence there was 
 not quite approved of by the lawyer's wife. That, indeed, 
 was true. There had been a long and rather warm discus-
 
 182 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 sion over the little seamstress that morning in Bellairs Cres- 
 cent; and Mrs. Fordyce had discovered that, with all her 
 gentleness and simplicity, Gladys was not a person to aban- 
 don a project on which she had set her heart. 
 
 " My dear Gladys," she took the opportunity of whisper- 
 ing when Teen was out of hearing, " I am more than ever 
 perplexed. She is not even interesting nothing could be 
 more hopelessly vulgar and commonplace." 
 
 Gladys never spoke. 
 
 "Do tell me what you mean to do with her?" she pur- 
 sued, with distinct anxiety in her manner. 
 
 " Do n't let us speak about it, Mrs. Fordyce," said Gladys, 
 rather coldly. " It is impossible you can understand. I 
 have been like her. I know what her life is. You must let 
 me alone." 
 
 -"I am afraid you are going to be eccentric, my dear,'' 
 said Mrs. Fordyce. " I can not help regretting that Madame 
 Bonnemain was prevented coming to Bourhill. She would 
 have set her foot down on this." 
 
 " Then she would have been mistress of Bourhill," an- 
 swered Gladys, with a faint smile, "and we should certainly 
 have disagreed." 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce looked at her curiously. 
 
 " There is a great deal of character about you, Gladys ; 
 I am afraid you are rather an imposition. To look at you, 
 one would think you as gentle as a lamb." 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Fordyce, do n't make me out such a terrible 
 person," said Gladys, quickly. " Is it so odd that I should 
 wish to brighten life a little for those whom I know have 
 had so very little brightness?" 
 
 "No; it is not your aim, only your method, I object to, 
 my dear. It will never do to fill Bourhill with such people. 
 But I will say no more. Experience will teach you expe- 
 diency and discretion." 
 
 " We shall see," replied Gladys, with a laugh ; and for the
 
 REAL AND IDEAL. 
 
 fii'st time she experienced a sense of relief at parting with 
 her kind friend. 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce was a kind-hearted woman, and did a great 
 many good deeds, though on strictly conventional lines. 
 She was the clever organizer of Church charities, the capable 
 head of the Ladies' Provident and Dorcas Society, to which 
 she grudged neither time nor money; but she did not be- 
 lieve in personal contact with the very poor, nor in the 
 power or efficacy of individual sympathy and effort. She 
 thought a great deal about Gladys that day, pondering and 
 puzzling over her action a trifle nettled, if it must be told, 
 at the calm, quiet manner in which her disapproval had been 
 ignored. Gladys was, indeed, proving herself a very capa- 
 ble and independent mistress of Bourhill. 
 
 Meanwhile the two girls whom fortune had so differently 
 favored, journeyed together into Ayrshire. A strange shy- 
 ness seemed to have taken possession of Teen ; she sat bolt 
 upright in the corner of the carriage, clutching her tin box, 
 and looking half- scared, half-defiant. Even the red feather 
 in her hat seemed to wear an aggressive air. In her soul she 
 fervently rued the step she had taken, and thought with 
 longing of her own little room, and with affectionate regret 
 of the bundle she had so proudly returned to Mrs. Galbraith. 
 
 " What are you thinking of, Teen ? You don't look at 
 all happy," said Gladys, growing a trifle embarrassed by the 
 continued silence. 
 
 "I'm no; I wish I hadna come," was the flat reply, 
 which made the sensitive color rise in the fair cheek of 
 Gladys. 
 
 " O no, you do n't. You are only shy. Wait till you 
 have seen Bourhill. You will think it the loveliest place in 
 the world," she said, cheerfully. 
 
 " Maybe," answered Teen, doubtfully. " I feel gey queer 
 the noo ony hoo." 
 
 This was not encouraging. Gladys became silent also,
 
 184 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 and both felt relieved when the train stopped at Mauchline 
 Station. 
 
 The girl, whose only idea of the country was her ac- 
 quaintance with the straight, conventional arrangement of 
 city parks and gardens, looked about her with genuine 
 wonder. 
 
 " My !" she said, as they crossed over the little foot-bridge 
 at the station, " sic a room folk have here. Are there nae 
 hooses ava?'' 
 
 " O, lots," replied Gladys, quite gayly, relieved to see even 
 a faint interest exhibited by her guest. "We shall drive 
 through Mauchline presently; it is such a pretty, quaint 
 little town." 
 
 A very dainty little phaeton, in charge of an exceedingly 
 smart young groom, waited at the station-gate for Miss 
 Graham. Teen regarded it and her with open-mouthed 
 amazement. Again it seemed impossible that this gracious, 
 self-possessed lady, giving her orders so calmly, and accord- 
 ing so well in every respect with her changed fortunes, 
 could be the same girl who accompanied Liz and herself to 
 the Ariel Music Hall not much more than a year ago. 
 
 " My !" she said again, when Gladys took the reins and 
 the pony started off; " it's grand, but queer." 
 
 c; It is all very nice, I think," said Gladys, whimsically. 
 " Did I tell you that Mrs. Macintyre, who used to live in the 
 Wynd, is at the lodge at Bourhill ? But perhaps you did not 
 know Mrs. Macintyre?" 
 
 " I have heard o' her frae Liz," Teen replied. " But I 
 didna ken that she was here." 
 
 " She only came a month ago. She is a great treasure to 
 me. I wonder if you have thought why I wished you to 
 come here." 
 
 " I Ve wondered. Ye can tell me if ye like," said Teen. 
 
 "Well, you see I have always been sorry about you, 
 somehow, ever since that day I saw you in the Hpburns' 
 house. I really never forgot your pale face. I want you
 
 PEAL AND IDEAL. 185 
 
 here for your own sake, first, to try and make you look 
 brighter and healthier, and I want your advice and help 
 about something I am more interested in than anything." 
 
 "My advice an' help!" repeated Teen, almost blankly, 
 yet secretly flattered and pleased. The idea that her advice 
 and help should be desired by any was something so entirely 
 new that she may be excused being almost overcome by it. 
 
 "Yes," answered Gladys, with a nod. "It's about the 
 girls the girls you and I know about in Glasgow, who have 
 such a poor time, and are surrounded with so much tempta- 
 tion. Do you remember that night, long ago, when Lizzie 
 Hepburn and you took me to the Ariel Music Hall?" 
 
 "Yes, I mind it fine. I was thinkin' o't no a meenit 
 syne." 
 
 " Well, do n't you think that the girls we saw there might 
 have some place a little pleasanter and safer for them to be 
 in than a music hall?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Teen, with unwonted seriousness. " It 's 
 no a guid place. I 've kent twa three that gaed to the bad, 
 an' they met their bad company there. But what can lassies 
 dae? Tak' Liz, for instance, or me! Had we onythiug to 
 keep us at haine? The streets, or the music hall, or the 
 dauciu', ony o' them was better than sittin' in the hoose." 
 
 " 0, 1 know. Have I not thought of it all?" cried Gladys 
 with a great mournfulness. "But do n't you think if they 
 had some pleasant place of their own where they could meet 
 together of an evening, and read or work or amuse them- 
 selves, they would be happier?" 
 
 " There are some places I ken some lassies that belang to 
 Christian Associations. Liz an' me gaed twice or thrice 
 wi' some o' the members, but " 
 
 "But what?" asked Gladys, bending forward with keen 
 interest. 
 
 " We didna like it. There was ower muckle preachin', 
 and some o' the ladies looked at us as if we were dirt," re- 
 sponded Teen, candidly. "Ye should a heard Liz when we
 
 186 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 cam' oot. It was as guid as a play to hear her imitatin' 
 them." 
 
 Gladys looked thoughtful and a trifle distressed. Curi- 
 ously, at the moment she could not help thinking of the 
 many societies and associations with which Mrs. Fordyce 
 was connected, and of her demeanor that day at the Central 
 Station ; an exact exemplification of Teen's plain-spoken 
 objection. 
 
 "Liz said she was as guid as them, an' she wadna be 
 patronized ; an' that 's what prevents plenty mair frae gaun. 
 A lot gang just to serve themselves, because they get a lot 
 frae the ladies. My, ye can get onything oot o' them if ye 
 ken hoo to work them." 
 
 This was a very gross view of the case which could not 
 but jar upon Gladys, though she was conscious that there 
 was a good deal of truth in it. Somehow, in the light of 
 Teen Balfour's unvarnished estimate of philanthropic en- 
 deavor, her dreams seemed to become all at once impossible 
 of fulfillment. 
 
 " I do not think they mean, the ladies, to patronize. Do 
 you not think the girls imagine, or at least exaggerate?" 
 
 "Maybe; but Susan Greenlees, a lassie I ken that works 
 in a print-mill, tel 't me one o' them reproved her for 
 haein' a long white ostrich feather in her hat; and Susan, 
 she just says, { Naebody askit you to pay for it,' an' left." 
 
 Gladys realpsed into silence; and Teen, all unconscious of 
 the cold water she had thrown so copiously on a bright en- 
 thusiasm, sat back leisurely, and looked about her inter- 
 estedly. 
 
 " Here we are," said Gladys, at length rousing herself up, 
 though with an evident effort ; " and there is Mrs. Macintyre 
 at the gate. You have never seen her, you say. Has n't she 
 a nice, kind face?" 
 
 Gladys drew rein when they had passed through the gate, 
 and introduced the two. Mrs. Macintyre, who looked like a 
 different being in her warm, gray tweed gown, neat cap, and
 
 REAL AXD IDEAL. 
 
 187 
 
 black apron, gave the pale city girl a hearty hand-shake, and 
 prophesied that Bourhill air would soon bring a rose into her 
 cheek. Gladys nodded, and said she hoped so; and then 
 drove on to the house. And when they went up the long 
 flight of steps and into the wide, warm, beautiful hall. Teen's 
 shyness returned to her, and if it had been possible she would 
 have turned and fled.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE UNEXPECTED. 
 
 T did not occur to Gladys to give her guest 
 quarters at the lodge beside Mrs. Macintyrc, 
 where, it might have been thought, she would 
 be more at home. Having invited her to Bour- 
 hill,she treated her in all respects like any other 
 guest. Teen, after the first fit of shyness wore off, accepted 
 it all as a matter of course, and conducted herself in a calm 
 and undisturbed manner, which secretly astonished Gladys. 
 All the while, however, her new surroundings and experiences 
 made a profound impression on the awakened mind of the 
 city girl. Nothing escaped the keen vision of her great, 
 dark eyes ; every detail of the beautiful old house was pho- 
 tographed on her memory. She could have told how man}' 
 chairs were in the drawing-room, and described every pic- 
 ture on the dining-room walls. Between her and little Miss 
 Peck, the brisk, happy-hearted spinster, who appeared to 
 have taken a new lease of life, there was speedily established 
 a very good understanding, which was also a source of 
 amazement to Gladys. She had anticipated exactly the 
 reverse. 
 
 " My dear, she is most interesting," said Miss Peck, when 
 188
 
 THE UNEXPECTED. 180 
 
 the first evening was over and Teen had gone to bed, not to 
 sleep, but to lie enjoying the luxury of a down-bed and 
 dainty linen, and pondering on this wonderful thing that 
 had happened to her. " Most interesting ! What depths in 
 her eyes what self-possession in her demeanor ! My dear, 
 you can make anything of that girl." 
 
 Miss Peck was given to romancing and enthusiasm ; but 
 the contrast between her opinion and that expressed by Mrs. 
 Fordyce made Gladys smile. She did not feel herself as yet 
 very particularly drawn towards her guest, whose reserve of 
 manner was sometimes as trying as her outspokenness on 
 other occasions. 
 
 " I am glad you like her, Miss Peck. I confess that some- 
 times I do not know what to make of her. But, you see, 
 she is the only one who can be of any use to me. She knows 
 all about working girls and their ways. If only I could find 
 poor Lizzie Hepburn. She always knew exactly what she 
 meant, and she was clever enough for anything," said Gladys, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 " But tell me, my dear, what is it you wish to do ? I 
 do n't know that I quite comprehend." 
 
 " Indeed, I am not quite clear about it yet myself ; though, 
 of course, I have an idea I want to help them, especially the 
 friendless ones. If it could be arranged, I should like to 
 establish a kind of friendly club for them in Glasgow, where 
 they could all meet, and where those who have no friends 
 could lodge ; then I should like to have a little holiday house 
 for them here, if possible." 
 
 "My dear, that is a great undertaking for one so 
 young." 
 
 "Do you think so? I must try it, and you must help 
 me, dear Miss Peck ; for Mrs. Fordyce won't. She does n't 
 approve at all of my having invited Christina Balfour down 
 here." 
 
 " My dear, the world never does approve of anything 
 done out of the conventional way," said Miss Peck, with a
 
 190 rjff^ GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 quiet touch of bitterness. " I think you have a very noble 
 aim, and the heart of an angel; only there will be mount- 
 ains of difficulty in the way." 
 
 " We must overcome them," answered Gladys, quickly. 
 
 "And you will meet with much discouragement, and a 
 great deal of ingratitude," pursued the little spinster, hating 
 herself for her discouraging words, but convinced that it was 
 her duty to prepare her dear charge for the worst. 
 
 "Not more than I can bear," Gladys answered; u and 
 I am quite sure that, with all these drawbacks, I shall also 
 receive many bright, encouraging things to help me on." 
 
 " Yes, ray dear, you will. God will reward you in his 
 own best way," said Miss Peck, with tears in her eyes. 
 
 Gladys sat late by the fire that night, pondering her new 
 scheme, and developing its details with great rapidity. She 
 found the greatest comfort and pleasure in such planning ; 
 for though she was the envied of many, there were times, 
 though unconfessed, when she was weighed down by her 
 own loneliness, when a sense of desolation, as keen as any 
 she had ever experienced in Colquhoun Street, made all the 
 lovelier things of life seem of no account. Next morning 
 Gladys drove her guest into Troon, and at sight of the great 
 sea, its breast kindled with wintry storms, tossing and 
 rolling in wildest unrest, Teen appeared for the first time 
 really moved. 
 
 "It's fearsome," she said, in an awe-stricken whisper. 
 " Fearsome 1 Michty me, look at the waves ! It 's fearsome 
 to look at." 
 
 "How odd that it should strike you so !" exclaimed Gladys. 
 "It always rests and soothes me. The wilder it is, the 
 deeper the quiet it infuses into my soul. See the tall shadow 
 3 T onder through the mists the mountains of Arran ; and 
 that is Ayr across Prestwick Bay, and these rocks jutting 
 out into the sea the Heads of Ayr. Do you see that house 
 with the flag-staff at the top of the Links? It is Mr. For- 
 dyce's house The Anchorage, where I lived all summer.
 
 THE UNEXPECTED. 191 
 
 It is splendid here to-day. Stand still, Firefly, you impa- 
 tient animal ; we are not ready to go yet." 
 
 " I wad be feared to live in that hoose," said Teen. 
 " The waves micht come up in the nicht an' wash it away. 
 Jist look at that yin the noo." 
 
 A great green wave, with its angry crest of foam, came 
 rolling in with apparently resistless force, and spent itself on 
 the pebbly shore with a sullen roar. 
 
 " Thus far shalt thou come, and no farther," said Gladys, 
 with a faint smile and a momentary uplifting of her eyes to 
 the gray, wintry sky. " He holdeth the sea in the hollow of 
 His hand." 
 
 "Some day when it is very fine I shall take you to Ayr," 
 said Gladys, as she turned the pony's head. " I have often 
 thought how I should like to bring Liz here. I can not tell 
 you how I feel about her; I think about her almost con- 
 tinually. 
 
 "So dae I, though. I think, mind, she's been very 
 shabby to me; but she was my chum," said Teen, with an 
 unusually soft look on her face. " She didna care a button 
 what she said to a body, but at the same time she wad dae 
 onything for ye." 
 
 " And you still think she is in London ?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Teen, without a moment's hesitation. 
 "Learnin' to be an actress, as sure as I sit here." 
 
 " Somehow, I do n't think it. I have an odd feeling at 
 times about her, as if she were not so far away from us as 
 we imagine." 
 
 " She 's no in Glesca, ony way. She couldna be in Glesca 
 withoot me kennin'," replied Teen, confidently. " There 's 
 some that think she gaed aff wi' a beau ; but they never said 
 it twice to me. I kent Liz better than that. She could 
 watch hersel'." 
 
 "Did you know him, the man you call her beau?" in- 
 quired Gladys, with a slight blush. 
 
 "Ay, I kent him," said Teen, looking away over the
 
 192 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 landscape as if she suddenly found it of new and absorbing 
 interest. 
 
 "And have you seen him since?" 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 " Did you speak to him, or ask him if he knew anything 
 about her?" 
 
 "No me; it's nane o' my business to meddle; but maybe 
 I wad ask him if I had a chance," said Teen, with a peculiar 
 pressure of the lips. 
 
 "Who is he, Teen? Do you know his name?" 
 
 "Ay, fine that; but it wad dae nae guid to say," replied 
 Teen, guardedly. " I dinna think he had onything to dae 
 wi' her gaun away onyway." 
 
 Gladys perceived that Teen was determined to be utterly 
 loyal to her friend, and admired her for it. That very after- 
 noon, however, Teen saw occasion to change her mind on 
 the subject. After lunch, while Gladys was busy with letter- 
 writing, Teen went out to pay a visit to Mrs. Macintyre at 
 the lodge. She was walking very leisurely down the ave- 
 nue, admiring the brilliant, glossy green of the laurels and 
 hollies when the tall figure of a man in a long ulster came 
 swinging round the curve which hid the gates from view. 
 Teen gave a great start, and the dusky color leaped in her 
 face when she recognized him. His cheek flushed, too, wjth 
 distinct annoyance, and surprise was also visible on his face. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" he asked, without the 
 shadow of other greeting. Teen looked up at him with a 
 kind of quiet insolence in her heavy dark eyes. 
 
 " That 's my business," she said, calmly; and picked to 
 pieces the leaf she had in her hand. 
 
 "Are you staying here?" he asked, then, with undis- 
 guised uneasiness, which secretly delighted Teen. If there 
 was a human being she mortally disliked and distrusted, it 
 was Mr. George Fordyce. 
 
 " Yes, I 'm stayin' at the big hooso," 
 
 " With Miss-Graham ?"
 
 THE UNEXPECTED, 193 
 
 Teen nodded ; and a faint, melancholy smile, half of 
 scorn, half of amusement, touched her thin lips. 
 
 " How did you manage that?" he inquired, angrily. "I 
 can 't understand it." 
 
 "Nor I; ye can ask her if ye like," responded Teen, 
 calmly; then quite suddenly she dropped her mask of indif- 
 ference, and laying her thin, worn fingers on his arm, lifted 
 her penetrating eyes swiftly to his uneasy face. 
 
 "I say, where 's Liz?" 
 
 "How should I know? How dare you question me?" 
 he asked, passionately. " I shall warn Miss Graham against 
 you, that you are not a proper person to have in her house. 
 You are not fit to breathe the same air with her." 
 
 " May be no ; but as fit as you," she answered, scorn- 
 fully. " I see through it a' ; but if ye have harmed Liz, my 
 gentleman, ye '11 no get off wi' it. Yo '11 answer for it 
 to me." 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce had called her vulgar and commonplace. 
 She did not look so now. Passion transformed her into a 
 noble creature. The man of the world, accustomed to its 
 homage and adulation, cowed before the little seamstress of 
 the slums. While she walked away from him, as if scorning 
 to bandy further words, he looked after her in consternation. 
 She had not only surprised, she had made a coward of him 
 for the moment. He seemed to see in the slight, insignifi- 
 cant form of the city girl the Nemesis who would sooner or 
 later bring his evil deeds home, and thwart what was at the 
 present moment the highest ambition of his life. 
 
 His step lagged as he continued his way towards the 
 house, within whose walls dwelt the woman whom love and 
 ambition prompted him to make his wife. It was not, how- 
 ever, the reluctance of a dishonored soul to seek communion 
 with one so absolutely pure, it was merely the hesitation of a 
 prudence wholly selfish. He rapidly reviewed the situation, 
 considered every possibility and every likely issue, and took 
 his resolve. He could not afford to wait. 'If Gladys was 
 
 13
 
 194 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 ever to be his, she must be won at once. If she cared suffi- 
 ciently for him to pledge herself to him, he believed that she 
 would stand by him and take his word, whatever slander 
 might assail his name. He had not anticipated this crisis 
 when, in a careless, idle mood, he had left the mill, and fol- 
 lowed the impulse which sent him to Bourhill. 
 
 By the time he reached the steps before the door every 
 trace of disturbance had vanished, and he was once more the 
 urbane, handsome, debonnair gentleman, who played such 
 havoc among women's hearts. 
 
 Miss Graham being at home, he was at once shown into 
 the drawing-room, and left there while the maid took his 
 name to her mistress. Meanwhile Teen, instead of going 
 into the lodge, passed through the gates and walked away 
 up the road. She was utterly alone, the only sign of life 
 being a flock of sheep in the distance, trotting on sedately 
 before a tall shepherd and a collie dog. Teen never saAv 
 them. She was fearfully excited, believing that she had at 
 last discovered the clue to her missing friend.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 KIRST WOOER. 
 
 LA.DYS was writing a long letter to her guardian, 
 .setting forth in eloquent terms what she wished 
 to do for the working girls of the East End. and 
 asking him for some sympathy and advice, when 
 the housemaid knocked at the door. 
 
 A gentleman for me. Ellen? Yes, I shall be there pres- 
 ently." she said, without looking at the card on the salver. 
 ' Is Miss Peck in the drawing-room?' 
 
 Xo, ma'am, she is taking her rest. Shall I tell her?'' 
 O no who is it ?" 
 
 She added another word to her letter, and then read the 
 name on the card. The maid, standing by. could not help 
 seeing the lovely access of color in the fair cheek of her 
 mistress, and, as was natural, drew her own conclusions. 
 
 (iladys^rose at once and proceeded up-stairs. She did 
 not. as almost every other woman in the circumstances would 
 have done, go to her own room to inspect her appearance or 
 make any change in her toilet. And, in truth, none was 
 needed. Her plain, black serge gown, with its little ruffle at 
 the neck, which would have made a dowdy of almost any- 
 body but herself, was at once a fitting and becoming robe. 
 
 195
 
 196 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 Her lovely hair, which in the early days had hung in strait, 
 heavy plaits over her back, was now wound about her head, 
 and kept in place by a band and knot of black velvet. She 
 moved with the calm mien and serious grace of a woman at 
 ease with herself and all the world. 
 
 A faint hesitation, however, visited her when she stood 
 without the closed door of the drawing-room. That curious 
 prevision, which mostof us experience at times, that something 
 unusual was in store, robbed her for a moment of her usual 
 self-possession. But, smiling and inwardly chiding herself 
 for her own folly, she opened the door, and entered the pres- 
 ence of her lover. She knew him to be such ; it was impos- 
 sible to mistake his demeanor and his attitude toward her. 
 There was the most love-like eagerness in his look and step 
 as he came toward her; and under his gaze the girl's sweet 
 eyes drooped, and her color deepened. 
 
 " This is quite a surprise," she said, gayly. " Why did 
 you not bring some of the girls with you?" 
 
 " I have n't seen them for ages, and Julia has a dance on* 
 to-night for which she is saving Herself. Besides, perhaps, I 
 wanted to come quite alone." 
 
 " Yes ?" she said, in a voice faintly interrogatory ; " and 
 you had to walk from the station, too. If you had only wired 
 in the morning, I could have come or sent for you." 
 
 " But you see I did not know in the morning I should be 
 here to-day. It is often the unexpected that happens. I 
 came off on the impulse of the moment. Are you glad to 
 see me?" 
 
 It was a very direct question ; but Gladys had now quite 
 recovered herself, and met it with a calm smile. 
 
 " Why, of course ; how could I be otherwise ? But, I say, 
 you said a moment ago you had not seen any of the girls for 
 ages ; it is only forty-eight hours since we met in your aunt's 
 drawing-room." 
 
 "So it is," he said, innocently. "I had quite forgotten, 
 which shows how time goes with me when you are out of
 
 THE FIRST WOOER. 197 
 
 town. Are you really going to bury yourself here all 
 winter?" 
 
 " I am going to live here, of course. It is my home, and I 
 do n't want any other. A day in Glasgow once a week is 
 quite enough for me." 
 
 " Hard lines for Glasgow," he said, tugging his mustache, 
 and looking at her with a good deal of real sentiment in his 
 handsome eyes. She was looking so sweet he felt himself 
 more in love than ever; and there was a certain "stand- 
 offishness" in her manner, which attracted him as much as 
 anything. He had not hitherto found such indifference a 
 quality among the young ladies of his acquaintance. 
 
 "I have just heen writing to your Uncle Tom, telling 
 him I want to spend a great deal of money," she began, 
 i-ather to divert the conversation than from any pi-essing de- 
 sire for his opinion. "And I do n't feel at all sure about 
 what he will say. Your aunt does not approve, I know." 
 
 "May I ask how you are going to spend it?" he inquired 
 'with interest. 
 
 "Oyes; I want to institute a club for working-girls in 
 Glasgow, and a holiday-house for them here." 
 
 " But there are any amount of such things in Glasgow 
 already, and I question if they do any good. I know my 
 mother and Ju are always down on them ; and there 's 
 truth in what they say, too, that we are making a god out of 
 the woi'king-class. It is quite sickening what is done for 
 them, and how ungrateful they are." 
 
 Gladys winced a little, and he perceived that he had 
 spoken rather strongly. 
 
 " I know there is a good deal done ; but I think some- 
 times the methods are not quite wise," she said, quietly. " I 
 am going to run my club, as the Americans say, ' on my own 
 lines.' You see I am rather different, for I have been a poor 
 working-girl myself, and I know both what they need and 
 what will do them most good." 
 
 " You seem rather proud of the distinction," he said, in-
 
 198 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 voluntarily. " Most women in your position would have 
 made a point of ignoring the past. That is what half of 
 Glasgow is trying to do all the time forget where they 
 sprung from. Why are you so different?" 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 Her lips curled in a fine scorn. "As if it mattered," she 
 said, half contemptuously. "As if it mattered what anybody 
 had sprung from ! I was reading Burns this morning, and I 
 felt as if I could worship him, if for nothing more than writ- 
 ing these lines : 
 
 ' The rank is but the guinea stamp, 
 A man 's a man for a' that.' " 
 
 " That 's all very good in theory," he said, a trifle lazily ; 
 " and, besides, it is very easy for you to speak like that with 
 centuries of lineage behind you. I suppose the Grahams are 
 as old as the Eglintons, or the Alexanders, or even the great 
 Portland family itself, if you come to inquire into it. Yes, 
 it is very easy for you to despise rank." 
 
 " I do n't despise it, and I am very proud in my own 
 way that I do belong to such an old family; but, all the 
 same, it does n't really matter. There is nothing of any real 
 value except honor and high character, and, of course, 
 genius." 
 
 " When you speak like that, Gladys, and look like that, 
 upon my word you make a fellow afraid to open his mouth 
 before you," he said, quickly ; and thei'e was something very 
 winning in the humility and deference with which he uttered 
 these words. Gladys was not unmoved by them, and had he 
 followed up his slight advantage, he might have won her on 
 the spot. But at the propitious moment Ellen brought in the 
 tea-tray, and the conversation had to drift into a more gen- 
 eral groove. 
 
 " To return to my project," said Gladys, when the maid 
 had gone again, " I have one of my old acquaintances among 
 the working girls here just now. I expect she will help me
 
 THE FIRST WOOER. 190 
 
 a good deal. She was the friend of poor Lizzie Hepburn, 
 whom \ve have lost so completely. Is it not strange? What 
 do you think can have become of her?" 
 
 "I'm sure I could n't say," he replied, with all the indif- 
 ference at his command. Gladys, busy with the tea-cups, 
 noticed nothing strange in his manner; nor did his answer 
 disappoint her much. She was quite aware that he did not 
 take an absorbing interest in the questions which engrossed 
 so much of her own thoughts. 
 
 " The saddest thing about it is, that nobody seems to care 
 an} T thing about what has become of her," she said, as she 
 took the dainty Wedge wood tea-pot in her hand. "Just 
 think if the same thing had happened to your sister or 
 either of your cousins, what a thing it would have been !" 
 
 " My dear Gladys, the cases are not parallel. Such 
 things happen every day, and nobody pays the least atten- 
 tion. And. besides, such people do not have the same feel- 
 ings as we do." 
 
 Gladys looked at him indignantly. 
 
 " You only say so because you know nothing about 
 them," she said, quickly. " I do assure you the poor have 
 quite as keen feelings as the rich, and some things they feel 
 even more, I think. Why, only to-day I had an instance of 
 it in the girl I have staying here. Her loyalty to Liz is 
 quite beautiful. I wish you would not judge so harshly and 
 hastily." 
 
 "I will think anything to please you, Gladys," said 
 George, fervently. " You must forgive me if I am a trifle 
 skeptical. You see, a fellow has his opinions molded pretty 
 much by his people, and mine do n't take your view of the 
 lower classes." 
 
 Again he was unfortunate in his choice of words. Gladys 
 particularly disliked the expression " lower classes," and his 
 apologetic tone did not appease her. 
 
 "They judge them harshly because they know nothing 
 about them, and never will. One has to live among them,
 
 200 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 as I have done, to learn their good qualities. It is the only 
 way," she said, rather sadly. 
 
 George set down his cup on the tray and lingered at the 
 table, looking down at her with a glance which might have 
 disconcerted her. 
 
 " You are so awfully good, Gladys," he said, quite humbly 
 for him. " I wonder you can be half as civil as you are to a 
 reprobate like me." 
 
 "Are you a reprobate?" she asked, with a faint, wonder- 
 ing smile. 
 
 " I 'm not as good as I should be," he added, frankly. " But 
 you see I've never had anybody put things in the light you 
 put them in. If I had, I believe it would have made all the 
 difference. Won't you take me in hand?" 
 
 He threw as much significance as he dared into his last 
 question, but Gladys apparently did not catch his meaning. 
 
 " I do n't like to hear you speak so," was the unexpected 
 reply. "It is like throwing the blame on other people. A 
 man ought to be strong enough to be and to do good on his 
 own account." 
 
 " If you tell me what you would like me to do, I '11 do it 
 upon my word," he said, earnestly. 
 
 "0, I have no right to do that; but since you ask, I will 
 say that you have not very far to seek your opportunities. 
 Your Uncle Tom told me the other day you employed nearly 
 seven hundred men and women at your mills. If that is not 
 a field for you to work in, I do n't know what is." 
 
 George Fordyce bit his lip ever so slightly, and half 
 turned away. This was bringing it home, indeed, and the 
 vision of himself taking up a new role among his own work- 
 people rather disconcerted him. 
 
 "Now you are offended," said Gladys, quickly. "And, 
 please, it is not my fault. You asked me what you 
 should do." 
 
 "Offended! with you? No such thing. You could never 
 offend me. Can't you see, Gladys, that the very reason I
 
 THE FIRST WOOER. 201 
 
 would be better is you, and you alone. I want to please you 
 because I want to win you." 
 
 There was no doubt at all about his meaning now. The 
 passion with which he spoke brought a blush to the girl's 
 cheek, and she rose hurriedly from her chair. 
 
 " 0, you must not say such things to me, please." 
 
 "Why not? Every man has the right to speak when he 
 loves a woman as I love you. Could not you care for me, 
 Gladys ? I know I am not half good, but I '11 try to be bet- 
 ter for your sake." 
 
 " I have liked you very well. I do like you," she 
 answered, with a trembling frankness. " Only, I think, not 
 quite in that, way." 
 
 "If you like me at all, I shall not despair. It will come 
 in time. Give me the hope that you '11 try to think of me 
 in that way," he pleaded, passionately, and Gladys slightly 
 shook her head. 
 
 "Try?" she repeated. "I do not know much; but it 
 seems to me that that should be without tiying." 
 
 "But you need not give me a final answer now. Let me 
 wait and try to win you to be more worthy of you. I 
 know I am not that yet ; but you know we 've got on aw- 
 fully well together been such chums I 'm sure it would all 
 come right." 
 
 He looked very handsome and very winning, pleading 
 his cause with an earnestness which left no doubt of his sin- 
 cerity. Gladys allowed him to take her hand, and did not 
 draw herself away. 
 
 " If you will let me alone a long time a year at least 
 and never speak of it, I will give you an answer then," she 
 said, slowly. "It is a very serious thing, and one must be 
 quite sure," she said, slowly ; and that answer was more than 
 George Fordyce had dared to hope for. There was more de- 
 liberation and calmness in her disposal of the question than 
 would have satisfied most men ; but he had fared better than 
 he expected, and left the house content.
 
 202 
 
 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 As for Gladys, she felt restless and unhappy she did 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.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 UNDER DISCUSSION. 
 
 took quite a long walk along the bleak 
 country road, and on her way back dropped in at 
 the lodge. 
 
 Mrs. Macintyreand the redoubtable " Tammy, ' 
 a very round and chubby urchin, as unlike a 
 denizen of the slums as could well be imagined,' were sit- 
 ting at tea by the cozy hearth, and there was a warm wel- 
 come and a cup for the visitor at once. 
 
 " Come awa', my wummin, I saw ye gang by,'' said the 
 good soul, cheerily. ' ; My ! but ye hae a fine color ; jist gang 
 ben an' look at yersel' in the room glass. Ye 're no like the 
 same lassie.'' 
 
 Teen smiled rather incredulously, and did not go " ben ;) 
 to verify the compliment. 
 
 " It 's a fine place this, 1 ' she said, as she dropped into a 
 chair. "A body's never tired. L wonder onybody bides in 
 the toon when there s sae much room in the country. ' 
 
 The wideness of the landscape, its solitary freedom, and its 
 quiet, impressed the city girl in no ordinary way. After the 
 crush and struggle of the overcrowded streets, which she had 
 not until now left behind, it was natural she should be so 
 impressed. 
 
 203
 
 204 THE G UINEA STAMP. 
 
 " I \valkit as far as frae Trongate to the Briggate, an' I saw 
 naething but twa three sheep, an' a robin red-breist sittin' 
 in the hedge," she said, musingly. " Its breist was as red as 
 it had been pented. I didna ken yc could see them livin'?" 
 
 " O, there's thousan's o' them," quoth Tammy, enthu- 
 siastically. " In the spring that hedge up the road will be 
 thick wi' nests, filled wi' eggs o' a' kinds." 
 
 "Which ye '11 leave alane, my man, or I'll warm ye," 
 said his aunt, with a warning glance. "Ay, my wummin, 
 this is a hantle better nor the Trongate or the Briggate o' 
 Glesca'. An' what's the young leddy aboot this afternune." 
 
 " Writin' letters, I think. Has she said onything to you, 
 Mrs. Macintyre aboot makin' a club for lassies in the toon." 
 
 "Tammy," said Mrs. Macintyre, "tak' the wee jug an' 
 rin up to the dairy, an' ask Mrs. Grieve if she '11 gie ye a 
 hapny worth o' mair cream." 
 
 She did not urgently require the cream ; but it was neces- 
 sary at the moment to get rid of Tammy, who was a re- 
 markably shrewd boy, with very long ears, and a wonderful 
 understanding. 
 
 Just as Tammy departed, rather unwillingly it must be 
 told, the carriage from the house came bowling down the 
 avenue, and Mrs. Macintyre ran out to open the gate. From 
 her seat by the fire Teen could see over the low white win- 
 dow-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 gracious 
 mood the hopeful lover had bestowed upon the gate-keeper. 
 " I wonder if that's to be the Laird of Bourhill?" she 
 said, meditatively. "Ye wadna see him as he gaed by, a 
 very braw man, an' rich, they say a Fordyce o' Gorbals 
 Mill. Hae ye heard o' them?" 
 
 "Ay, often." Teen's color seemed to have deepened, but 
 it might be only the fire which glowed upon it. " Ye dinna 
 mean to say that that micht happen ?"
 
 UNDER DISCUSSION. 205 
 
 "What for no?" queried Mrs. Macintyre, easily, as she 
 cut a slice from the loaf, and held it on a fork before the fire. 
 ' She 's borinie an' she 's guid, besides being weel tochered. 
 She '11 no want for wooers. I say, did ye ken Walter Hep- 
 burn, that carries on auld Skinny's business noo in Col- 
 quhoun Street?" 
 
 "Yes, well enough," answered Teen, slowly. 
 
 " There was a time when I wad hae said the twa, him an' 
 Miss Gladys I mean, were made for ane anither, but it 's no 
 noo. He seems to hae forgotten her, and maybe it 's as weel. 
 She maun mak' a braw marriage, an' Fordyce is a braw fel- 
 low. I wish ye had a' noticed him." 
 
 " 0, I Ve seen him afore," said Teen, witb an evident 
 effort, and somehow the conversation did not flow very 
 freely, but was purely a one-sided affair, Teen simply sitting 
 glowering into the fire with an expression on her face which 
 indicated that she was only partially interested in the gate- 
 keeper's cheery talk. It was rather a relief when Tammy 
 returned with the " wee jug " full of cream. 
 
 Mrs. Macintyre was, on the whole, disappointed with 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 Teen Balfour been so troubled and so 
 anxious. 
 
 Once or twice that evening Gladys caught her looking at her 
 with glance so penetrating and so anxious that it impressed 
 her with a sort of uneasiness. She did not feel particularly 
 happy herself. Now that her lover had gone, and that the 
 subtle charm of his personality and presence was only a 
 memory, she half regretted what had happened that after- 
 noon. She felt almost as if she had committed herself, and 
 she was surprised that she should secretly chafe over it. 
 
 " Teen," she said, quite suddenly, when they were sitting 
 alone at the library fire after supper, when Miss Peck had
 
 206 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 gone to give her housekeeping orders for the morning, " had 
 you ever a lover?" 
 
 This extraordinary and unexpected question drove the 
 blood into the colorless face of Teen, and she could not for 
 the moment answer. 
 
 " Well, yes," she said, at length, with a faint, queer smile. 
 " Maybe I 've had t\va, three o' a' kind." 
 
 " Two or three," echoed Gladys, in a surprised and rather 
 disapproving voice. " That is very odd. But, tell me, have 
 you ever seen anybody who wished to marry you, and whom 
 you wished to marry?" 
 
 " There was a lad asked me yince," answered Teen. " But 
 he was only seventeen a 'prentice in Tennant's, wi' aicht 
 shillin's a week. I 've never had a richt offer." 
 
 " Then what do you mean by saying you have had two 
 or three lovers?" queried Gladys, in wonder. 
 
 " O, weel, I 've keepit company wi' a lot. They 've walkit 
 meoot, an' ta'en me to parties an' that, that's Avhat I mean." 
 
 Gladys was rather disappointed, perceiving that it was 
 not likely she would get much help from the experience of 
 Teen. 
 
 "I think that is rather strange; but perhaps it is quite 
 right, and it is only I who am strange. But, tell me, do you 
 think a girl always can know just at once whether she cares 
 enough for a man to marry him?" 
 
 " I dinna ken ; there 's different kinds o' marriages," said 
 Te.en, philosophically. " I dinna think there 's onything in 
 real life like the love in 'Lord Bellew's Bride,' unless among 
 the gentry." 
 
 "Do you really think not?" asked Gladys, with a slight 
 wist ful ness. " I have not read Lord Bellow, of course, but I 
 do believe there is that kind of love which would give up 
 all, and dare and suffer anything. 1 should not like to 
 marry without it." 
 
 "Dinna then," replied Teen, quite coolly. Nevertheless, 
 as she looked at the sweet face rendered so grave and earnest
 
 UNDER DISCUSSION. 207 
 
 by the intensity of her thought, her eye became more and 
 more troubled. 
 
 "Among oor kind o' folk there 's a' kind o' marriages," 
 she began. "Some lassies mairy. thinkiiv they'll hae an 
 easier time, an' a man to work for them, an' they sometimes 
 fin' oot they've only taSn somebody to keep; some mairy 
 for spite, an' some because they'd rather dee than be auld 
 maids. I dinna think rr^sel', love, if there be sic a thing, 
 has onything to do wi't." 
 
 It was rather a cynical doctrine; but Teen implicitly 
 believed what she was saying. 
 
 "Are you thinkin' on mairy in"?' 1 she asked then, and 
 without waiting for an answer, continued in rather a hur- 
 ried, troubled way: <: I wadna if I were you, at least for 
 awhile. Wait or ye see what turns up. Ye '11 never be bet- 
 ter than ye are, an' men are jist men. I wadna gie a brass 
 fardin' for the best o' them.'' 
 
 Gladys did not resent this plain expression of opinion, 
 because she perceived that a genuine kindliness prompted it. 
 
 " I am quite sure I shall not marry for a very long time," 
 Gladys replied; then they fell to talking over the other sub- 
 ject, which was so interesting to thorn both. Underneath all 
 her cynical philosophy there was real kindness as Avell as 
 shrewd common sense in the little seamstress. She was in 
 some respects one of the best advisers Gladys could possibh' 
 have taken into her confidence. 
 
 These sweet, restful days were a benediction to the weary, 
 half-starved heart of the city girl; and under their benign 
 influence she became a different creature. Little Miss Peck, 
 who adored Gladys, sometimes observed, with a smile of ap- 
 proval, the grateful, pathetic look in Teen's large, solemn 
 eyes, when they followed the sweet young creature who had 
 shown her a glimpse of the sunny side of life. It was not a 
 glimpse, however, which Gladys intended to be merely 
 transient. She had in view a scheme which was to be of 
 permanent value to the poor little seamstress.
 
 208 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 In the course of that week Gladys had occasion to be 
 over night in Glasgow, for the purpose of attending a con- 
 cert with the family in Bellairs Crescent. It was a very se- 
 lect and fashionable affair, at which the elite and beauty of 
 Glasgow were present. Gladys enjoyed the gay and ani- 
 mated scene as much as the music, which was also to her a rare 
 treat. When they left the hall it was nearly eleven o'clock, 
 and they had to wait some time in the vestibule till their 
 carriage should move upward to the door. It was a fine, 
 mild night, and the girls, with their soft hoods drawn over 
 their heads, and their fleecy wraps close about their throats, 
 stood near the great doors, chatting merrily while they 
 waited. The usual small crowd of loafers were hanging 
 about the pavements, and, as usual, Gladys was saddened by 
 the sight of the dejected and oftentimes degraded-looking 
 denizens of the lower quarters of the city. It might be that, 
 in contrast with the gay and handsomely-dressed people from 
 the West End, their poverty seemed even more pitiable. 
 
 " Now, Gladys, no such pained expression, if you please," 
 said the observant Mina. "Do n't look as if you carried all 
 the sins and sorrows of Glasgow on your own shoulders. 
 Good, here is the brougham ; and pray observe the expres- 
 sion on the countenance of James. Is it not a picture?" 
 
 Gladys could not but laugh, and they tripped across the 
 pavement to the carriage. When they were all in, and Mr. 
 Fordyce had given the word to the coachman, a woman sud- 
 denly swerved from the pavement and peered in at the car- 
 riage window. At the moment the impatient horses moved 
 swiftly away, and when Gladys begged them to stop it was 
 too late. The woman was lost in the crowd. 
 
 Gladys, however, had seen her face, and recognized it, in 
 spite of the change upon it, as the face of Walter's sister Liz.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 HE fleeting vision of Liz Hepburn's familiar 
 face appeared to fill Gladys with excitement 
 and unrest. As Mina looked at her flushed 
 cheeks and shining eyes she felt a vague un- 
 easiness visit her own heart. They did not speak 
 of her as they drove home; but when the girls gathered, as 
 was their wont, round the cheerful fire in the guest-cham- 
 ber before retiring for the night, Gladys asked them a 
 question. 
 
 " Did you see her? She looked very ill, and very dis- 
 tressed. Do you not think so? O, I fear she has been in 
 trouble, and I must do all I can to find out about her. If 
 you will allow me I shall remain another day in town, and I 
 can send a telegram to Miss Peck in the morning. 
 
 Mina on her knees beside her chair, her plump bare arm 
 showing very white and fair against the black lace of Gladys's 
 gown, looked up at her with a slightly troubled air. 
 
 " Gladys, I wish you would n't bother about that girl. 
 You lay things far too much to heart. It can't possibly con- 
 cern you now. Let her own people look after her." 
 
 Gladys received this remark with rather an indignant look. 
 
 H 209
 
 210 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " Mina, that is not like you. You only assume such 
 hard-heartedness. If you saw her face as I saw it, it must 
 haunt you. Her eyes were quite wild and despairing; I can 
 not forget them." 
 
 " 0, 1 think you exaggerate !" said Miua, lightly. " I saw 
 her very well. It was the usual calm, rather insolent, stare 
 these girls give. I do not think she looked either very ill or 
 very desperate, and she seemed comfortably clothed. What 
 do you think, Clara?" 
 
 " O, I didn't see her!" answered Clara, with a slight 
 yawn. "Yes, Gladys, dear, I do think you worry too much 
 over things. What can that girl possibly be to you? Ot 
 course, we are very sorry for her; still, if she is in trouble 
 she has brought it on herself. It will never do for you to 
 mix yourself up with all sorts and conditions. I say, was n't 
 Sims Reeves heavenly to-night, and ' Come into the Garden, 
 Maud,' more entrancing than ever? To think what immense 
 power that man wields in his voice. He can do with his 
 audience as he likes. He was in splendid form." 
 
 Gladys remained silent. The concert had given her a 
 rare pleasure, but it was obliterated at the moment by the 
 incident of the face at the carriage window. 
 
 " We had better get to bed, girls, or mamma will be send- 
 ing Katherine to us presently," said Mina, as she picked her- 
 self up from the rug. " Good-night, dear, and do n't worry. 
 If you wrinkle up your brows like that over every trifle, 
 you will be old before your time." 
 
 Gladys faintly smiled, and bade them good-iiight. She 
 " worried " a good deal more than either ef them imagined. 
 
 "I say, Clara, I do wish we could induce Gladys to leave 
 that girl alone," Mina said to her sister, as she threw off her 
 evening gown and began to brush out her hair. " I have 
 the oddest feeling about it, just as if it would make mischief; 
 haven't you?" 
 
 "No; but you needn't try to dissuade Gladys from 
 anything she has set her mind upon. I never saw anybody
 
 LIZ HEPBURN. 211 
 
 so ' sot,' as Artenms Ward would say. She 's positive to the 
 verge of obstinacy. But what makes you have any feeling 
 in the matter, I can 't imagine. You never even saw the girl 
 in your life." 
 
 "No; but I feel interested in her all the same; and 
 I say-" 
 
 She broke off there rather suddenly, and meditatively 
 brushed her hair for a few seconds in silence. 
 
 " Did you notice that afternoon we had the tea after all 
 the people were gone, you remember that Cousin George 
 spilled the contents of a cup on mamma's gown?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember that, of course; but what can it have 
 to do with Gladys and this Hepburn girl?'' 
 
 " Did nothing occur to you in connection with his un- 
 usual awkwardness? Don't }~ou remember what wo were 
 talking of at the time?" 
 
 " No," replied Clara, and she paused with her bodice half 
 pulled over her lovely shoulders, and a slow wonder on her 
 beautiful placid face. 
 
 "Well, Gladys was telling us at the very moment about 
 the disappearance of this Hepburn girl, as you call her, and 
 I happened to be looking at Cousin George while she was 
 speaking ; and, Clara, I can 't for the life of me help thinking 
 he knows something about it." 
 
 No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Mina 
 saw that she had made a profound mistake. The red color 
 leaped into her sister's face, dyeing even the curves of her 
 stately throat. 
 
 "I think you are a wicked, uncharitable girl, Mina," she 
 said, with icy coldness. " I wonder you are not ashamed to 
 have such a thought for a moment. I only beg of you not 
 to let it go any further. It may do more harm than you 
 think." 
 
 So saying, Clara gathered up all her wraps and marched 
 off to her own room, leaving her sister feeling rather hurt 
 and humiliated, though not iu the least convinced that she
 
 212 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 bad simply given rein to an uncharitable imagination. ^1 ina 
 was indeed so much troubled that she slept uneasily 
 a most unusual experience for her; and the morning failed to 
 banish, as it often benignly banishes, the misgivings of the 
 night. 
 
 Once more Gladys made a pilgrimage to the old homo 
 where Walter dwelt alone, working early and late, the mo- 
 notony of his toil only brightened by one constant hope. 
 It was a strange existence for the lad on the threshold of his 
 young manhood, and many who knew something of his way 
 of life wondered at the steady and dogged persistence with 
 which he pursued his vocation. He appeared to have 
 reached, while yet not much past his boyhood, the grave, 
 passionless calm which comes to most men only after they 
 have outlived the passion of their youth. He was regarded 
 as a sharp, hard-working young man, with a keen eye for 
 business, and honorable and just ; but conspicuously hard to 
 deal with one whose word was as his bond, and who, being 
 so absolutely reliable himself, suffered no equivocation or 
 crooked dealings in others. By slow but certain degrees he 
 had extricated himself from the strange net-work which old 
 Abel Graham had woven about the business, and established 
 it upon the basis of sound, straightforward dealing. The 
 old customers, in spite of certain advantages the new system 
 offered, dropped away from him one by one, but others took 
 their place. When Walter balanced his books at the end of 
 the first year, he had reason to be not only content but 
 elated, and he was enabled to carry out at once certain ex- 
 tensions which he had quite expected would only be justi- 
 fiable after the lapse of some years. 
 
 But while prospering beyond his highest anticipations, 
 what of the growth of the true man, the development of the 
 great human soul which craves a higher destiny than mere 
 groveling among the sordid things of earth ? While supremely 
 unconscious of any change in himself, there was neverthe- 
 less a great change a very great change, indeed. It was
 
 "LIZ HEPBURN. 213 
 
 inevitable. A life so narrow, so circa in scribed, so barren of 
 beauty, lived so solitarily away from every softening influ- 
 ence, was bound to work a subtle and relentless change. 
 The man of one idea is apt to starve his soul in his effort to 
 make it subservient to the furtherance of his solitary aim. 
 To be a successful man, to win by his own unaided effort a 
 position which would entitle him to meet Gladys Graham on 
 equal ground such was his ambition, and it never did occur 
 to him that this very striving might make him unfit in other 
 ways to be her mate. His isolated life, absolutely unrelieved 
 by any social intei-course with bis fellows, made him silent 
 by choice, still and self-contained in manner, abrupt of 
 speech. In his unconsciousness it never occurred to him 
 that it is the little courtesies and graces of speech and action 
 which commend a man first to the notice of the woman he 
 wants to win. He was, though he did not know it, a melan- 
 choly spectacle, but his awakening was at hand. 
 
 Gladys made her second call at the house in Colquhoun 
 street as before early in the da} 7 . It seemed very familiar, 
 though it was many months since she had passed that way. 
 It seemed a more hopeless and squalid street than she had 
 yet thought it, as she picked her steps daintily through the 
 greasy mud. The warehouse door, contrary to the old cus- 
 tom, stood wide open, as if inviting all comers. Gladys 
 gave a glance along the passage which led to the living 
 rooms, but was not moved to revisit them. She went at 
 once up the grimy staircase, giving a little light cough as 
 she neared the landing a herald of her coming. She heard 
 quite distinctly the grating of the stool on the floor, and a 
 step coming toward her a step which even now sounded 
 quite familiarly in her ears. 
 
 " It is I, Gladys," she said, trying to speak quite natu- 
 rally, but conscious of a shrinking embarrassment which 
 made her cheeks nervously flush. " The door was open, so I 
 came right in. How are you, Walter?" 
 
 In his face shone something of the old bright friendliness ;
 
 214 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 but as she looked at the shabby youth, with his unshaved 
 face and threadbare clothes, her fastidious eye disapproved 
 of him, just as it had disapproved of him when they met, 
 boy and girl, for the first time in the rooms below. 
 
 " I am quite well," he answered, in his quick, abrupt, un- 
 smiling manner. " But why do you always come without 
 any warning ? If you let me know, I should be ready for 3*ou. 
 I am always busy in the morning, and a fellow who has so 
 much hard work to do can't always be in trim to receive 
 ladies." 
 
 It was rather an ungracious greeting, which Gladys was 
 quick enough to resent. The gentle meakness of the girl 
 had merged itself into the dignity of the woman, which in- 
 sists upon due deference being paid. 
 
 " I am quite sorry if I intrude, AValter," she said, rather 
 stiffly. " I shall not keep you long. All the same, I am 
 coming in to sit down for a little, as I have something very 
 particular to speak to you about/' 
 
 " Come in ; of course, you know I am glad to see you," 
 he said hurriedly, and Gladys could not help rather enjoying 
 his evident confusion. If he felt nervous and awkward in 
 her presence, it was no more than he deserved to feel, since 
 she was so entirely unchanged. 
 
 " I am glad you have the grace to be civil, at least," she 
 said, with a bewildering smile, which vanished, however, 
 when she seated herself on the battered old office-stool. All 
 her anxiety and troubled concern made her face grave to sad- 
 ness as she put the question 
 
 " Do you know that your sister is in Glasgow?"
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 A. TROUBLED 
 
 ALTER did not know. His expression of sur- 
 prise, tinged with alarm and a touch of shame, 
 answered her before he spoke. 
 
 ' How do you know that?" he asked. 
 " I saw her last night in Berkeley Street, just 
 outside the Crown Halls, where we were at a concert," said 
 Gladys. ' Is it possible you have never seen her?" 
 
 ;i .No ; and I do n't believe it was her you saw. You must 
 have made a mistake," replied Walter, quickly. 
 
 ' It was no mistake, because she looked into our carriage, 
 and I saw her quite plainly. Besides, do you think that any 
 one who has seen Liz once would ever forget her face? I 
 have never seen one like it." 
 
 "I don't know linything about it, and I care less. " 
 Walter said, with unpromising hardness. 
 
 Gladys did not know that the simple announcement 
 she had brought to him in all faith, believing even that he 
 might be in a sense relieved and glad to hear it. tortured 
 him to the very soul. He felt so bitter against Gladys at the 
 moment that he could have ordered her away. Her dainty 
 
 215
 
 216 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 presence, her air of ladyhood, her beautiful ways, almost 
 maddened him; but Gladys was quite unconscious of it. 
 
 "Have you not been at your father's house lately, then?" 
 she asked. " Of course, she must be there. How glad they 
 will be to have her safely at home again ! Do you think she 
 would be glad to see me if I went to-day ?" 
 
 " No ; she would n't, even if she were there, which I 
 know is not the case. I was there myself yesterday, and 
 they had never heard anything about her. 1 wish to heaven 
 you would leave us alone, and let us sink into the mire we 
 are made for. We do n't want such fine ladies as you com- 
 ing patronizing us, and trj'ing to make pious examples of us. 
 We are quite happy 0, quite happy as we are!" 
 
 He spoke with an awful bitterness, with a passion which 
 made him terrible to look upon ; but Gladys only shrank a 
 little, only a little, under this angry torrent. Her vision 
 was clearer than a year ago. She read the old friend now 
 with unerring skill, and looked at him steadily, with gentle, 
 sorrowful eyes. 
 
 " You are very angry, Walter, and you think it is with 
 me, but I know better, and you can not prevent me trying 
 to find out what has become of poor Lizzie. I loved her, 
 and love has certain rights ; even you will admit that." 
 
 Her gentle words relieved the tension of his passion, and 
 he became calmer in moment. 
 
 " If it is true that she is in Glasgow, it is easy knowing 
 what has become of her," he said, with an" ironical smile. 
 " Take my advice and let her alone. She never was company 
 for you, anyhow, and now less than ever. Let her alone." 
 
 " O, I can't do that, Walter. You have no idea how much 
 I have thought about her. It has often kept me from sleep- 
 ing, I assure you. I have so many blessings, I wish to share 
 them. To make others happy is all the use money is for." 
 
 Walter was secretly touched secretly yearning over her 
 with a passion of admiration, ay, and of sympathy ; but his 
 passive face betrayed nothing. He listened as he might have
 
 A TROl'BLED HEART. 217 
 
 listened to a customer's complaint, yet with even a slighter 
 exhibition of interest. Strange that he should thus be goaded 
 against his better impulses to show so harsh a front to the 
 being he passionately loved, unless it was part of the role he 
 had mapped out for himself. 
 
 " I heard that you had invited Teen Balfour to your 
 estate. Is she there yet?" he asked, and Gladys did not 
 know whether he asked in scorn or in jest. 
 
 " Yes, she is at Bourhill still, and will remain for some 
 time. Have you got anj'body in Mrs. Macintyre'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 indispensable to my comfort. So you 
 like being a fine, rich lady. Don't you remember how I 
 prophesied you would, and how indignant you were? After 
 all, there is a good deal of worldly wisdom in the slums." 
 
 "You prophesied that I should in a week forget, or wish 
 to forget, this place, 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 do n't think you look very prosper- 
 ous or very happy." 
 
 "Nevertheless, the thing will pay. There isn't an} r 
 doubt about the prosperity. As for the happiness," he added, 
 with a shrug of the shoulders, " I don't think there is much 
 real happinessfin this world." 
 
 " O yes, there is!" she cried eagerly. "A great deal of 
 it, if only one will take the trouble to look for it. It is in 
 little things, Walter, that happiness is found ; and you might 
 be very happy indeed, if you would not delight in being so 
 bitter and morose. It is so very bad for you. Some day 
 when you want to throw it off, you will not be able to do so, 
 because it will have become a habit with you. I must tell 
 you quite plainly what I think, because it makes me so un- 
 happy to see you like this. You always remind me of Ish-
 
 218 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 mael, whose hand was against every man. What has 
 changed you so terribly ?'' 
 
 " Circumstances. Yes, I am the victim of circum- 
 stances." 
 
 " There is no such thing," said Gladys, calmly. " That is 
 a phrase with which people console themselves in misfor- 
 tunes 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 beset- 
 ting weakness, and, man-like, his first impulse, thus con- 
 victed was to resent her interference. 
 
 " Whatever I may do, it can 't affect you now, you are so 
 far removed from me," he said, without looking at her, and 
 Gladys, disappointed and a little indignant, rose to go. 
 
 " Very well, good-bye ; it is always the same kind of 
 good-bye," she said, quietly. " If ever, when you look back 
 upon it, it should grieve you, remember it was always your 
 doing, yours alone. But even yet, though you may not 
 believe it, Walter, your old friend will remain quite un- 
 changed." 
 
 His face flushed, and he dashed his hand with a hasty 
 gesture across his eyes. 
 
 " I am not changed," he said huskily. " You need not 
 reproach me with that. You know nothing about the strug- 
 gle it is for me here, nor what I have to fight against. It 
 was you who taught me first to be discontented with my lot, 
 to strive after something higher. I sometimes wish now 
 that we had never met."
 
 A TROUBLED HEART. 219 
 
 " Whatever happens, Walter, I shall never wish that; 
 and I hope one day you will be sorry for ever having said 
 such a thing," she said, with a proud ring in her clear, sweet 
 voice. "I hope, I hope one clay 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 be- 
 fore, 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 and disheartened that she could 
 not bear to return to Bellairs Crescent, to the inevitable 
 questioning which she knew awaited her there. If the For- 
 dyces 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 ex- 
 planation to the Crescent. 
 
 Mr. Fordyce was very good-natured, and not at all 
 curious it never occurred to him to try and dissuade her 
 from such a hurried departure, or pester her with questions 
 about it. He simply set her down to write her note at his 
 own desk, and then took her out to lunch, and finally put 
 her in her train, all in his own easy, pleasant, fatherly way, 
 and Gladys felt profoundly grateful 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 south wind the wind the huntsman loves blew all the 
 city cobwebs from her brain, and again raised her somewhat 
 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 shading her eyes, looking anxiously 
 down the road. She had found life at Bourhill insufferably 
 dull without its mistress.
 
 220 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " Have ye walkit a' that distance?" she cried, breathlessly, 
 having run all her might to meet her. " Ye '11 be deid tired. 
 What way did ye no send word?" 
 
 "Because I came off all in a hurry this morning," an- 
 swered 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 Peck and all the people?" 
 
 "Fine; but, my, it's grand to see you back!" said Teen, 
 with a boundless satisfaction. "It's no like the same place 
 when ye are away. "An' hoo's Glesca lookin' as dreich 
 as ever?" 
 
 "Quite; and, Teen, I have found Liz at last! I saw 
 her last night in Berkeley Street." 
 
 " Saw Liz in Berkeley Street? Surely, never!" repeated 
 Teen, aghast. 
 
 " It 's quite true. I think she can not have been away 
 from Glasgow, at all. 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? What did she look like?" 
 
 " Yery ill, I thought, and strange," answered Gladys, 
 slowly. " She only peeped into our carriage window as 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 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 better to let the whole 
 matter rest. She suspected 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
 
 A TROUBLED HEART. 
 
 221 
 
 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 Glad}~s to find 
 means of communication with Liz that she would not let 
 the matter rest. 
 
 Next day the visit of the little seamstress to Bourhill was 
 bi'ought 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 young lady of Bourhill.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A \VAKEN ING. 
 
 HE interview with Gladys upset Walter for the 
 day. When she 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 hand-barrow, and a lad who 
 filled a position similar to that which had been Walter's own 
 in Abel Graham's daj*s. 
 
 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 understand nor 
 shake off. Looking in at the mirrored window of a great 
 shop in St. Vincent Street, he saw the image of himself re- 
 flected, a tall, lean figure, shabbily clad, an image which 
 filled him with a sudden loathing and contempt. He stood 
 quite still, and calmly appraised liimsi-Jf. taking in even' 
 222
 
 AN AWAKENING. 223 
 
 meager detail of his appearance, rioting the grimy hue of the 
 collar he had worn three days, the glazed front of the frayed 
 black tie, the soft greasy rim of the old hat. Yes, he told 
 himself, he was a most disagreeable-looking object, with noth- 
 ing in his appearance to suggest prosperity, or even decent 
 comfort. A grim humor smote him suddenly, and thrusting 
 his hand into his pocket, he brought it out full of money, and 
 rapidly counted it. Then he opened the door of the fashion- 
 able tailor's, and walked in. He was regarded, 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 straight, abrupt 
 fashion. " A good suit the best you have in your shop." 
 
 The young gentlemen regarded him and each other with 
 such significance in their glances that their shabby-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 '11 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 gentle- 
 man, suggestively. 
 
 " I '11 take it, said Walter, cal inly. "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 upon 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 those who served .him 
 his choice invariably falling on what was not only most ex- 
 pensive, but in the best taste. 
 
 " Now, how much is to pay? I'll pay ready money 
 to-day, and send for the things when they are ready, which 
 1 hope will be soon,"
 
 224 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " Very well, sir ; but there is no hurry, I assure you," 
 said the young gentleman, suavely. " Payment on delivery 
 is always quite satisfactory." 
 
 " I '11 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 two-pence," 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 minds of the shop people. Had he 
 heard their surmises and comments he would have felt at 
 once amused and chagrined. From St. Vincent Street he 
 sauntered back to Argyle Street, and took a Bridgeton car. 
 Thoughts of Liz were crowding thick and fast upon him, 
 and he found himself scanning the faces of the people in the 
 crowded streets, and even looking up expectantly each time 
 the car stopped, assuring himself he would not be in the least 
 surprised were his sister to appear suddenly before him. He 
 was ill at ease concerning her. If it were true that she was 
 in Glasgow, then his first fears concerning her were likely to 
 have some foundation. It was curious that all resentment 
 seemed to have died out of his mind, and that he felt noth- 
 ing but an indescribable longing to see her again. 
 
 Strange and unnatural as it may seem, he had not for a 
 very long time felt any such kindly affection towards his 
 parents. He did his duty by them so far as the giving of 
 money was concerned ; but they lay upon his heart like a 
 heavy weight, and he lived in dread of some calamity hap- 
 pening, for they were seldom sober. He could not help ask- 
 ing himself sometimes whether he was justified in giving 
 them so liberal an allowance, since relief from all pecuniary 
 anxiety seemed to have only made them more dissipated and 
 abandoned. It was very seldom, indeed, that his father now 
 wrought a day's work. These werja heavy burdens for the 
 young man to bear, and he may be forgiven bis morbid
 
 AN AWAKENING. 225 
 
 pride, his apparent hardness of heart. It is a common say- 
 ing that living sorrows are worse than death they eat like 
 a canker into the soul. 
 
 It was his anxiety 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 a 
 point of visiting them once a week, and his step was never 
 buoyant as he ascended that weary stair, nor when he de- 
 scended it on his homeward way ; for he was either saddened 
 and oppressed anew with their melancholy state, or wearied 
 with reproaches, or disgusted with petty grumblings and un- 
 savory details of the neighbors' shortcomings and domestic 
 affairs. It is a tragedy we see daily in our midst ; this grad- 
 ual estrangement of those bound by ties of blood, and who 
 ought, but can not possibly be, bound by ties of love. Love 
 must be cherished ; it is only in the rarest instances it can 
 survive the frost of indifference and neglect. The drink- 
 fiend has no respect of persons ; the sanctity of home and 
 God-given affections is ruthlessly destroyed, high and holy 
 ambitions sacrificed, hearts remorselessly broken graves 
 dug above the heaveuliest hopes. 
 
 Walter Hepburn was always grave oftentimes sorrowful, 
 because with the years had come fuller knowledge, keener 
 perception, clearer visions that the sorrows of his youth 
 were sorrows which could darken his young manhood and 
 shadow all his future. It was a profound relief to him that 
 day to find his mother tidier than usual, busy with prepara- 
 tions for the midday meal. He never knew how he should 
 find them ; too often a visit to that home made him sick at 
 heart. 
 
 " Ye are an early visitor, my man," his mother said 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." 
 
 15
 
 226 THE G UINEA STAMP. 
 
 In her surprise at this unexpected question, Mrs. Hep- 
 burn paused, with the lid of the broth-pot in her hand, look- 
 ing wonderingly into her son's face. 
 
 " What gars ye ask that ?" 
 
 " I heard she was in Glasgow ; that 's why?" Walter an- 
 swered, 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 '11 be 
 in to his denner the noo. Will ye tak' a bite wi' us? It's 
 lang since ye broke breid in this hoose." 
 
 " I do n't mind if I do," replied Walter, laying off his 
 hat and drawing 'the arm-chair up 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 do n'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 'in sure I 'm no carin'." 
 
 " And my father 's really working this week. O mother, 
 if only he would keep steady, it would make all the differ- 
 ence ! You look better yourself, too. Are you net far better 
 without drink?" 
 
 " Maybe. We 've made a paction, ony way for a week, 
 till we see," said Mrs. Hepburn, with a slow smile. " The 
 way o't was this. We fell out wan day, an' ho cuist up to me 
 that I couldna keep frae't; an' I jist says says I ye canna 
 keep frae't yersel' ; an' it 's for spite we 're no touchin't. I 
 dinna think mysel' he'll staun' oot past Saturday." 
 
 Walter could not forbear a melancholy smile. 
 
 "It's not a very high motive, but better spite than no 
 motive at all," he answered. "D'ye think, mother, that Liz 
 can be in Glasgow?" 
 
 " Hoo should I ken ? There 's your father's fit on the 
 stair, an' the taties no ready, but they'll be saft in a jiffey.
 
 AN A WAKENING. 227 
 
 He canna wait a meenit for his meat. As I say, he thinks 
 itr should be walkin' down 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 
 table, and then made a rush to pour the water off the po- 
 tatoes. 
 
 " Hulloa, Wat, what 's up?" inquired the old man, as gen- 
 uinely surprised as his wife had been to see his son. 
 
 ' I heard Liz was in Glasgow, and I came to see if she 
 was here," answered Walter. "So 3-0 u 're working again. 
 I must say work a.grees with you, father ; you look a differ- 
 ent man." 
 
 " O, I 'm no past wark. If I like I can dae my darg wi' 
 oriy man," he replied, rather ironically. " Pit oot the kale, 
 Leezbeth, or we ; 11 be burnt to daith. Are ye slack yersel' 
 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 com- 
 plain either." 
 
 "An' what was that ye said aboot Liz? that she was here 
 in Glesca? Wool, if she is, she 's never lookit near. It's 
 gentry bairns we hue, Leezbeth ; let 's be thankfu' for them." 
 
 This mild sarcasm did not greatly affect Walter; he was 
 too familiar with it. 
 
 " I heard she had been seen, but perhaps it was a mis- 
 take. It must have been, or she would surely have come 
 here. You are working at Stevenson's, mother says. Will 
 it be permanent?" 
 
 " I '11 see. It depends on hoo I feel," replied the old man, 
 complacently. " I 've been in waur places, an' the gaffer '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 %" was the reply. 
 
 " I would n't keep a man who did n't do a fair day's work 
 for a fair day's wage, nor would you," said Walter. "I be-
 
 228 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 lievethat nobody would make more tyrannical masters than 
 working-men themselves, just as women who have been 
 servants themselves make the most exacting mistresses." 
 
 " This is Capital speakin' noo, Leezbeth," said his father, 
 very sarcastically. " It 's kind o' amusin'. We 're the twa 
 sides, as it were Capital and Labor. Ye 've no been lang o' 
 forgettin' whaur ye sprang frae, my man.'' 
 
 Walter's father had been a skillful workman in his day, 
 with an intelligence above the average ; had he kept from 
 drink there is no doubt he would have risen from the ranks. 
 Even yet gleams of the old spirit which had often displayed 
 itself at workmen's meetings and demonstrations would oc- 
 casionally shine forth. Walter was thankful to see it, and 
 after spending a comparatively pleasant hour with them, he 
 went his way with a lighter and happier feeling about them 
 than he had experienced for many a day.
 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 TOO 
 
 EORGE FORDYCE was listening to a maternal 
 lecture the morning after a dance, at which he 
 had been distributing his attentions very freely 
 among the most attractive of the young ladies 
 present. -The .breakfast was nearly an hour late, 
 and mother and son partook of it alone, Mr. Fordyce being 
 in London on business, and the fair Julia not yet out of bed. 
 "It's all your nonsense, mother,'' said George, imper- 
 turbably. "1 didn't pay special court to anybody except 
 Clara. She was the best dancer in the room, and very nearly 
 the handsomest girl." 
 
 " You should have pity on Clara, my dear,'' his mother 
 said, indulgently. " You know 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 complacent 
 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 Gra- 
 
 220
 
 230 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 ham is a very self-willed piece of humanity. Tour Aunt 
 Isabel told me only yesterday of her absurd fad to have 
 common girls visiting her at Bourhill. It is quite time some- 
 body took her firmly in hand, or she will become that insuf- 
 ferable kind of person, a woman with a mission to set the 
 world right." 
 
 George emptied his coffee-cup, and returned his mother's 
 look with one equally steady and keen. 
 
 " There is no use going 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," exclaimed Mrs. Fordyce, 
 with a gasp. 
 
 " Well, not quite ; she said I must leave her alone for a 
 long time, and I mean to. It is n't pleasant for a fellow to 
 be sat on by a girl especially," he added, with a significant 
 shrug, " when he is n'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 wish I had remained 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 Bour- 
 hill. I had no intention of committing myself when I went ; 
 but somehow I got carried away, and asked her. I believe I 
 should have had a more favorable answer ; but just then a 
 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 replied, and 
 his mother was more than astonished to see his cheek flush- 
 ing. " I know she asked me to wait, and not to bother her. 
 I believe she '11 have me in the end ; anyhow, I mean to have 
 her, and it's the same thing, is n't it?" 
 
 " I hope it may be ; but if you take my advice, my dear, 
 do n't leave her alone too much, in case somebody else more
 
 TOO LATE! 231 
 
 enterprising, and not so easily repulsed, should step in before 
 you. If I were a man I would n't walk off for a girl's 
 first no." 
 
 "You don't know a blessed thing about what you're 
 talking of, mother," replied George, with calm candor. " It' 
 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 quick, that 's all." 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce laughed. 
 
 ""Well, perhaps so; but it is very important that you 
 should follow up your advantage, however slight it may be. 
 It would be a most desirable alliance. Think of her family. 
 It would be a splendid connection ; you would be a county 
 gentleman, to begin with." 
 
 "And call myself Fordyce Graham. Eh, mother?" said 
 George, lazily. " There are worse-sounding names ; but 
 Gladys herself affects to have no pride in her long descent. 
 That very day she was quoting to me that rot of Burns about 
 rank being only the guinea stamp and all that sort of 
 thing. All very well for a fellow like Burns, who was only a 
 plowman. It has done Gladys a lot of harm living in the slums. 
 It won't be easy eradicating her queer notions, I can tell you." 
 
 "0, after she is married, if you take her well in hand, it 
 will be easy enough," said his mother, confidently. "She 
 did not give you a positive refusal, then?" 
 
 "No; but I'm not going to make myself too cheap," said 
 George. " It seldom pays, in any circumstances; in dealings 
 with women never. They set all the more store by a fellow 
 who thinks a good deal of himself." 
 
 " Then you should be very successful," said Mrs. For- 
 dyce, with a smile. "Well, remember that nothing will give 
 your father and me greater pleasure than to hear that you 
 are engaged to Gladys Graham." 
 
 "Well, I'd better get out of this. Twenty minutes to 
 eleven ! I wonder what the governor would say if he were 
 to pop in just now. Thunder 's not in it."
 
 232 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 So the amiable and self-satisfied George took himself off 
 to the mill, and all day long thought much of his mother's 
 advice, and somehow he felt himself being impelled towards 
 paying another visit to Bourhill. Out of that visit arose 
 portentous issues, which were to have the strongest possible 
 influence upon the future of Gladys Graham. He found her 
 in a lonely and impressionable mood, and left the house, to 
 his own profound astonishment, an accepted lover. 
 
 That very evening, after he was gone, Gladys sat by the 
 fire in her spacious drawing-room, turning upon her third 
 finger the diamond ring George Fordyce had transferred 
 from his own hand to hers, whispering as he did so that she 
 should soon have one worthier of her. Watching the flash- 
 ing of the stone in the gleaming firelight, she wondered to 
 see tears matching the diamonds in brilliance falling on her 
 gown. She did not understand these tears; she did not 
 think herself unhappy, though she felt none of that passion- 
 ate, trembling joy which happy love, as she had heard and 
 read of it, is entitled to feel. She realized that she had taken 
 a great and important step in life, and that it seemed to 
 weigh upon her; that was all. In her loneliness she longed 
 passionately for some sympathetic soul to lean upon. 
 
 Miss Peck had gone back to the Fen Country to see a 
 dying friend, and for some days she had heard nothing of 
 Teen, who was pursuing in Glasgow her search for the lost 
 and mysterious Liz. In the midst of this strange reverie 
 she heard footsteps on the stair, and presently a knock came 
 to the door. As it was opened the silver chimes of the old 
 brass clock rang seven. 
 
 " Mr. Hepburn." 
 
 Gladys sprang up, struck by the familiar name, yet not 
 expecting to behold her old companion in the flesh ; and there 
 he was, standing modestly, yet with so much manliness 
 and courage in his bearing, that she could not forbear a little 
 cry of welcome as she ran to him with outstretched hands. 
 It seemed as if her prayer for the sympathy of one who un-
 
 TOO LATE! 233 
 
 derstood her was answered far beyond any hope or expecta- 
 tion she had cherished regarding it. 
 
 " O Walter, I am so very glad to see you ! 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, would not have approved of 
 those warm words, nor of the light shining all over the 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 his eccentric customer, and not only 
 given him value for his money, but converted him, so far as 
 outward appearance goes, into a new man. Philosophers 
 and cynics have from time to time had their fling at the tyr- 
 anny of clothes, but it still remains anundisputed fact that 
 a well-dressed man is always much more comfortable and 
 self-respecting than an ill-dressed one. 
 
 When Walter Hepburn beheld the new man the tailor 
 had turned out, a strange change came over him, and he saw 
 in himself possibilities hitherto undreamed of. He realized, 
 for the first time, that he looked fitter than most men to win 
 a woman's approval, and I am quite safe in saying that 
 Gladys owed this totally unlooked-for visit entirely to the 
 St. Vincent Street tailor. 
 
 " So very glad to see you," she repeated, and she thought 
 it no treachery to her absent lover to keep hold of the hand 
 she had taken in greeting. "And looking so nice and so 
 handsome. 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 with unalloyed 
 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."
 
 234 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 "O Walter!" she said, reproachfully. " llo\\ r dare you 
 say such a thing? Refuse to see you, indeed ! Do sit down 
 and tell me every thing. 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 did n't wish 
 any dinner; it is so lonely eating alone." 
 
 "Where is the lady who lives with you? You had a 
 lady, had n't you?" 
 
 " Yes ; Miss Peck. She has gone back to Lincoln to see 
 her aunt ; who is dying, and I am quite alone; though to- 
 morrow I expect one of Mr. Fordyce's daughters. 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," Walter answered, with a shake of his head. 
 "And I have been inquiring all round, too. My father and 
 mother have never seen or heard anything of her. I think 
 you must have made a mistake that night in Berkley 
 Street." 
 
 " If it was not Liz, it was her ghost," said Gladys, quite 
 gravely. " I can not understand it. But, come, let us go 
 down-stairs. You ought to offer me your arm, Walter. I 
 can not help laughing when I think of Mrs. Fordyce ; she 
 would be so horrified were she to see me now. She tries so 
 hard to make me quite conventional, and she is n't able to 
 do it." 
 
 " She may be right, though," said Walter; and though he 
 would have given worlds for the privilege, he dared not pre- 
 sume to take Gladys at her word and offer 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, Walter per- 
 mitted himself to be at ease and perfectly natural in hia 
 manner, and the result was entirely satisfactory. Self-
 
 TOO LATE! 235 
 
 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 
 snowdrops 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 
 looked, Walter thought, like a queen. Possessed of a won- 
 derful 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, however, to return to the drawing- 
 room, where their talk could be quite unrestrained. 
 
 "And now you are going to tell me everything about this 
 wonderful metamorphosis," she said, merrily. " Every soli- 
 tary thing. When did it dawn upon you that even a hand- 
 some man is utterly dependent on his tailor?" There was 
 at once rebuke and approval conveyed in this whimsical 
 speech, which made Walter's face slightly flush. 
 
 "It dawned upon me one day, looking in at a shop 
 window, where I could see myself, that I was a most dis- 
 reputable-looking object, quite eligible to be apprehended as 
 an able-bodied vagrant." 
 
 " How delightful ! I hope the shock was very bad, 
 because you deserved it. Now that you have come back 
 clothed and in your right mind, I am not going to spare 
 3 r ou, Walter; and I will say that, after my last visit to Col- 
 quhoun Street, I quite lost hope. It is always the darkest 
 hour before the dawn, somebody has said.' 1 
 
 "If I'd thought you cared," Walter began, but stopped 
 suddenly, for Gladys turned from the table, where she was 
 giving her attention to some drooping flowers, and her look 
 was one of the keenest wonder and reproach. 
 
 "Now you are weak, Walter, trying to bring your de- 
 linquencies 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
 
 236 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 of sympathy for you, and I do n't know either what you 
 meant by going on in any such manner." 
 
 "I didn't understand it myself then. I seemed goaded 
 on always to be a perfect brute when you came. But I be- 
 lieve 1 understand it now, and perhaps it would be better if 
 I did not." 
 
 He spoke with considerable agitation, which Gladys 
 affected not to notice, while her white fingers touched the 
 drooping blossoms tenderly, as if S} T mpathizing with them 
 that their little day was over. 
 
 "Suppose you enlighten me, then," she said, gayly still; 
 then, suddenly seeing his face, her own became very white. 
 
 " I do n't dare," he said, hoarsely. " It is too much pre- 
 sumption ; but it will, perhaps, make you understand and 
 feel for me more than you seem to do. Do n't you see, 
 Gladys, that it is my misery to care for you as happier men 
 care for the woman they ask to marry them." 
 
 There was a moment's strained silence ; then Gladys spoke 
 in a low, sobbing voice : 
 
 " It is as I said, Walter too late, too late ! I have prom- 
 ised to marry another man."
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 " WHA.T MIGHT HAVE 
 
 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 arm. 
 
 " You will not go away now, Walter, just when I hope 
 we are beginning to understand each other. Do sit down for 
 a little; there is a great deal left to us we can still be 
 friends yes, a great deal." 
 
 " It will be better for me to go away,'' he said, not bit- 
 terly 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 under- 
 stand. 
 
 "By and by, but not yet," she said, coaxingly. "Be- 
 sides, you can not get a train just now even if you were at 
 the station this moment. You shall be driven into Mauch- 
 line in time for the nine-fifteen, and that is an hour hence. 
 I can not let you go now, Walter, for I do not know when I 
 shall see you again." 
 
 237
 
 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 She spoke with all the frank, child-like simplicity of the 
 old time, and he turned back meekly, and took his seat 
 again, though it seemed for the moment as if all brightness 
 and energy had gone out of him. Her hands trembled very 
 much as they resumed their delicate task among the flowers, 
 and her sweet mouth quivered too, though she tried to 
 speak bravely and brightly as before. 
 
 " Do tell me, Walter, what you are thinking of doing, 
 now that your business has become so prosperous. Do n't 
 you think you have lived quite long enough in that dingy 
 Colquhoun Street?" 
 
 " Perhaps so. I had thoughts of leaving it, but it is a great 
 thing for a man to be on the premises. Your uncle would 
 not have approved of my leaving the place so soon. Col- 
 quhoun Sreet was good enough for him all his days," said 
 Walter, striving to speak natural!}', and only partially suc- 
 ceeding. 
 
 "Ah yes, poor man ! But just think how much he denied 
 himself to give me all this," she said, with a glance round 
 the beautiful room. " How much happier he and I would 
 have been with something a little lower than this, and a little 
 higher than Colquhoun Street ! It often makes me sad to 
 think of the poverty of his life and the luxury of mine." 
 
 "But you were made for luxurious living," was Walter's 
 quick reply. " You never looked at home in the old place. 
 This suits you down to the ground." 
 
 " Do you thjnk so?" 
 
 Gladys gave a little melancholy smile. 
 
 "Yet so contradictory are we that sometimes I am not at 
 all happy nor contented here, Walter." 
 
 "You ought to be very happy," he replied, a trifle 
 sharply. " You have everything a woman needs to make 
 her happy." 
 
 " Perhaps so, and yet " 
 
 She paused, and hummed a little scrap of song, which 
 WaTter did not catch.
 
 " W HA T MIGHT HA VE BEEN." 239 
 
 " I ain becoming quite an accomplished violinist, "Walter," 
 she said, presently. " 1 have two lessons every week ; once 
 Herr Doller comes down, and once I go up. Would you like 
 to hear me play, or shall we talk?" 
 
 "I do n't know. It would really be better for me to go 
 away. I can walk to the station ; the walk will do me 
 good." 
 
 " I will not allow you to walk nor go away, Walter, even 
 if you are as cross as two sticks. And I must say I feel 
 rather cross myself." 
 
 They were playing with edged tools, and Gladys was 
 keenly conscious of it. Her pulses were throbbing, her heart 
 beating as it had never beat in the presence of the man to 
 whom she had plighted her troth that very day. A very 
 little more, and she must have given way to hysterical sob- 
 bing. She felt so overwrought, and yet all the while she 
 kept on her lips that gay little smile, and spoke as if it were 
 the most natural thing in the world that they should be to- 
 gether. But when Walter remained silent, she came forward 
 to the hearth quickly, and forgetting that what was fitting 
 in the old days was not permissible in the new, she slipped 
 on one knee on the rug, and suddenly laying her head down 
 on his knee, began to cry. 
 
 " Gladys, get up ; get up, or I can't hold my tongue 1 
 This is fearful!" 
 
 "The word was none too strong. The solitary and ab- 
 sorbing passion of his life, a pure and honest love for that 
 beautiful girl, surged in his soul, and his face betrayed the 
 curb he was putting on himself. He had had but a poor 
 upbringing, and his code of honor had been self-taught, but 
 he was manly enough to be above making love to another 
 man's promised wife. 
 
 "Don't make it any harder for me!" he said, hoarsely. 
 "I know you are sorry for me. You have been always an 
 angel to me, even when I least deserved it ; but this is not 
 the way to treat me to-night. Let me go away."
 
 240 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " Let me be selfish, "Walter just this one night," she said, 
 in a low, broken voice. "I do n't know why I am crying, for 
 it is a great joy to me that you are here, and that I know, 
 now forever, that you feel as you used to do before this 
 cruel money parted us. There are not in all the world any 
 friends like the old. Forgive me if I have vexed you." 
 
 She rose up and met his glance, which was one of infinite 
 pity and indescribable pathos. The greatest sorrow, the keen- 
 est disappointment which had ever come to Walter, softened 
 him as if with a magic touch, and revealed to her his heart, 
 which was at least honest and true in every throb. 
 
 " You can never vex me, though I have often vexed you. 
 I need scarcely say I hope you will be happy with the one 
 you have chosen. You deserve the very best in the world, 
 and even the best is not good enough for you.' A faint smile 
 shone through the tears on the girl's face. 
 
 ""What has changed you so, Walter? It is as if a whirl- 
 wind 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." 
 
 " O, Walter, do you remember our little school in the 
 evenings, with Uncle Abel dozing in the chimney-corner, 
 and your difficulties over the arithmetic? Very oftem 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, did n't I ?" 
 
 " I do n't know ; all I know is that I shall never forget 
 those days, though they can never come again," answered 
 Walter. " I am learning German this winter, and I like it 
 very much." 
 
 " How delightful ! If you go on at this rate, in a very 
 short time I shall be afraid to speak to you, you will have 
 grown such a grand and clever gentleman." 
 
 Walter gave his head a quick shake, which made the 
 waved mass of his dark hair drop further on his brow. A
 
 ' ' WHA T MIGHT HA VE BEEN. " 241 
 
 fine brow it was square, solid, massive, from beneath which 
 looked out a pair of clear eyes, which had never feared the face 
 of man. He looked older than his years, though his face 
 was bare, except on the upper lip, where the slight mustache 
 appeared to soften somewhat the sterner lines of the mouth. 
 Yes, it was a good, true face, suggestive of power and possi- 
 bility the face of an honest man. Then his figure had at- 
 tained its full height, and, being clothed in well-made gar- 
 ments, looked very manly, and not ungi'aceful. 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 AValter 
 suffer by that comparison. 
 
 " Must you go away?" she asked, wistfully, not conscious 
 how cruel she was in seeking to keep him there, when every 
 moment was pointed with a sorrowful regret, a keen anguish 
 of loss which he could scarcely endure. "And when will 
 you come again ?" 
 
 " O, I do n't know. I can't come often, Gladys; it will 
 be better not, now." 
 
 " It is always better not," she cried, with a strange petu- 
 lance. " 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 whoni we 
 have known in our early days, because then there can never 
 be any pretense or concealment. All is open as the day. Is 
 it impossible that we can still be as we were?" 
 
 " Quite impossible." 
 
 His answer was curt and cold, and he was on his feet 
 again, moving towards the door. 
 
 " But why?" she persisted, with all the unreason of a will- 
 ful woman. "Maya woman not have a friend, though he 
 should be a man ?'' 
 
 " It would not be possible, and he would not like it," he 
 said, significantly, and Gladys flushed all over, and flung 
 up her head with a gesture of defiance. 
 
 16
 
 242 THE G VINE A STAMP. 
 
 11 He shall not dictate to me," she said, proudly. " "Well, 
 if yon will go, you will, I suppose. But you shall not walk ; 
 on that point I am determined." She rang the bell, gave 
 her order for the carriage, and looked at him, whimsically, 
 as if rejoicing in her own triumph. " I am afraid I am be- 
 coming quite autocratic, Walter, so many people have to 
 do exactly as I tell them. If you will not come, will you 
 write to me occasionally, then ? It would be delightful to get 
 letters from you, I think." 
 
 Never was man so subtly flattered, so tempted. Again 
 he bit his lip, and without answering, he took a handsome 
 frame from the piano, and glanced indifferently at the photo- 
 graph he held. 
 
 " Is this the man?" he asked at hazard, and when Gladys 
 nodded, he looked at it again with keener interest. It was 
 the same picture of George Fordyce in his hunting-dress, 
 which Gladys had first seen in the drawing-room at Bellairs 
 Crecent. 
 
 "A grand gentleman," he said, with a faint note of bitter- 
 ness in his tone. " Well, I hope you will be happy." 
 
 This stiff, conventional remark appeared to anger Gladys 
 somewhat, and for the first time in her life she cast a re- 
 proach at him. 
 
 "You needn't look so resigned, Walter. Just cast your 
 memory back, and think of some of the kind things you 
 have said to me when we have met since I left Colquhoun 
 Street. If you think I can forget them, you are mis- 
 taken. They will always rankle in my mind, and it is only 
 natural that I should feel grateful, if nothing else, to those 
 who are a little kinder and more attentive to me. A woman 
 does not like to be ignored." 
 
 At that moment a servant appeared to say the carriage 
 waited, and Walter held out his hand to say good-bye. Hope 
 was forever 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
 
 WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN." 
 
 243 
 
 the room, and then stood in the hall, still silently, till he 
 put on his great-coat. 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 fas- 
 tidious taste. When the servant at last opened the door, 
 the cool wind swept in and ruffled the girl's hair upon her 
 white brow. 
 
 "Good-bye, then. You will write," she said, quickly, 
 and longing, she did not know why, to order the servant 
 to withdraw. 
 
 " If there is anything to write about, perhaps 1 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 WA.NDE: 
 
 T was half-past ten before Walter alighted from 
 the train at St. Enoch's Station. It was a fine, 
 dr}~ evening, with a sufficient touch of frost in 
 the air to make walking pleasant. As he made 
 his way out of the station, and went among the 
 busy crowd, he could not help contrasting that hurrying tide 
 of life with the silence and the solitude he had left. The ex- 
 perience of the last few houi-s 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 realized how near 
 and dear a part of his life was the sweet girl now lost to him 
 forever. Although it had often pleased him, hi the bitterness 
 of his mood, to say that an inseparable barrier had arisen 
 between them, in his heart of hearts he had not believed it, 
 but cherished the secret and strong hope that their estrange- 
 ment was but temporary, and that in the end the old days 
 which in their passing had often been shadowed, but which 
 now to memory looked wholly bright and beautiful, would 
 receive their crown. And now his dream was over, and again 
 he felt himself alone in the world more terribly alone than 
 244
 
 THE WANDERER. 245 
 
 lie bad yet been. He was not a vain man, though he believed 
 in his own ability, or looking back he might have taken no 
 small comfort from the demeanor of Gladys toward him. He 
 had not been untouched by it; her womanly tenderness had 
 sunk into his soul, but he saw in it only the natural outcome 
 of a kind heart which felt always keenly the sorrow of others. 
 He believed so absolutely in her singleness of heart, her 
 honesty of purpose, that he accepted her decision as final. 
 Since she had plighted her troth to another, it was all over so 
 far as Walter himself was concerned. He knew so little of 
 women that it never occurred to him that sometimes they 
 give such a promise hastily, accepting what is offered from 
 various motives very often because what they most desire 
 is withheld. It must not be thought that, in having accepted 
 George Fordyce, Gladys was intentionally and willfully de- 
 ceiving him. His impassioned pleading had touched her 
 heart. At a time when it was crying out for something to 
 satisfy its need, in an unguarded moment, she had mistaken 
 an awakened, fleeting impression for love, and passed what 
 was now in her eyes an irrevocable word. She was no 
 coquette, who gives a promise the one day to be carelessly 
 withdrawn the next. George Fordyce had been fortunate in 
 gaining the promise of a woman whose word was as her 
 bond. But there are circumstances in which even such a 
 bond may become null and void ; but Gladys did not dream 
 of the tragedy which was to release her from her vow. 
 
 Walter felt in no haste to go home ; nay, the very thought 
 of it was intolerable to him. He saw it all before him in 
 sharp contrast to another home, which had shown him how 
 lovely wealth and taste can make human surroundings, and 
 he loathed the humble shelter of the old place, which mem- 
 ory hallowed only to wound, and from which the angel of 
 hope had now flown. 
 
 With his hand in one pocket, his hat drawn a little over 
 his brow, he sauntered, with heavy and reluctant step, up 
 Renfield Street, in the direction of Sauchiehall Street. He
 
 246 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 did not know what tempted him to choose the opposite di- 
 rection from his home. We are often so led, apparently aim- 
 lessly, towards what may change the very current of our 
 lives. The streets, though quieter as he walked further 
 west, were by no means deserted, and just on the stroke of 
 eleven the people from the theaters and public houses made 
 the tide of life flow again, apparently in an endless stream. 
 Quite suddenly, under the brilliant light known by the 
 illumination of a fashionable tavern, Walter saw standing 
 on the edge of the pavement, talking to another girl, his 
 sister Liz. He could not believe his eyes at first ; for he had 
 never credited the assertion of Gladys that she had really 
 seen her, but believed it had been a mistake. But there she 
 was, well dressed, stylish, and beautiful exceedingly. Even 
 in that first startled look he was struck by the exquisite out- 
 line of her face, the absolute purity of her color, except 
 where it burned a brilliant red on her cheeks. 
 
 He stepped back into a doorway, and stood silently wait- 
 ing till they should separate, or move away. To his relief 
 they separated at last, the stranger moving towards him 
 Liz proceeding westward. He followed her, keeping a few 
 steps behind her, watching her with a detective's eye. Once 
 a man spoke to her; but she gave no answer, and somehow 
 that to Walter was a relief. He felt himself growing quite 
 excited, longing to overtake and speak to her, yet afraid. At 
 the corner of Cambridge Street, she stood still, apparently 
 looking for a car ; then Walter stepped before her, and laid 
 his hand on her arm. 
 
 " Liz," he said, and in spite of himself his voice shook, 
 " what are you doing here ?" 
 
 Liz gave a great start, and her pallor vanished, the red 
 mounting high to her brow. 
 
 " 1 I do n't know. It 's you, Wat ! Upon my word, I 
 didna ken ye. Ye are sic a swell." 
 
 " I heard you were in Glasgow, but I did n't believe it. 
 Where have you been all this time?"
 
 THE WANDERER. 247 
 
 " To Maryhill ; I'm bidin' there the noo," Liz answered 
 defiantly, though she was inwardly trembling. 
 
 "Maryhill!" Walter repeated, and his eye, sharp with 
 suspicion, dwelt searchingly on her face. 
 
 "What are you doing there?" 
 
 " That's my business," she answered, lightly. " I needna 
 ask for you. I see you are flourishin'. Hoo's the auld folk ? 
 I say, here's my car. Good-nicht." 
 
 She would have darted from him, but he gripped her by 
 the arm. 
 
 " You won't go, Liz, till I know where and how you are 
 living. I have the right to ask. Come home with me." 
 
 Liz was surprised, arrested, and the car with its noisy 
 jingle swept round the corner. 
 
 " Hame wi' you !" she repeated. " Maybe, if ye keut, ye 
 wadna ask me, wadna speak to me," she said, with a melan- 
 choly bitterness ; and then her cough, more hollow and more 
 racking than of yore, prevented further speech. 
 
 Walter drew her hand within his arm, and she, feebly 
 protesting, allowed him to lead her back the way she had 
 come. And then, as they walked, a strange, constrained 
 silence fell upon them, each finding it difficult, well-nigh im- 
 possible, to bridge the gulf of these sad months. 
 
 " Are you not going to tell me anything about yourself, 
 Liz?" he asked at length, and the kindness of his tone, unex- 
 pected as it was, secretly amazed and touched her. 
 
 " Naething," she answered, without a moment's hesita- 
 tion. "An' though I've comeback to Glesca, I'm no seekin' 
 onything frae ony o'ye I can fend for mysel'." 
 
 Walter remained silent for a little. The subject was one 
 of extreme delicacy, and he did not know how to pursue it. 
 He feared that all was not with his sister as it should be; 
 but he feared the result of further questions. 
 
 "What 's the guid o' me gaun hame wi' you the nicht? 
 I canna bide there," she said presently, in a sharp, discon- 
 tented voice. "An 1 here ye-ve gar'd me miss the last car."
 
 248 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " Where are you staving in Marvhill?" 
 
 / / O *> 
 
 " I have a place, me an anither lassie," she said guard- 
 edly. " If ye are flush, ye micht gie me twa shillin's for a 
 cab. I 'm no able to walk.". 
 
 At that moment, and before he could reply, a slim, slight, 
 girlish figure darted across the street, and with a quick, sob- 
 bing breath laid two hands on the arm of Liz. It was the 
 little seamstress, who had haunted the streets late for many 
 nights, scanning the faces of the wanderers, sustained by the 
 might of the love which was the only passion of her soul. 
 At sight of Teen, Liz Hepburn betrayed more emotion than 
 in meeting with her brother. 
 
 " Eh, I Ve found ye at last! I said I was bound to find 
 ye if ye were in Glesca," Teen cried, and her plain face was 
 glorified with the joy of the meeting. " O, Liz, what it 's 
 been to me no kennin' whaur ye were ! But I say, hoo do 
 you twa happen to be thegither?" 
 
 " I 've twa detectives efter me, it seems," said Liz, with a 
 touch of sullenness, and she stood still on the edge of the 
 pavement, as if determined not to go another step. " I say 
 do you twa hunt in couples ?" 
 
 She gave a little mirthless laugh, and her eye roamed 
 restlessly up the street, as if contemplating the possibility of 
 escape. 
 
 " Come on name wi' me, Liz," said Teen, coaxingly, 
 and she slipped her hand through her old friend's arm, and 
 looked persuasively into her face, noting with the keen- 
 ness of a loving interest the melancholy change upon it. 
 " Ye "re no weel, an' ye '11 be as cozy an' quate as ye like 
 wi' me." 
 
 " Has your ship come in?" asked Liz, with faint sarcasm, 
 but still hesitating, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of two 
 pairs of questioning, if quite friendly, eyes. 
 
 "Ay has it," replied the little seamstress, cheerfully. 
 " Should n't she come hame wi' me, Walter? She wad be a' 
 richt there, an' you can come an' see us when ye like."
 
 THE WANDERER. 249 
 
 Walter stood in silence another full minute. It was a 
 strange situation, strained to the utmost ; but his faith in the 
 little seamstress was so great that he almost reverenced her. 
 He felt that it would be better for Liz to be with a friend of 
 her own sex, and he turned to her, pleadingly. 
 
 " It 's true what Teen says you are not well. Let her 
 take A'OU home. I '11 get a cab and go with you to the dooi 1 , 
 and I '11 come and see you to-morrow. We are thankful to 
 have found you again, my my dear." 
 
 The last words he uttered with difficulty, for such ex- 
 pressions were not common on his lips. But some impulse, 
 born of a vast pity, in which no shadow of resentment 
 mingled, made him long to be as tender with her as he knew 
 how. The manner of her reception by these two whom she 
 had wronged by her long silence aftected Liz deeply, though 
 she made no sign. 
 
 " I dinna see what better I can dae if ye '11 no stump up 
 for the cab to Maryhill," she said, ungraciously. "A' the 
 same, I wish I had never seen ye. Ye had nae business 
 watchin' for me, ouy o' ye. I 'm my ain mistress, an' I' m 
 no needin' onything aff ye. 1 ' 
 
 The little seamstress nodded to Walter, and he hailed a 
 passing cab. All the time, even after they were inside the 
 vehicle, she never relaxed her hold of Liz; but they accom- 
 plished the distance to Teen's poor little home in complete 
 silence. Liz felt and looked like a prisoner. Walter's face 
 wore a sad and downcast expression ; the little seamstress 
 only appeared jubilant. It was nearly midnight when they 
 ascended the long stair to the little garret, and Liz had to 
 pause many times in the ascent to recover her breath and to 
 let her cough have vent. She grumbled all the way up ; but 
 when Teen broke up the fire and lit the gas, she sank into 
 an old basket-chair with a more contented expression on 
 her face. 
 
 " Now, ye '11 hae a cup o' tea in a crack," Teen said, 
 blithely. " I 've gotten a new tea-pot, Liz ; the auld yin
 
 250 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 positively fell to bits. Wull ye 110 bide an' drink a cup, 
 Walter?" 
 
 "Not to-night. I think you would be better alone; but 
 1 '11 come to-morrow and see you, Liz. Good night; I am 
 sure you will be comfortable here." 
 
 " O ay, I dinna doot. I say, ye are a toff, an' nae mistake ; 
 ye micht pass for a lord," she said with a kind of scornful 
 approbation. u Ye 're risin' in the scale while I 'm gaun 
 doon ; but I 've seen something o' life onyhoo, an' that 's aye 
 something." 
 
 She gave him her hand, which was quite white and un- 
 soiled, languidly, and bade him a careless good-night. As 
 Walter went out of the kitchen, she was surprised, but not 
 more so than he was himself, that two tears rolled down his 
 cheeks. He dashed them away quickly, however, and when 
 the little seamstress accompanied him to the door, he was 
 quite calm again. 
 
 " Ye '11 take care of her and not let her away, and I '11 be 
 eternally obliged to you. 1 trust you entirely," he said, 
 quickly. 
 
 Teen nodded sagaciously. 
 
 " If she gangs oot o' this hoose, she tak's me wi' her," 
 she said, ,with a determined curve on her thin lips. 
 
 "And whatever you need, come to me," he said, with his 
 hand in his pocket; but Teen stopped him with a quick 
 gesture. 
 
 "I have ony amount o' money I got frae Miss Gladys." 
 
 " Keep it for yourself. You must spend my money on 
 Liz, and see that she wants for nothing. It strikes me a 
 doctor is the first thing she needs; but I'll be back to- 
 morrow. Good-night, and thank you, Teen. You are a 
 good little soul." 
 
 " Middlin'," replied Teen, with a jerk, and closed the door.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 HE little seamstress was in a quiver of happy 
 excitement, which betrayed itself in her very step 
 as she returned to the kitchen. 
 
 Liz lay back in the old basket-chair, with her 
 eyes closed, and the deadly paleness of her face 
 was very striking. 
 
 " Ye arena weel, Li/,'' she said, brusquely. " It 's the 
 stair; ye never could gang up a stair, I mind, withoot bein' 
 oot o' breath. Xever mind : the kettle 's bilin', and ye 11 hao 
 your tea in a crack." 
 
 She busied herself about the table with nervous hands, 
 astonished at her own agitation, which did not appear to 
 have communicated itself to Liz, her demeanor being per- 
 fectly lifeless and uninterested. 
 
 Teen's stock of household napery did not include a table- 
 cloth ; but, desirous of doing honor to her guest, she spread 
 a clean towel on the little table, and set out the cups with a 
 good deal of cheerful clatter. 
 
 " What '11 ye tak' ? I have eggs, Liz ; real country eggs. 
 I brocht them up frae the country mysel'," she said, thinking 
 
 251
 
 252 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 to rouse the lethargy of her companion. " I very near said 
 I saw them laid ; ony way, I saw the hens that laid them. 
 Ye '11 hae an egg, eh ?" 
 
 "Yes, if ye like. I havna tasted since eleven this morn- 
 ing, an' then it was only a dram," said Liz, languidly. 
 
 Teen stood still on the little strip of rag-carpet before the 
 fender, and regarded her friend with a mingling of horror 
 and pity. Whatever had been the tragedy of the past few 
 months, Liz had not thereby bettered herself. With a little 
 choking sob, Teen made greater haste with her preparation, 
 and put upon the table a very tempting little meal, chiefly 
 composed of dainties from Bourhill, a very substantial basket 
 having been sent up to the little seamstress by order of Miss 
 Graham. Liz threw off her hat, and, drawing her chair up 
 to the table, took a long draught from the tea-cup. 
 
 " Eh, that's guid," she said, with a sigh of satisfaction. 
 " Ye're better aff than me, efter a', Teen, an' I wish I was in 
 your place." 
 
 " Ye'll bide here, noo ye have come, onyhoo," said the 
 little seamstress, cheerily. "My ship has come in; but we 
 will speak upon it after. I say, is n't Walter lookin' fine ? 
 He wad pass for a lord, jist as you said." 
 
 "His looks are a' richt he maun be makin' money. I 
 say, where is the lassie that used to bide there ? The auld 
 man's deid, isn't he?" . " 
 
 " Ay," answered Teen. " Deid lang syne. 0, she 's turned 
 into a graund leddy, livin' on an estate in the country. He 
 left a fortin. See, eat up that ither egg, an' there's plenty 
 mair tea. Look at that cream ! is n't it splendid?" 
 
 " Fine," said Liz ; and as she ate and enjoyed the gener- 
 ous food her color came again, and she looked a little less 
 ghastly and ill, a little more like the Liz of old. Pen can 
 not tell the joy it was to the loyal heart of the little seam- 
 stress thus to minister to her friend's great need, though in 
 the midst of her deep satisfaction was a secret dread, a vague 
 and vast pity, which made her afraid to ask a single question.
 
 A FAITHFUL FRIEXD. 253 
 
 It needed no very keen perception to gather that all was not 
 well with the unhappy girl. 
 
 " Weel, I 've enjoyed that," she said, pushing back from 
 the table at last. " I 've eaten ye oot o' hoese an' hame ; but 
 as your ship's come in, it'll no maitter. Tell me a' aboot it." 
 
 " 0, there no much to tell," answered Teen, with a touch 
 of her natural reserve. "I've made a rich frien', that 's a'." 
 
 "A man ?" asked Liz, with interest. 
 
 "No, a lady," replied Teen, rather proudly. "But have 
 ye naething to tell me aboot yersel' ?" 
 
 "O, I have thoosands to tell, if I like; but I'm no gaun 
 to tell ye a thing," replied Liz, flatly; but her candor did 
 not even make Teen wince. She was used to it in the old 
 days, and expected nothing else. 
 
 " 0, jist as ye like," she answered, serenely. "But, tell 
 me, did ye ever gang to London ?" 
 
 ''JvTo," replied Liz, "I never went to London. Did you 
 think I had?" 
 
 " Yes we, that 's some o's thocht, Walter an' me ony way, 
 that ye had gane to the theater in London to be an actress. 
 It was gey shabby, I thocht, to gang the way ye did withoot 
 sayin' a cheep to me, after a' the plans we had made," said 
 Teen, with equal candor. 
 
 "Maybe it was," said Liz, musingly; and with her mag- 
 nificent eyes fixed on the fire, she 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. 
 
 "Idinna think, judgin' frae appearances, that ye have 
 bettered yoursel'," said the little seamstress, slowly. 
 
 "Ye think richt. I made wan mistake, Teen, the biggest 
 mistake o' a', 1 ' she replied, and her mouth became very stern 
 and bitter, and a dull gleam was visible in her eyes. 
 
 Teen waited breathlessly in the hope that Liz would still 
 confide in her; but having thus delivered herself, she again 
 relapsed into silence.
 
 254 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " What wey are ye bidin' at Maryhill ?" she asked, after a 
 bit, and the same note of suspicion which had been in Walter's 
 questions sounded through her voice. It made the color 
 rise in the sharpty outlined cheek of Liz, and she replied, 
 angrily : 
 
 "It 's news ye 're wantin', an' you 're no gaun to get it. 
 Ye brocht me here again' my wull, but ye '11 no cross-question 
 me. I can gang hame even yet. It's no the first time I "ve 
 gane hame in the mornin', ony way." 
 
 Teen wisely accepted the inevitable. 
 
 " You '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 after ye. Twa 
 heids are aye better than ane." 
 
 " You '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 '11 no stand it frae neither you nor him, mind that." 
 
 "Nnebody'll ask you questions, my dear," said Teen; 
 and, lifting back the table, she folded down the bed, and shook 
 up the old wool pillows, wishing for her friend's sake that 
 they were made of down. Then she knelt down on the old 
 rag-carpet and began to unlace Liz's boots, glancing ever and 
 anon with sad eyes up into the white face with its haggard 
 mouth and dark closed e} r es. 
 
 " Ye are a guid sort, Teen, upon my word," was all the 
 thanks she got. " I believe I will gang to my bed, if ye '11 
 let me ; maybe if ye kent a' ye wad turn me oot to the 
 street." 
 
 " No me. If the a's waur than I imagine, it 's gey bad," 
 replied the little seamstress. "O, Liz, I'm that glad to see 
 you, I canna dae enough." 
 
 " I 'vo been twice up your stair, Teen ; once I knockit at 
 the door, an' then flew down afore you could open'd. Ye
 
 A FAITHFUL FRIEXD. 255 
 
 think ye 've a hard time o't, but there 's waur things than 
 sewin' jackets at elevenpence the dizzen." 
 
 Teen's hands were very gentle as she assisted her friend 
 off with her gown, which was a very handsome affair, all 
 velvet and silk, and gilt trimmings which dazzled the eye. 
 
 Thus partially undressed, Liz threw herself without 
 another word on the bed, and in two minutes was asleep. 
 Then softly laying another bit of coal on the fire, Teen 
 lifted the table back to the hearth, got out pen, ink, and 
 paper, and set herself to a most unusual task, the composi- 
 tion 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 return of 
 Liz. Afraid to disturb the sleeping girl, Teen softly re- 
 moved a pillow from the bed, and placing it on the floor be- 
 fore the fire, laid herself down with an old plaid over her, 
 though sleep was far from her eyes. 
 
 A great disappointment had come to the little seamstress; 
 for though she had long since given up all hope of welcom- 
 ing 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 honor. 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 transgress- 
 ors, and found it hard. Mingling with her intense sorrow 
 over Liz was another, and, if possible, a more painful fear 
 lest this deviation from the paths of rectitude might be 
 fraught with painful consequences to the gentle girl whom 
 Teen had learned to love with a love which had in it the ele- 
 ments of worship. 
 
 These melancholy forebodings banished sleep from the 
 eyes of the little seamstress, and early in the morning she 
 rose, sore ; stiff, and unrefreshed from her hard couch, and
 
 256 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 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 boneg. 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 smolder- 
 ing in the grate. 
 
 " Mercy me, it 's eleven o'clock ; but it 's Sunday mornin', 
 so it doesna matter," she said, almost blithely; for in the 
 morning everything seems brighter, and even hard places 
 less hard. " My certy, Liz, ye've sleepit weel. Hae ye ever 
 wakened." 
 
 " Never, I Ve no haen a sleep like that for I canna tell ye 
 hoo lang," said Liz, quite gratefully, for she felt wonderfully 
 rested and refreshed. In an incredibly short space of time 
 the little seamstress had the kettle singing on the cheery hob, 
 and toasted the bread while Liz was washing her face and 
 brushing her red locks at the little looking-glass hanging at 
 the window. They were sitting at their cozy breakfast, talk- 
 ing of commonplace things, when Walter's double knock came 
 to the door. Teen ran to admit him, and with a series of 
 nods, indicated to him that his sister was all right within. 
 
 There was a strained awkwardness in their meeting. Liz 
 felt and resented the questioning scrutiny of his eyes, and 
 had not Teen thrown herself into the breech it would have 
 been a strange interview. As it was, she showed herself to 
 be a person of the finest and most delicate tact, and more 
 than once Walter found himself looking at her with a kind 
 of grateful admiration, and thinking what an odd mistake he 
 had made in his estimate of her character. 
 
 When the breakfast was over, Teen, under pretense of 
 going to inquire for a sick neighbor, took herself off, and 
 left the brother and sister alone. It had to come sooner or
 
 A FAITHFUL FRIEND. 257 
 
 later, she knew, and she hoped that Liz, in her softer mood, 
 would at least meet Walter half-way. When the door was 
 closed upon the two, there was a moment's silence, which 
 Walter broke quite abruptly; it was not his nature to beat 
 about the bush. 
 
 "Are you going to tell me this morning where you have 
 been all this time?" 
 
 " No," she answered calmly, " I 'm not." 
 
 This was unpromising, but Walter tried not to notice her 
 defiant manner and tone. 
 
 Very well. L won't ask you, since you do n't want to 
 tell. You have n't been prospering, anyhow, any one can 
 see that ; but we '11 let bygones be bygones. I 'm in a good 
 way of doing now, Liz, and if you like to come along to 
 Colquhoun Street and try your hand at housekeeping, I 'm 
 ready." 
 
 Liz was profoundly amazed; but not a change passed 
 over her face. 
 
 " Ye are no feared ?" was her only comment, delivered at 
 last in a perfectly passionless voice. 
 
 "Feared! what for?" he asked, trying to speak pleas- 
 antly. " You 're my sister, and I need a housekeeper. I 'm 
 thinking of leaving Colquhoun Street, and taking a wee 
 house somewhere in the suburbs. We can talk it over when 
 you come." 
 
 Then Liz sat up and fixed her large, indescribable eyes 
 full in her brother's face. 
 
 "An' will ye tak' me withoot askin' a single question, 
 Wat?" 
 
 " I can't do anything else," he answered, good-humoredly. 
 
 "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 un- 
 steady voice. " I do n't want to be too hard on you, Liz. 
 You never had a chance." 
 
 17
 
 258 
 
 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 Lix^ leaned back in her chair again, and closed her eyes. 
 She was, to outward appearance, indifferent and calm; but 
 her breast once or twice tumultuously heaved, and her 
 brows were knit as if she suffered either physical or mental 
 pain. 
 
 "You '11 come, won't you, Liz, either to-day or to-mor- 
 row? You know the place," he said, rather anxiously. 
 
 "No," she answered, quietly; " I 'm no comin'." 
 
 "Why? I 'm sure I will never cast up anything. I 'm 
 in solemn earnest, Liz. I '11 do the best I can for you, an' 
 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? 
 
 | ALT EH looked at her perplexedly, not knowing 
 what to say. 
 
 " Why will ye not come ?" he asked, at length, 
 quite gently. 
 
 'I've disgraced ye enough," she answered, 
 a trifle sharply. '' Ye dinna ken what ye are daein', my 
 man, askin' me to come an' bide wi' } r ou. I 've niair 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 
 
 259
 
 260 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 where the sun lay warm and bright on far-off country slopes, 
 he thought of the sore bitterness of life. He might well be 
 at war with fate; it had not given him much of the good 
 which makes life worth living. It was all very well for 
 Gladys Graham, the spoiled child of a happy fortune, to 
 reprove him for railing at the cruelty of circumstances; her 
 suffering, even when the days were darkest with her, had 
 been of a gentler and less hopeless kind. 
 
 " Liz," he said, turning to his sister again, after what had 
 seemed to her an interminable silence, " if you won't come 
 to me, promise me you'll stay here. I have not asked any 
 questions about your way of doing, but I can guess at it. 
 Promise me that you will give it all up and stay here." 
 
 "Sponging off Teen, like?" she asked, sarcastically. 
 
 "No, no; I have plenty of money. You shall want for 
 nothing," he said, with a touch of irritation. " She 's a 
 good little soul, Teen, and I won't forget her. I'm sure you 
 and she could be quite comfortable here ; you have always 
 been good friends." 
 
 "Yes," answered Liz, indifferently, " that 's true." 
 
 " Will you promise, then," he asked, anxiously, " to stay 
 here in the meantime?" 
 
 " No," she answered, " I '11 promise naething, because, 
 if it comes up my back, I '11 rise and gang oot this very 
 day." 
 
 Walter's face flushed a little with anger. She was very 
 perverse, and would give him no satisfaction whatever. He 
 was at a disadvantage, because he really knew very little of 
 her nature, which was as deep and as keen of feeling as his 
 own. 
 
 " Then am I to go away and live in torture about you, 
 Liz? I Ve a good mind to shut you up where you can't get 
 out." 
 
 " They wud be queer bolts and bars that kept me in," 
 she said, with a slight smile. " Ye are very guid to tak' sae 
 muckle thocht aboot me, and if it '11 relieve your mind, ye can
 
 WHAT WILL SHE DO? 261 
 
 believe that what ever I 'm aboot, it 's honest wark, and that 
 if I need anything I '11 come to you." 
 
 "You mean that, Liz?" 
 
 "Yes, I mean it; and 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 deter- 
 mined to keep silence regarding it, he could only keep si- 
 lence too. Presently Teen returned, and there was a furtive 
 look of anxiety in her eyes as she regarded them, inly won- 
 dering what had transpired in her absence. 
 
 " Liz will bide with you in the meantime," said Walter, 
 affecting a cheerfulness he did not feel. " I have been asking 
 her to come and be my housekeeper, but she won't promise 
 in the meantime." 
 
 " O, she '11 be fine here the noo," answered the little seam- 
 stress, witli 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 Bour- 
 hill in the morning. She was not mistaken in her calcula- 
 tions regarding it, for next morning, between eleven and 
 twelve, when the two were sitting by the fire, keeping up a 
 rather disjointed conversation, during which Liz had exhib- 
 ited 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 just her." 
 
 Liz sat up, her whole demeanor defiant, her face wearing 
 its most ungracious look. 
 
 She had not the remotest idea who was meant by "her," 
 and it is certain that had there been any other means of exit 
 than the door in the building, she would have taken herself 
 off there and then. What was her astonishment to behold 
 presently a lissom, graceful figure and a sweet face which
 
 262 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 seemed familiar, though she could not for the moment be- 
 lieve that they really pertained to Gladys Graham. And the 
 face wore such a lovely look of gladness and wonder and 
 sorrow all mingled, that Liz was struck dumb. 
 
 " O, Lizzie, I am so glad to see you. How could you 
 stay away so long, when you must have known we were all 
 so anxious about you? But we will forgive you quite, now 
 that you have come back." 
 
 She took the unwilling hand of Walter's sister in her 
 firm, warm clasp, and bending forward kissed her, as she 
 had done once before, on the brow. Then the face of Liz 
 became a dusky red, and she started back, saying hoarsely : 
 
 "Don't never dae that again. O, my God, if ye kent! 
 ye wadna let your 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 trem- 
 ulous with her deep compassion. "And I have come to take 
 you away to Bourhill. Here is somebody quite ready, I 
 think to go." 
 
 She turned with a smile to the little seamstress, whose 
 face still wore that intense glorified look. 
 
 " Bourhill !" repeated Liz. " Where 's that ?" 
 
 " That 's my home now," said Gladys, gleefully. " See 
 what you have missed being away so long. Has Teen not 
 told you of all its glories? I thought she was so enthu- 
 siastic over it, she could not hold her tongue. Never mind, 
 you shall soon see it for yourself." 
 
 " I 'm very much obliged to you, but I 'm no comin'," 
 said Liz with the same firmness which had set aside Walter's 
 scheme concerning her. 
 
 " Why not ? Nobody ever refuses me anything," Gladys 
 said. 
 
 " It wad be a sin for me to gang," replied Liz, quietly. 
 " I'm not fit to speak to the like o' you. At least, that 's 
 what them you belang to wad say." 
 
 " I've nobody belonging to me to dictate to me, Liz, and
 
 WHAT WILL SHE DO? 263 
 
 I am not afraid to trust you. You may have sinned I do n't 
 know but you have had many temptations. I want to show 
 you a happier life. Tell her, Teen, how lovely it is at deai 
 Bourhill." 
 
 " I couldna," answered Teen, in a choking voice. " It 's 
 like heaven, Liz." 
 
 " Then it '11 be owre guid for me," said Liz, wearily. 
 "An* I'll better bide whaur I am. But, I say, ye are queerer 
 than ever ; an' I thocht ye gey queer last time I saw ye." 
 
 " Never mind what you think of me. Say you will come 
 with me to-day. I came for the very purpose of taking 
 you away," said Gladys, cheerfully. " Do you remember 
 that absurd story about Lord Bellew's Bride you were read- 
 ing 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 souldna be printed. 
 Things like yon never happen in real life never, never I" 
 She spoke with passionate emphasis, which indicated that she 
 keenly felt what she said. " Ye '11 be gaun to get marriet 
 next," she added, looking at Gladys, who smiled and nodded, 
 with slightly heightened color. 
 
 " Well, what is to be done? Are you going down with 
 me to-day?" she asked, looking from one to another, and 
 tapping her dainty boot a trifle impatiently on the floor. 
 
 " I can na come the day, for my claes are a' at Maryhill," 
 said Liz. 
 
 " But I'll gang for them, Liz," put in the little seamstress, 
 quickly. " They can be easy got frae Maryhill afore uicht. 
 It's only twelve o'clock the noo." 
 
 "There need not be any such hurry. I think I shall stay 
 in town all night," said Gladys, "and you can arrange it 
 together, either to go with me or alone. Teen can manage it ; 
 she k'nows all about the trains, having been there before. I 
 shall be sure to be home not later than to-morrow night; 
 and if anything should prevent me getting down then, there
 
 264 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 is Miss Peck, Teen, who, you know, will make you very 
 welcome." 
 
 " Yes, I know," nodded Teen. " If ye only kent what 
 like a place it is, Liz, ye wad be jumpin'." 
 
 " I 'm sure I dinna ken what way ye want me doon there," 
 said Liz, relapsing into her weary, indifferent manner. " I 
 canna understand it." 
 
 "Can't you?" asked Gladys, merrily. "Well, I want 
 you, that 's all. I want to have the pleasure of seeing you 
 grow strong and well again. Nobody shall meddle with you. 
 You shall do just as you like, and you two will be compan- 
 ions to each other." 
 
 Teen looked reproachfully at her friend, wondering to see 
 her so undemonstrative, never even uttering a single word of 
 thanks for the kindness so freely offered. She shook hands 
 with Gladys in silence, and allowed her to depart without 
 further remark. 
 
 "You'll make sure that she comes down, Teen," said 
 Gladys, when they were without the door. " Poor thing ! 
 she looks dreadfully ill and unhappy. Where do you think 
 she has been ?" 
 
 Teen mournfully shook her head, and her large eyes filled 
 with tears. 
 
 " I '11 no let her away," she answered, firmly. " If she '11 
 no come doon to Bourhill, I '11 see that she disna gang ony- 
 where 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 ? O, I hope he was very 
 gentle with her." 
 
 "I wasna in a' the time, but I'm sure that kinder he 
 couldna have been. He wanted her to gang to -Colquhoun 
 Street an' bide, but she wadna."
 
 WHAT WILL SHE DOf 265 
 
 " 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 1 ken she's guid," she answered, 
 simply. " Ye will gang to Bourhill, Liz." 
 
 " Maybe. I '11 see. I say, do you 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 you tell me wan thing 
 afore we gang down to Bourhill, if we gang." 
 
 "What is 't." 
 
 " Had Fordyce anything to dae wi' }^ou gaun awa' when 
 you did?" 
 
 "Mind your ain business," replied Liz, with the utmost 
 calmness, not even changing color. " I 'm no gaun to tell ye 
 a single thing. My concerns are my ain ; an' if ye 're no 
 pleased, weel, I can shift." 
 
 The girl's matter-of-fact, unruffled demeanor somewhat 
 allayed Teen's burning anxiety ; and afraid to try Liz too far 
 lest she should insist on leaving her, she held her peace.
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 A. REVELATION. 
 
 OUR Aunt Isabel was here this afternoon, 
 George," said Mrs. Fordyce to her son, when he 
 came home from the mill that evening. She 
 came over to tell me Gladys is in town. I said 
 I thought you did not expect her.'' 
 
 "No, I did not," George replied. " What 's she up for 
 anything new?" 
 
 " 0, one of her fads. Something about one of these girls 
 from the slums. Your aunt seemed to be rather distressed. 
 She thinks Gladys is going quite too far, and she really took 
 the opportunity, when the girls had gone to a studio-tea, to 
 come over to consult me. We both think you are quite en- 
 titled to interfere." 
 
 George shook his head. 
 
 " It is all very easy for you to say that ; but I tell you 
 Gladys won't stand that sort of thing." 
 
 "But, my dear, she must be made to stand it. I must 
 say her conduct is most unwomanly. If she is to be your 
 wife she must be taught that you are to be considered 
 in some ways. You must be very firm with her, George ; it 
 will save no end of trouble afterwards." 
 266
 
 A REVELATION. 267 
 
 Mrs. George Fordyce was a large, stout person of impos- 
 ing presence, and she delivered herself of this admirable senti- 
 ment most impressively. But though her son quite agreed 
 with her, and wished with all his heart that the girl of his 
 choice were a little less erratic and self-willed, he was wise 
 enough to know that any attempt at coercion would be the 
 very last thing to make her amenable to reason. 
 
 "What girl is it now?" he asked, with affected careless- 
 ness, but Turtive anxiety. " The same one who has been 
 staying at Bourhill?" 
 
 " No ; something far worse a dreadful low creature who 
 has been missing for some time. If Gladys were not as in- 
 nocent as a baby, she would know that she is a creature 
 not fit to be spoken to. Really, George, that Miss Peck is 
 utterly useless as a chaperon. I wish we knew what to do. 
 It is one of the most exasperating and delicate affairs pos- 
 sible." 
 
 " That girl !" repeated George, so blankly that his mother 
 looked at him in sharp amazement. "Heavens! then it's 
 all up, mother !" 
 
 "All upJ What on earth do you mean?'' 
 
 "What I say. Is it a girl called Hepburn?" he asked, 
 half-desperately, afraid to tell his mother, and yet feeling 
 that she, and she alone, might help him. 
 
 " I believe so. Yes, Hepburn was certainly the name 
 your aunt mentioned. Well, what then?" 
 
 "Simply that if Gladys has got in tow with this girl, 
 and takes her down to Bourhill, I 'm ruined." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 There was eager inquiry, anguish even, in the question. 
 Mrs. Fordyce was a vain and silly woman, but she had a 
 mother's feelings, and suffered, as every mother must, over 
 her son's dishonor. 
 
 " This girl was one of our hands, and and well, you 
 understand, she had a pretty face, and I was foolish about 
 her. 1 never meant anything serious ; but, you see, if Gladys
 
 268 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 gets to know about it, she is so absurdly Quixotic, she is 
 quite fit enough not to speak to me again." 
 
 " You were foolish about her," repeated Mrs. Fordyce, 
 slowly, and her comely face became rather pale as she 
 keenly eyed her son's troubled face. " Does that mean that 
 you were responsible for her disappearance?" 
 
 " Well, I suppose I was in the first instance," he said, 
 frankly. " Of course, I was a fool for myself; but a man is n't 
 always responsible, but " 
 
 " O, hold your tongue, George Fordyce 1" said his mother, 
 her voice sharp with her angry pain. " Not responsible, in- 
 deed ! I am quite ashamed of you. It is a most disgraceful 
 thing, and I do n't know what your father will say." 
 
 "There is no reason why he should say anything; he 
 need n't be told," said George, a trifle sullenly. " Of course, 
 I regret it, as every man does who makes such a deuced 
 fool of himself. And the girl can't complain ; it was more 
 her fault, anyhow." 
 
 " O, George, do n't be a coward as well as a scoundrel," 
 said his mother, with more sharpness in her tone than she 
 had ever before used toward her idolized son. " Do n't tell 
 me it is the woman's fault. That is the poor excuse all men 
 make when they get themselves into scrapes. I am very 
 sorry for her, poor thing, and I think I '11 go and see her 
 myself." 
 
 George remained silent, standing gloomily at the window 
 looking on the approach, with its trimly cut shrubs and spring 
 flowers blooming in conventional lines. His mother had not 
 received his information quite as he expected, and he felt for 
 the moment utterly u down on his luck." 
 
 " You have indeed ruined yourself with Gladys, and with 
 any other girl who has any respect for herself," she said 
 presently, with increased coldness. "And I must say you 
 richly deserve it." 
 
 So saying, she left the room, and as she went up-stairs two 
 tears rolled down her cheeks. She was not a woman of
 
 A REVELATION. 269 
 
 very deep feelings perhaps, but she had received a blow from 
 which it would take her some time to recover. She sat down 
 in her own room, and tried to think out the matter in all 
 its bearings. She felt glad that her husband and daughter 
 were not to dine at home ; for after the first shock was over, 
 worldly wisdom began to assert itself, and she pondered upon 
 the best means of avoiding the scandal which appeared in- 
 evitable. She was not very hopeful. Had Gladys been an 
 ordinary girl, entertaining less exalted ideas of honor and 
 integrity, everything might have been smoothed over. 
 
 Women, as a rule, are too lenient towards the follies of 
 men, especially when the offenders are young and hand- 
 some; but Gladys was an exception to almost every rule. 
 The only chance lay in the knowledge being kept from her ; 
 yet how was that possible, Liz Hepburn being at that very 
 moment an invited guest at Bourhill? She made some 
 little alteration in her dress, and went down, perfectly calm 
 and outwardly at ease, to a tete-a-tete dinner with her son. 
 When they were left alone at the table, she suddenly 
 changed the subject from the commonplace to the engross- 
 ing theme occupying both their minds, and, leaning towards 
 him, said quietly: 
 
 " There is only one thing you can do now. It is your 
 only chance, and if it fails, you can only retire gracefully 
 and accept your conge as your deserts." 
 
 " I do n't know what you mean," he retorted, a trifle un- 
 graciously ; for in his intense selfishness he had been able to 
 convince himself that his mother had been rather hard upon 
 him. 
 
 " I would advise you to go over to the Crescent to-night, 
 and see Gladys, and tell her what you have heard. Let her 
 understand, as gently and nicely as you can, but be quite 
 firm over it, that you, as her future husband, have some 
 right to express an opinion about the people she makes 
 friends of. You can lay stress on her own youth and igno- 
 rance, and do n't be dictatorial. Do you understand me?"
 
 270 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " Yes, but it won't be an easy task," he said, gloomily. 
 
 " No ; but it 's your only chance a very forlorn hope, I 
 confess it appears to me; but you can't afford to neglect it, 
 if you want to win Gladys; and it would be a most desirable 
 
 marriage." 
 
 e 
 
 These words were the key-note to Mrs. Fordyce's plan of 
 action. To secure Gladys as a daughter-in-law at any price, 
 was her aim ; and she had already stifled her womanly in- 
 dignation over her son's fall, and even comforted herself by 
 the cheap reflection that George had never been half so fast 
 as dozens of other young men who were received into the 
 best society. She had worshiped at the shrine of wealth and 
 social position so long that all her views of life were cen- 
 tered upon a solitary goal, and consequently ran in a narrow 
 and distorted groove. 
 
 "If the girl can be prevented going down to Bourhill. 
 all may be well. Do you think she is one likely to hold her 
 tongue?" 
 
 " I do n't know anything about her. She '11 speak, just as 
 other women speak, I suppose. The chances are, if Gladys 
 and she have met, she's told the whole story already." 
 
 " O, no she has n't, because Gladys knew your aunt was 
 coming here this afternoon, and sent a message that you 
 might come over after dinner. She would n't have done that 
 if she'd known that pretty story. You 'd better go away to 
 the Crescent at once." 
 
 " I 'in not very fond of the job," said George, fortifying 
 himself with a glass of whisky and water. "I've a good 
 mind to throw the whole thing up, and go off to the antip- 
 odes. Marrying is an awful bore, anyhow ; women are such 
 a nuisance." 
 
 His mother listened to these lofty sentiments in silence, 
 though she inwardly felt that it would relieve her feelings 
 considerably to administer a s<5und box in the ear. 
 
 "I 'in trying to help you, George, against my better judg- 
 ment, but you do n't appfnr to be very grateful," she said
 
 A REVELATION. 271 
 
 severely. " I 've a good mind to let you bear the brunt of 
 your folly, as you deserve ; and you know very well that if 
 your father knew about it, his anger would be terrific. I 'in 
 afraid you 'd have to take to the antipodes then, because the 
 door would be shut upon you here. I would advise yon to 
 do what 3*ou can to redeem yourself, and your utmost to 
 keep Gladys. Tell me something about the girl. Do you 
 think she would accept a sum of money to leave Glasgow, 
 and hold her tongue?" 
 
 " No," he answered, (( I do n't." 
 
 "Why? She must be very diffei-ent from other girls of 
 her class." 
 
 "I do n't know what are the characteristics of her class; 
 but I know jolly well that if you offer money to her, she '11 
 astonish you." 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce looked with keener disfavor into her son's 
 face. 
 
 " If she 's that kind of a girl, you must have promised 
 her marriage." 
 
 " Well, I daresay I did ; but she might have known it 
 was only talk," he said, trying to speak coolly, though his 
 mother's gaze made him decidedly uncomfortable. " But I 'ra 
 sick of the subject. I '11 aw a}' over to Kelvinside, and have 
 it either off or on. If the thing 's out, I 11 brazen it out. It 's 
 the only way." 
 
 "You do n't seem to realize the seriousness of the posi- 
 tion. I 'm sure I do n't know what has made you go so far 
 astray; not the training or example in this house. You 
 have grievously disappointed me." 
 
 " O, mother, do n't preach. I Ve confessed to you, and it 
 isn't fair to be so awfully down upon me," he retorted, irri- 
 tably. " I do n't think you or the governor have had much 
 to complain of as far as my conduct is concerned, and I 'm 
 not going to stay here to be bullied and snubbed for making 
 a little slip. I tell you, you do n't know what other fellows 
 tiro. I 've a good mind to open your eyes for you."
 
 272 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " I do n't want them opened, thank you ; and if that is the 
 spirit in which you are going to the Crescent, you deserve 
 to fail, as you are sure to do. I am not sure whether I shall 
 not tell your father after all," she said, icily. 
 
 "I don't care if you do," he retorted, and banged out in 
 ill-humor, which, however, gradually cooled down as he 
 walked rapidly to the station. Finding no train for the city 
 due for ten minutes, he threw himself into a hansom, and 
 drove all the way, reaching his aunt's house before eight o'clock. 
 Although he ran up the steps at once, he did not immedi- 
 ately ring, but even went back into the street, and took a turn 
 up to the end of the houses, surprised and irritated at his own 
 nervous apprehension. Glancing up to the house when he 
 again came opposite to it, he saw the three long windows of 
 the drawing-room lighted, and pictured the scene within. It 
 was a new and unwelcome sensation for him to feel any re- 
 luctance in entering a drawing-room where there were three 
 charming girls ; and at last, calling himself a fool, he ran up 
 the steps a second time, and gave the bell a furious pull. 
 
 " Is Miss Graham here, Hardy?" he asked the maid, an 
 old servant of his aunt's, who opened the door. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Anybody in the library ?" 
 
 "No, sir; Mr. Fordyce is sleeping on the dining-room 
 sofa." 
 
 " O, all right. Just take my card to Miss Graham, and ask 
 her if she would be so kind as to come down to the library 
 for a few minutes."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 OW extraordinary!" exclaimed Gladys. "Your 
 cousin is in the library; why does he not 
 come up?" 
 
 There was something so matter-of-fact in the 
 question that Mrs. Fordyce and her daughters 
 could not refrain from exchanging glances. 
 
 " Well, my dear, I suppose he does not come up because 
 he wishes to have you a little while to himself," said Mrs. 
 Fordyce, with a smile, " And I must say I quite sympathize 
 with him. Eun away down, and do n't stay too long. Tell 
 him not to be selfish." 
 
 " But I do n't think I want to go down. It is so strange, 
 I think, for him not to come up here as usual. Why should 
 there be any difference made?" inquired Gladys, as she rose 
 with seeming reluctance to her feet. 
 
 "It is you who are strange, I think," said Miaa, whimsi- 
 cally. " You would require a very cool lover, Gladys, you are 
 so cool yourself." 
 
 " It is a pity one must have a lover," said Gladys, quite 
 soberly, as she walked out of the room. 
 
 " Girls," said Mrs. Fordyce, " Gladys is an enigma, and 
 
 18 273
 
 274 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 I give her up. She is so different from any one I have ever 
 met. Do you really think she cares anything for your 
 cousin?" 
 
 "If she does n't, why has she promised to marry him?" 
 inquired Clara, rather quickly. " I think it is rather absurd 
 to ask the question." 
 
 " Well, I must say I should not particularly like to be in 
 his shoes," said Miua, and added, with light sarcasm, "but it 
 will do dear George good. Gladys will not fall down and 
 worship him like the rest of her sex. How I should like to 
 be invisible at this moment in the library !" 
 
 But though Mina had had her wish she would not have seen 
 anything \evy exciting, the greeting which passed between 
 Gladys and her lover being remarkably cool. George For- 
 dyce was not quite himself. Had Gladys been more absorb- 
 ingly interested in him she could not have failed to observe 
 the furtive look of anxiety with which he advanced to meet 
 her. His demeanor was as different from the ordinary eager- 
 ness of a newly-accepted lover as could well be imagined. 
 Nor did she betray those signs of maidenly shyness and 
 trembling joy which, in the circumstances, she might have 
 been expected to feel. 
 
 " Good-evening !" she said, gayly. "Why did you not 
 come up, instead of sending a message to me, as if you were 
 a person asking a subscription? I thought it so odd." 
 
 George's courage rose. The gay unconcern of her de- 
 meanor convinced him that as yet nothing had lowered him 
 in her estimation. With a little careful diplomacy the dan- 
 gerous currents might yet be avoided, and all go well. 
 
 " Is it so odd that I should wish to have you for a little 
 while to myself?" he asked, and, putting his arm round her 
 shoulders, took the kiss she could not deny him, though she 
 almost immediately drew herself away. 
 
 " Do come up to the drawing-room. Why should we stay 
 down here? Do n't you think it rather silly?" 
 
 " I do n't care whether it is silly or not/' he answered,
 
 TETE-A-TETE. 275 
 
 daringly. " I do u't mean to go up, or allow you to leave 
 this room for a good half-hour at least." 
 
 Gladys laughed a little, and dropped on one knee on a 
 stool before the quaint fire-place, where the logs burned and 
 crackled in a cheerful blaze. 
 
 "And I have a crow to pick with you, madam," said the 
 lover, made bolder by the perfect freedom of the girl's de- 
 meanor. " I do n't like second-hand messages. You might 
 at least have sent me a nice little note by the hand of Aunt 
 Isabel this afternoon." 
 
 '* I did n't think of it, or I might,'' answered Glad} T s, quite 
 soberly, and the ruddy firelight lay warm and bright on her 
 sweet face, and gave a deeper tinge to the gold of her hair. 
 As George Fordyce stood as near to her as he dared, being 
 deterred by a certain high dignity in her bearing, he was 
 struck not only by the perfect beauty of her features, but by 
 the singular firmness mingling with the archness of her look. 
 Twelve months had done a great deal for Gladys, and there 
 was nothing of the child left, though the new womanliness 
 was a most gracious and lovely thing. 
 
 "I had such a busy morning down town and O, I 
 have a great deal to tell you, only you must promise to be 
 sympathetic, because I have had a great deal to bear to-day, 
 and have almost quarreled with your aunt and the girls." 
 
 "Yes?" he said, with all the fine indifference he could 
 command. "And what was it all about?" 
 
 He knew it must come sooner or later, and braced him- 
 self up to carry matters through with as high a hand as 
 possible. 
 
 "About that poor girl of whom I told you Lizzie Hep- 
 burn. She has come back, looking so very ill and unhappy, 
 and of course I asked her down to Bourhill, and your aunt 
 and cousins are so vexed about it, I am quite puzzled. It is 
 so unlike them to b.lame one for wishing to be kind. Please 
 can you explain it?" 
 
 She raised her eyes to his face with something of the old
 
 276 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 child-like wistfulness in their depths, and it showed George 
 Fordjce to be a very clever man indeed that he was able to 
 meet that clear gaze without flinching. 
 
 " Well, you see, dear, I think it is regard for you which 
 made Aunt Isabel appear a little harsh. She knows the 
 world, and you do not ; and, you know, a young and lovely 
 girl, living without natural protectors, as you are, can not 
 be too careful." 
 
 " O, that is just how they talk," she cried, petulantly. 
 " But it does not convey any meaning to me. "Why should 
 I not be kind to this poor girl? She can't eat me, or hurt 
 me in the smallest degree. You must make it a great deal 
 plainer to me before I see the smallest particle of reason 
 in it." 
 
 Here was a dilemma 1 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, con- 
 veys but a faint idea of his peculiar state of mind. 
 
 " My own darling, it is extremely difficult to make it any 
 clearer without giving offense ; 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 ut- 
 tered, somewhat touched Gladys, though her face still wore a 
 perplexed and even troubled look. 
 
 " Well, but how can it do me any harm to have these 
 girls at Bourhill? Is it because they are poor that I must 
 not have them?" 
 
 " Well, not exactly, though, of course, it is not customary for 
 young ladies like you to invite such people to be their guests 
 just in the same way as you would invite Clara or Mina; and 
 I question very much, dear, if it is any real kindness to them, 
 it is so apt to make them discontented with their own sphere." 
 
 This was another clever stroke, this view of the case not 
 having been as yet presented to Gladys. Hitherto the talk
 
 TE TE-A- TETE. 277 
 
 had all been of the influence such companionship was likely 
 to have on her, and the next phase of the situation made her 
 more thoughtful still. 
 
 " I never thought of that," she said, slowly, "and I do n't 
 think it had that effect on Christina Balfour in fact, I am 
 sure of it. She is like a different creature so much brighter 
 and happier ; and I am sure a week or two at Bourhill will 
 do wonders for poor Lizzie Hepburn. If you saw her you 
 would be quite sorry for her. She is such an interesting 
 girl, so beautiful; and she has a great deal of character, 
 quite different from Christina. I have asked them down, 
 and, of course, I can't retract my invitations. They may have 
 gone down to Miss Peck already, for aught I know. Promise 
 to come down to Bourhill and see poor Lizzie; then, I am 
 sure, you will say I have done quite right." 
 
 A cold sweat broke over George Fordyce, and he was fain 
 to take several turns between the window and the door to 
 recover himself. He could almost have laughed aloud at the 
 awful absurdity of the whole situation, only it had its tragic 
 side, too. He felt that his chance was almost over. He 
 could not expect Liz Hepburn's visit to Bourhill to be bar- 
 ren of consequences the most serious. But he would wear 
 the mask as long as possible, and make one more endeavor 
 to save himself. He came back to the hearth, and laying his 
 hand hurriedly on the arm of the girl he loved, with all 
 the tenderness that was in him, he said, in that pleading, 
 winning way so few women could resist 
 
 " My darling, if I ask you, won't you take Aunt Isabel's 
 advice? 1 know I haven't any right yet to dictate to you, 
 even if I wished to do it; but won't you believe that 
 we only advise what is the very best for you? Couldn't 
 you, instead of having the girls at Bourhill, send them to 
 some other country place? It would only cost a very little 
 more." 
 
 " But that would n't be the same thing at all," said 
 Gladys, willfully. "And if I were to retract my invitation
 
 278 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 now, they would never have the same faith in me again. I 
 would not on any account disappoint them." 
 
 "Even to please me?" he queried, with a slightly in- 
 jured air. 
 
 " Even to please you," she repeated, in the same willful 
 tone. 
 
 "And will it always be the same?" he asked then. " Will 
 you never allow me to have any say in your affairs?" 
 
 " I hoped you would help me to do good to people," she 
 said, slowly, giving utterance for the first time to the feeling 
 of disappointment and misgiving which sometimes oppressed 
 her when she thought of her relation towards George 
 Fordyce. 
 
 "My dear, you will get all your thanks in one day," he 
 said, dryly. "I know the class you have to deal with. 
 They '11 take all you have to give them, and laugh in your 
 face. They have no such quality as gratitude in them." 
 
 Gladys curled her lips in scorn. 
 
 " How unhappy you must be to have so little faith in hu- 
 man kind ! That has not been my experience ; but we 
 shall never agree on that point. Shall we go up-stairs 
 now?" 
 
 Her perfect independence of and indifference to his opin- 
 ion, betrayed in the careless ease of her manner as she rose 
 from the hearth, exasperated him not a little. 
 
 " No, I am not coming up-stairs," he answered, as rudely 
 as he dared. 
 
 " What shall I say to Mrs. Fordyce, then? That you are 
 out of temper?" she asked, with a sly gayety which became 
 her well, though it only further exasperated him. 
 
 "You can say anything you like. I am very sorry, 
 indeed, that my opinion is of so little value in your eyes, 
 Gladys, and I ask your pardon if I have presumed too much 
 in offering you a crumb of advice." 
 
 " O, do n't be cross because we do n't happen to agree on 
 that particular point," she said, sunnily. "Each individual
 
 TETE-A-TETE. 279 
 
 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 do n't be- 
 lieve you care a tithe as much for me as I do for you." 
 
 He would have held her again, but she moved away from 
 him, and her face did not brighten as it ought to have done 
 at such a lover-like speech. 
 
 " Will you promise me one thing, Gladys, before I go?" 
 he pleaded, and he had never been more in earnest in his 
 life. " Promise me that if anybody speaks ill of me to you, 
 you will at least give me a chance to clear myself before you 
 condemn me." 
 
 "O, 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 am not going up to-night," he reiterated. " Give them 
 my kind regards. Are you really off?" 
 
 " I must, if you won't come." 
 
 He held open the door for her, and, as she passed out, stole 
 another kiss with all a lover's passion, telling himself it 
 might be the last. But it did not make her pulses thrill, nor 
 her heart beat more quickly, and she saw him depart without 
 a regret. 
 
 " You do n't mean to say that is George going away," 
 they cried, when the outer hall-door closed, and almost im- 
 mediately Gladys entered the drawing-room alone. 
 
 " Yes, he has gone," Gladys answered, calmly. 
 
 "What have you been doing to him to set him off like 
 that?'' asked Mina. '-Have you had a quarrel?" 
 
 " Xo," replied Gladys, innocently. "But I think he is 
 rather cross."
 
 280 
 
 THE GU1XEA STAMP. 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce shook her finger reprovingly at the girl, and 
 eaid, regretfully : 
 
 " My dear, you are incorrigible. I could almost regret 
 Henrietta Bonnemain's marriage, because she is the only 
 woman in this world who could have managed you."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 CHUMS. 
 
 |EVEE 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 glad to get quit of her, ony 
 way," she said, as Teen buttoned on her shabby black 
 jacket. 
 
 " What 's her name? Had ye better no write a line, for 
 fear she '11 no gie me the things." 
 
 " O, she '11 gie ye them withoot ony bother ; they wadna 
 bring her abune ten shillin's, ony hoo. An', I say, dinna tell 
 her onything aboot me mind. She 'd think naething o' 
 comin' ony where efter me." 
 
 0, 1 '11 no tell. Clashin' was never my sin," said Teen. 
 " But her name ; ye havena telt me that yet." 
 
 " 0, well, she ca's herself Mrs. Gordon ; but I dinna 
 
 281
 
 282 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 believe she 's a wife at a'. She 's in the ballet at the Olym- 
 pic, the noo." 
 
 "An' what way is she bidin' at Maryhill?" 
 
 " 0, her man 's there. She says she mairret to ane o' the 
 officers; but I 've never set een on him." 
 
 "Is she a nice lassie?" 
 
 " O, weel enough. She 's no mean, onyhoo ; but she 's 
 gey fast. She was tryin' to get me taen on at the Olympic. 
 If she says onything, jist tell her I 've changed my mind." 
 
 "An' are ye no awn onything for the lodgin's?" queried 
 Teen, who had a singular conscientiousness regarding debt, 
 even of a microscopic kind. 
 
 "No. I paid up when I had it. I dinna owe her 
 naething." 
 
 Teen was silent as she put her long hat-pin through the 
 heavy masses of her hair and pulled her fringe a little over 
 on her brow. But she thought a great deal. Bit by bit the 
 story was coming out, and she had no difficulty in filling up 
 for herself the melancholy details. 
 
 "Now I'm ready; ye '11 no slope when I'm oot, Liz," 
 she said warningly, and Liz laughed a dreary, mirthless 
 laugh. 
 
 " I ken when I 'm weel aff. I wish to goodness I had 
 come ta you when I was sick o' Brigton, instead o' gaun 
 where I gaed." 
 
 Teen stood still in breathless silence, wondering if full 
 revelation was about to be made. When Liz saw this the 
 old spirit of coatrariness 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', and I '11 
 bring in a sausage or a red herrin' for oor tea." 
 
 It was not without some faint excited curiosity that Teen 
 found herself at the door of the house of which Liz had 
 given her the address. It was a one-roomed abode, three
 
 CHUMS. 283 
 
 stairs up a tall tenement, in one of those dreary and uninter- 
 esting streets which are only distinguished from one another 
 by their names. In answer to her knock a shrill female 
 voice cried, " Come in," an invitation which the little 
 seamstress somewhat hesitatingly obeyed. 
 
 It was now after sundown, and the freshness of the day- 
 light had faded, leaving a kind of semi-twilight in the room, 
 which was of a fair size, and comfortably though not luxu- 
 riously furnished. On the end of the fender sat the solitary 
 occupant, in a ragged and dirty old dressing-gown of pink 
 flannel, her feet in dilapidated slippers, and her hair in curl- 
 papers along her forehead. Although she saw that her vis- 
 itor was quite a stranger to her, she did not offer to rise, but 
 simply raising her pert, faded, but still rather pretty face, 
 said, inquiringly 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Are you Mrs. Gordon ? I 've come for Lizzie Hepburn's 
 things. She 's no coming back here." 
 
 " O, all right; shut the door and come in. What's up 
 with her? Gone off with a handsomer man, eh?" queried 
 Mrs. Gordon, as she bit her thread through, and held up a 
 newly trimmed dress-bodice for admiration. 
 
 "No, she's gaun into the country the morn," answered 
 Teen, while the ballet-dancer gave several very knowing 
 nods. 
 
 "That's a pity, for her luck 's turned. You can tell her 
 she'll be taken on, if she likes to turn up at the Olympic 
 to-morrow morning at ten sharp. I arranged it for her on 
 Saturday night." 
 
 " She said I was to tell you she had changed her mind 
 aboot the theater," said Teen. " She 's no well enough for 
 it anyhow. She '11 be better in the country." 
 
 "Are you her sister ?" 
 
 " O no ; only her chum." 
 
 u Well, I say, perhaps you can tell me something about 
 her. She was close as the grave, though we 've been pals
 
 284 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 for a while; she'd not tell me a single thing. Whj- is she 
 out on her own hook? Is there a man in the business?" 
 
 "I don't know any more than you," said Teen, looking 
 rather uncomfortable over this cross-examination. "And if 
 you '11 tell me where her box is, I must be going. I prom- 
 ised 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, and mentally decided that she 
 would not tell her any such thing. 
 
 "And you can tell her, if you like, that I '11 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 '11 tell her; an' guid-nicht to ye. I'm very 
 much obleeged," she said; and taking Liz's tin box in her 
 hand, she left a trifle hastily, as if afraid she should 
 be longer detained. She found Liz sitting where she had 
 left her, in the same listless attitude, and her eyes were red 
 about the rims, as if she had had a crying fit. The fire was 
 very low, and the kettle standing cold where Teen had left 
 it on the hearth-stone. 
 
 " I forgot a' aboot the kettle, Teen," she said, apologet- 
 ically. " I 'm a lazy tyke ; but dinna rage. Weel, ye 've got 
 the box. Did ye see Emily?" 
 
 " Yes, if that 'B 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. " You dinna seem to have telt her 
 much, Liz, ony mair than me."
 
 CHUMS. 285 
 
 " No, it 's aj*e best to keep dark. I dinna mean anything 
 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 inten- 
 sity which caused Teen to regard her with a kind of awe. 
 " But may be my day '11 come, an ; if it does, I winna forget," 
 she said, more to herself than to her companion; then catch- 
 ing 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 put in the time in the country?' 1 
 
 " You '11 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 Col- 
 quhoun Street and see Wat, to tell him we're gaun to Bour- 
 hill?" 
 
 " No, I 'm no gaun. He micht say we werena to gang. 
 I say, Teen, he 's in love wi' her. Ouybody can see in his 
 e'e when he speaks aboot her." 
 
 " I ken that ; but it 's nae use," said Teen. " She 's gaun 
 to mairry somebody else." 
 
 " Is she? D'ye ken wha?" 
 
 "Ay, your auld flame," said Teen, apparently at random, 
 but all the while keenly watching her companion's face. She 
 saw Liz become as pale as death, though she smiled a sickly 
 smile, and tried to speak as indifferently as possible. 
 
 "Ye dinna mean it? Weel, I'd 'a' thocht she wad hae 
 waled better. Hoo sune are we gaun the morn ?" 
 
 She asked the question with eagerness, and from that mo- 
 ment the little seamstress observed that her whole manner 
 changed. She suddenly began to display a new and absorb- 
 ing interest in the preparations for their departure, and plied 
 Teen with questions regarding the place and her former ex- 
 periences there. The little seamstress, being a person of a re- 
 markably shrewd and observing turn, saw in this awakened 
 interest only another link in the chain which now appeared
 
 286 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 to her almost complete. Her former elation over their trip 
 to Bourhill gave place to a painful anxiety lest it should 
 hasten events to a crisis in which the happiness of Gladys 
 might be sadly involved. But it was now too late to help 
 matters, and with a bit of philosophical calmness she said 
 within herself, " What is to be maun be," and went on with 
 her preparations for the morrow's journey. 
 
 They set out accordingly about noon next day, carrying 
 their belongings in the inevitable tin box, and arrived at 
 Mauchline Station quite early in the afternoon a lovely 
 afternoon, when all the spring airs were about, and a voice 
 of gladness over the spring's promise in the note of every 
 bird singing on the bending boughs. With what keenness of 
 interest did the little seamstress watch the effect of country 
 sights and sounds upon Liz, and how it pleased her to see 
 the slow wonder gather in her eyes as they wandei-ed across 
 the wide landscape, over the rich breadths of the plowed fields 
 in which the sowers were busy, to the sheltering woods glist- 
 ening greenly in the sun, and the blue hills in the hazy dis- 
 tance seeming to shut in the world ! 
 
 It was her pride and pleasure to point out to her com- 
 panion, as they walked, each familiar and cherished land- 
 mark, and though Liz did not say much, it was evident that 
 she was in a manner lifted out of herself. The pure, fra- 
 grant air flowing about her, the wide and wonderful beauty 
 of green fields and sunny slopes, filled the soul of Liz with a 
 vague, yearning wonder which was almost pain. It brought 
 home to her sharply a sense of all she had lost in the great 
 and evil city; it was like a revelation of some boundless 
 good of which she had hitherto lived in ignorance, and it 
 awakened in her a bitter regret which was in very truth re- 
 bellious anger that the beauty of the earth should have so 
 long been hid from her. 
 
 " It 'B a shame," she said, " a horrid shame, that we should 
 never hae kent there was a place like this ootside o' Grlesca.
 
 CHUMS. 287 
 
 Wha is 't made for? the rich, I suppose, as the best 
 things are." 
 
 " O no," said Teen, quite gently. " There are plenty puir 
 folk in the country, an' bad folk too. Mrs. Galbraith says 
 there 's as muckle drink drucken in Poosie Nansie's on Set- 
 urday 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 name?" 
 
 " I say, Teen, ye are vera 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." 
 
 "No, but I didua ken her then. Yes, I 'in fond o' her; 
 an' there's naething I 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 once more by the great 
 love which had grown up within 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' your thanks in ae day," said 
 Liz, bitterly. " The best thing onybody can dae in this 
 world is to look after No. 1. It 's the only thing worth livin' 
 for. I wish I had never been born, an' I hope I '11 no live 
 lang, that 's mair." 
 
 "0, Liz, wheesht!" 
 
 " What for should I wheesht? It 's no the first time I 've 
 been doon at the Broomielaw, tak in' a look roon for a likely 
 place to jump in quietly frae. That '11 be my end, Teen 
 Ba'foor, as sure as I 'm here the day ; then they '11 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.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 IN VAIN. 
 
 ISS CAEOLINE 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 concerning Miss Peck's duty towards 
 her young charge, and laying a strong injunction upon her 
 to be exceedingly judicious in her treatment of the eccentric 
 guests whom Gladys had again invited to Bourhill. 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 gii'ls from the East End, it 
 threw out certain dark hints which only mystified and dis- 
 tressed 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- 
 288
 
 IN VAIN. 289 
 
 hearted person would have been amazed had she known how 
 the little spinster, metaphorically speaking, shrank into her- 
 self in her presence. The solemn warning she had received 
 did not, however, prevent her giving 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. " But I feel 
 sure she will be here to-night. Meantime I must do what 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 the little spinster with 
 wonder. She was certainly a very handsome girl, and there 
 was nothing forward or offensive 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 oc- 
 casion, when she might wish to give them a treat. 
 
 After tea, during which Miss Peck and the little seam- 
 stress 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 dog-cart, 
 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?" 
 
 "She is certainly a fine-looking girl ; but she has said so 
 little that I do n't know any thing else about her." 
 
 19
 
 290 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 . " But you have been very kind to them, I hope. I want 
 you to be specially kind to Lizzie. 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 rings, on the arm of her young charge, and 
 her kind face was full of anxiety "tell me why she has 
 had a hard time. I hope she is a good 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 satis- 
 factory 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 this morning," said the little spinster, with the 
 most unsophisticated candor, " and, really, from it one might 
 think your new protege quite an objectionable person." 
 
 Gladys looked distinctly annoyed. She had a very sweet 
 disposition, but was a trifle touchy regarding her own inde- 
 pendence. 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 busi- 
 ness," she said, and that was such a very harsh sentence to 
 fall from the lips of Gladj r s that Miss Peck looked rather 
 startled. " She has really no right to be writing letters to 
 you, dictating what I shall do in my own house. Do you 
 belong to me, or to her, I wonder?" 
 
 The momentary resentment died away as she asked this 
 question with the old whimsical smile. 
 
 " I think she means it for your good, dear," said the little 
 spinster, meekly. "And I think, in some particulars, she is 
 right. I never dictate to you, and for that reason you will 
 listen to what I am going to say. I think you should not 
 make too much of these girls when they are here. Be kind
 
 IN VAIN. 291 
 
 to them, of course, and give them every comfort, but let 
 them eat alone and be 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 Birchwood. And how 
 have you been since you went up 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," re- 
 plied Gladys, calmly. "Do you know, dear Miss Peck, I 
 think it was the greatest mistake for us to get engaged? I 
 do n'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 re- 
 lieved manner. 
 
 " O, nonsense, my love only a lover's tiff; when it blows 
 over you will be happier than ever." 
 
 " I do n't like tiffs," Gladys answered, as she ran up-stairs 
 to take off her wraps. The lover's tiff 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 re- 
 member anything which seemed to justify such a complete 
 estrangement. 
 
 !Never since she came to Bourhill had so long a time 
 elapsed without communicating with one or other of the For- 
 dyce family ; but as the days went by and they made no sign, 
 the girl's pride rose, and she told herself that if they pleased 
 to take offense because she reserved to herself the right to 
 ask whom she willed to her own house, the} 7 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 understand.
 
 292 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 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 attributed her silence to her 
 righteous and inexorable indignation over the story she had 
 heard from the lips of Liz Hepburn. He never for one mo- 
 ment 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 
 behavior was exemplary. She was docile, courteous, gentle 
 in demeanor and speech, grateful for everything, but enthu- 
 siastic over nothing, differing in this respect from Teen, who 
 appeared to walk on air, and carried her exaltation 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 appearing lifeless and 
 xininterested. Gladys was very kind and even tender with 
 her, but just a little disappointed. She watched her keenly, 
 not knowing that all the while Liz was in turn watching her, 
 and at last she breathed a hint of her disappointment into 
 the ear of the little seamstress. 
 
 " 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. Per- 
 haps it is something if would do her good to tell. Like you,
 
 IN VAIN. 293 
 
 I am often struck by her look, it is so dreadfully 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 favorite 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-stairs, caught up "a garden-hat from the hall, and 
 crossed the green lawn to Liz. 
 
 " Dear me, how doleful you look !" she cried, gayly. " 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, and she gave 
 rather a forced laugh. 
 
 " That wadna be easy. I do n't think I was thinking 
 onything, except a meenit syne when I lookit up an' wished 
 I was that laverock in the lift." 
 
 " But why? It is much nicer to be a girl, I think. Tell 
 me, Lizzie, do n'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 '11 never forget it, never as 
 long as I live." 
 
 It was the first note of enthusiasm Gladys had heard re- 
 garding Bourhill, and it pleased her well. 
 
 " I hope you won't, and that you '11 come often to 
 see it." 
 
 " I dinna think I '11 ever come again ; it 's no likely. How 
 long are we to bide?" 
 
 "As long as you like," answered Gladys, frankly. "Till
 
 294 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 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 pi'obe 
 into Liz Hepburn's secret, if she had one. 
 
 u 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 obliged to you for no 
 haeing pestered me wi' questions. I dinna ken anither body 
 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. " 1 wonder what way him an' me was born. Is 't
 
 IN VAIN. 
 
 295 
 
 true ye are gaun to be married to Fordyce of' Gorbals 
 Mill?" 
 
 As she asked this direct question, she flashed her brill- 
 iant eyes full on the girl's sweet face. 
 
 " I suppose I am, some time,'' Gladys answered, rather 
 confusedly. " At least I have promised." 
 
 "Ay," said Liz. " But there 's mony a slip atween the 
 cup an' the lip ; and in time, they say, a' body gets their de- 
 serts, even here. 
 
 With this enigmatical speech, Liz got up and crossed the 
 lawn with averted face, Gladys looking after her with a puz- 
 zled wonder in her eyes, thinking she was certainly a very 
 strange girl, and that it was hopeless to try to make any- 
 thing out of her.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 GONE. 
 
 WARDS the end of the second week Liz? be. 
 gan to exhibit certain signs of restlessness, which 
 ought to have warned those concerned in her 
 w-elfare that the quiet and seclusion of Bourhill 
 were beginning to pall upon her. As she improved in her 
 bodily health her mind became more active, and she began 
 to pine for something more exciting than country walks and 
 drives. They were not altogether unobservant of the grow- 
 ing 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 indif- 
 ferent 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 won- 
 der very much what it all meant. She was a remarkably 
 shrewd person, and it did occur to her to connect her visit 
 296
 
 GONE. 297 
 
 and the absence of Miss Graham's lover. One day, however, 
 she put a question to Teen as they sauntered through the 
 spring woods on the hill behind the house. 
 
 " I say is 't true that she is gaun to marry 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 re- 
 stored the bloom of health. Without planning very much, 
 or artfully seeking to mislead the little seamstress, Liz had 
 thrown 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 en- 
 tirely 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, tran- 
 quilly. " But maybe he 's awa' frae hame ; but nane o' them 
 have 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 
 inaitter to us, onyway." 
 
 " Maybe no. Let 's sit down 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 woi'ld, 
 clothed in a most delicate and exquisite garb of green, wait- 
 ing 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 hawthorn and the 
 bean were in flower. Nor was the ground left with its more 
 somber hues unrelieved ; the blue hyacinth, the delicate anem- 
 one, the cowslip, and the primrose grew thickly on every 
 bare hill-side and in all the little valleys, making the air 
 heavy with their rich perfume.
 
 298 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 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 to the sun-kissed edge of the sea, rejoiced 
 with a great joy. ?Tor was the sea less lovely, with the 
 silvery sheen of early summer-tide on its placid bosom, and 
 the white wings of many boats glistening in the sun. 
 
 "It's just like heaven, Liz," said the little seamstress, to 
 whom these things were a great wonder, revealing to her a 
 depth and meaning 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 much that would have made 
 her a happier and better girl. 
 
 " It 'a bonnie enough ; but 0, it gets stale, Teen, after a 
 wee ! If I were as rich as her I wadna bide here ; no, if they 
 paid me to bide!" 
 
 " What for no ?" 
 
 "O, it's that flat! Naething ever happens. Grie me the 
 toon, I say; there 's some life there, onyway." 
 
 " I wadna care if I never saw the toon again," said Teen, 
 gravely, for her friend's words troubled her. 
 
 " Hoo lang d'ye, mean to bide here, Teen ?" queried Liz, 
 presently. " It '11 be a fortnicht the morn since we cam'." 
 
 Teen did not at once reply. She had not dared to count 
 the days, grudging their sweet passing; and it jarred upon 
 her to hear Liz state the exact period, as if it had appeared 
 to her very long. 
 
 " This is the nineteenth ; it was the twenty-third, was n't 
 it, that Mrs. Gordon said she was leavin' Glesca?" 
 
 I 've forgotten. Yes, I believe it was the nineteenth," 
 answered Teen, listlessly, not being interested in the 
 time. 
 
 "My, she'll see a lot gaun to Ireland with a regiment. 
 It 's a lively life. I wish I was her." 
 
 Teen turned sharply 'round, and looked with reproachful 
 eyes into her companion's face.
 
 GONE. 299 
 
 " I thocht ye was glad to get away from her, Liz. I 
 dinna ken what ye mean." 
 
 " O, I was doon in the mooth, because I wasna weel !" said 
 Liz, lightly. " Seriously, though, how long are ye gaun to 
 bide doon here, Teen ?" 
 
 " I wad bide aye if I had the chance ; but I suppose we 
 canna bide very much longer. Maybe we 'd better see what 
 Miss Gladys says." 
 
 "Ay, I suppose sae," said Liz, a trifle dryly. " Whatever 
 you may think, I dinna think it 's fair that she should hae 
 so 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 just 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 re- 
 garded Liz with strong disapproval and vague uneasiness in 
 her glance. 
 
 "I dinna like the way ye speak, Liz," she said, quietly. 
 " But, I say, if ye were in Glesca the noo, what wad ye dae?" 
 
 " Dae ! 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. 
 
 " O, ye needna cast up what ye did. I never asked you, 
 onyway. Ye ken you and Wat hauled me awa' wi' you 
 against my wull," said Liz, rather angrily, being in a mood 
 to cavil at trifles. " I kent hoo it wad be ; but I '11 take jolly 
 guid care ye dinna get anither chance o' castin' up onything 
 o' the sort to me." 
 
 Teen ramained silent, not that she was particularly hurt 
 by that special remark, but that she was saddened and per- 
 plexed by the whole situation. She had sustained another
 
 300 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 fearful disappointment, and she saw that Bourhill had utterly 
 failed to make the charm on Liz which Teen herself ex- 
 perienced more and more every day. If she were not alto- 
 gether 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 weary state of health, she had at first 
 appeared touched and grateful for the unceasing kindness 
 and consideration heaped upon her ; but that mood had passed 
 apparently forever, and now she appeared rather to chafe 
 under obligations which Teen felt also, though in a different 
 way, 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 her 
 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 she 
 seemed dimly to foresee the end. The little seamstress did 
 not know the meaning of the lost ideal the probability is 
 that she had never heard the word but she felt all of a sud- 
 den, standing there in the May sunshine, that something had 
 gone out of her life forever. That very night she spoke to 
 Gladys, seizing a favorable 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 
 looks more and more like a new creature. Have you noticed 
 anything?" 
 
 " Naething very particular ; but I am feared that she 's 
 wearyin' here, an' that she wants to get away back to 
 Glesca," said Teen, with a slight hesitation, it must be told,
 
 GONE. 301 
 
 since such an insinuation appeared to savor of the deepest 
 ingratitude. 
 
 "0, do you think so? I thought she was quite happy. 
 She certainly looks much brighther and better, and feels so, 
 I hope." 
 
 " O yes, she 's better; that's the reason, 1 suppose. She 
 was aye active an' energetic, Liz," said Teen, feeling im- 
 pelled to make some kind of an excuse for her old chum. 
 " We 've been here twa weeks ; maybe it 's time we left." 
 
 "0 nonsense! What is two weeks? Suppose you staid 
 here all summer, what would it be? . Nothing at all. But 
 what do you think Lizzie has in her mind? Has she any- 
 thing 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 bitter- 
 ness ; for she could not help feeling that her faithful love and 
 service had met with but a poor return. 
 
 " She can't think we will allow her to go back to Glas- 
 gow without knowing what she is going to do. We had too 
 much anxiety on her account before," said Gladys, with de- 
 cision. " 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 '11 think I 've 
 been teHin' on her," suggested the little seamstress. " Liz is 
 very touchy about a lot o' things." 
 
 " Well, perhaps a better plan would be to write to Walter 
 to come down and see her," said Gladys, thoughtfully. " Yes, 
 I shall just do that. How pleased he will be to see her look- 
 ing 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 ar- 
 rangement at least, which will last till I get my scheme for 
 the girl's club all arranged. I must say it does not progress
 
 302 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 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 anything 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 visible in the sum- 
 mer sky, Liz Hepburn rose very softly from the side of the 
 sleeping Teen, and, gathering her things together in an un- 
 tidy 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. 
 
 And so they found it at six o'clock in the morning, just 
 when Liz was stepping into the first train at a wayside sta- 
 tion many miles from Bourhill.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 MATRON'S ADVICE. 
 
 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,' 1 replied the lawyer. "Surely, we 
 have n't heard anj'thing about her for a long time." 
 
 " I should just think we hud n't," said Mina, with energy. 
 " Perhaps by this time she has gone off with soinebody. 
 We Ve shamefully neglected her." 
 
 " George has n't been down either, Julia told me yester- 
 day,'' said Mrs. Fordyce, thoughtfully. " There must have 
 been a quarrel, girls. Did Gladys sa\" anything more before 
 she went away that day?" 
 
 "Nothing; but they are both so proud, neither will give 
 in first. I certainly do n't think, mother, that Gladys's feel- 
 ings 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. 
 
 303
 
 304 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 All the same," she added, with a faint sigh, " I admit that he 
 was right to find fault with her having those girls at Bour- 
 hill. Tom, dear, I really think it is your duty as guardian 
 to interfere." 
 
 " We can go down anyhow and see what she is ahout," 
 replied the lawyer ; and that afternoon, accordingly, they 
 went out to Mauchline. Not being expected, they had to 
 hire from the hotel, and arrived just as Gladys and Miss 
 Peck were enjoying their afternoon tea. She was un- 
 feignedly glad to see them, and showed it in the very hearti- 
 ness of her welcome. It was somewhat of a relief to Mrs. 
 Fordyce to find Gladys alone with Miss Peck. She had 
 quite 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 Gladys allude to them in any way. 
 
 She had a thousand and one questions to ask about them 
 all, and appeared so affectionately 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 atten- 
 tion," 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 evident 
 that she felt rather distressed. " In fact, she ran away from 
 Bourhill." 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Fordyce, in astonishment. 
 "Why should she have run away? It would have been 
 quite sufficient, surely, for her to have said she wished to re-
 
 THE MA TR ON'S A D VICE. 30o 
 
 turn to Glasgow. You were not keeping her hero against 
 her will, I presume?" 
 
 " No," replied Gladys, a trifle unsteadily. " i can not say 
 she has ti-eated us well. It was a very silly as well as a wrong 
 proceeding to get up in the middle of the night and leave 
 the door wide open as she did. She has disappointed me 
 very much." 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce looked at Gladys in a kind of wonder. Her 
 candor and her justness were as conspicuous as her decision 
 of character. It evidently cost her pride no effort to admit 
 that she had made a mistake, though the admission was proof 
 of the correct prophecy made by Mrs. Fordyce when the hot 
 words had passed between them concerning Liz at Bellairs 
 Crescent. Mrs. Fordyce, however, was generous enough to 
 abstain from undue triumph. 
 
 " Well, well, my dear, we all make mistakes, though we 
 do n't all admit so readily as you have done that they are 
 mistakes," she said, good-humoredly. "I suppose the girl 
 felt the restraint of this quiet life too much. What was her 
 occupation before she came down? I don't know that I 
 heard anything about her." 
 
 " She was once a mill-girl with Mr. Fordyce," answered 
 Gladys. " She is the girl who disappeared, do n't you re- 
 member? Walter Hepburn's sister." 
 
 "0!" 
 
 The lawyer drew a long breath. 
 
 " Perhaps it is just as well she has disappeared again. I 
 did not know that was the girl all the talk was about. Well, 
 are you not tired of this quiet life yet?" ! 
 
 " O no ; I like it very much. But when will you allow the 
 girls to come down, Mrs. Fordyce? I think it is too bad 
 that they have never yet paid me a proper visit at Bourhill." 
 
 " They are talking of London again ; wheedling their 
 poor, dear papa, as they do every May. I think you must 
 go with us again, my dear."
 
 306 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " Yes, I should like that," replied Gladys, with brighten- 
 ing face, and Mrs. Fordyce perceived that she had sustained 
 a very severe disappointment, which had made her for the 
 time being a trifle discontented with her own fair lot. 
 
 She took an early opportunity, when Gladys conducted 
 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 1." 
 
 " 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 can 
 not help thinking it is rather soon to disagree." 
 
 " I don't think we disagreed, only I said I should ask 
 whom I liked to Bourhill. Surely that was within my 
 rights," said Gladys, proudly. 
 
 " yes, to a certain degree, but not when you harbor 
 questionable characters yes, I repeat it, questionable char- 
 acters 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 miserable. 
 
 " O, what absurd mistakes you make !" was all she said. 
 
 "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 1 can 
 forgive him. Think, if he were to treat me so after I w r as 
 his wife, how dreadful it would be ! It would certainly break 
 my heart." 
 
 " Mj dear, the cases are not parallel. When you are his
 
 THE MA TR OS'S A D VICE. 307 
 
 wife your interests will be identical, and there never will be 
 any dispute." 
 
 Gladys shook her head. She did not feel at all sure of 
 any such thins;. 
 
 " I can not 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. I must forever regret 
 the circumstances which prevented Madame Bonnemain 
 coming to Bourhill." 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce felt the above conversation to be so unsatis- 
 factory 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 heir- 
 ess of Bourhill was not worth very much. 
 
 This letter reached the offender when he was seated at his 
 lather's breakfast-table with the other members of the family, 
 lie slipped it into his pocket; and his mother, keenly watch- 
 ing him. observed a curious look halt-surprise, half-relief 1 
 on his face. She was not therefore in the least surprised when 
 he came to her 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 3*ou like." She took it from 
 him eagerly, and perused it with intense interest, Like her 
 son, she had i-eally abandoned 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 there, and gone, evidently, and never 
 uttered a word. Can you believe it?" 
 
 "I must. Gladys would not 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 un- 
 happy during the last two weeks, dail}" dreading the revela- 
 tion of the miserable story which would make her idolized
 
 308 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 boy the center of au unpleasant scandal. Her relief was al- 
 most 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 are 
 done daily, and religion is made the cloak to cover a multi- 
 tude 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 con- 
 science was dead, and allowed her to give this deplorable ad- 
 vice without a dissenting word. 
 
 "It would be very awkward," said the amiable George, 
 "if anything were to come out after." 
 
 "After marriage, you mean. O, there would be a scene 
 a few hysterics, perhaps and there the matter would be at 
 an end. A wife can't afford 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.
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 A. GREAT RELIEF. 
 
 IEXT afternoon Gladys herself drove the lawyer 
 and his wife from Bourhill to the station. 
 
 " Xow, 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 accom- 
 pany us to London." 
 
 Gladys nodded with a bright smile. 
 
 " Yes, I shall do everything yon wish. I believe 1 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 anx- 
 iously at the alighting passengers. 
 
 "My dear, why, there is George, actually George 
 himself!" 
 
 Gladys cast a startled glance in the direction indicated, 
 and the color mounted high to her brow, then faded quite, 
 leaving her rather strikingly pale. 
 
 309
 
 310 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " Why does he coine here?" she asked, quickly. " I have 
 not asked him." 
 
 "Unless you have broken off }~our engagement with him, 
 Gladys, he has a right to come whether you ask him or not. 
 Tom, dear, here is our train now, and we must run over 
 that bridge. We dare not miss it, I suppose." 
 
 " I daren't, seeing I have to take the chair at a dinner in 
 the Windsor Hotel to-night,'' replied the lawyer. "But it 
 you like to remain a little longer, why not, Isabel?" 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce hesitated a moment. Her nephew was 
 giving up his ticket to the collector at the little gate, and 
 their train was impatiently snorting at the opposite plat- 
 form. ; 
 
 " 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 anj-thing of him you like. Write to 
 me, like a dear, this evening after he is away." 
 
 She would 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 greet- 
 ing. His demeanor 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 gayety. " Have I your permission to take a seat 
 beside you?" 
 
 "If you are going to Bourhill, of course you may," she 
 replied, quite calmly; then, turning to the groom, she said, 
 without any hesitation : " You can walk home, William. Put 
 my letters in at the post as you pass, and bring me five 
 shillings' worth of stamps." 
 
 The groom touched his hat, took the money and the let-
 
 A ORE A T RELIEF. 3 1 1 
 
 ters, 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 demeanor. 
 
 " 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 flick with the whip, which 
 sent them up the leafy road at a very smart space. 
 
 " I have come to make my peace, Gladys, and it 's awfully 
 good of you to send the fellow away," George began, im- 
 pressively. " 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 morn- 
 ing, and I wanted Castor and Pollux to have an easier load 
 to pull up the hill," she replied. " I suppose if I had al- 
 lowed 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 anxiously, as if 
 hardly sure how to proceed. 
 
 "Are you awfully angry with me, GIad} T s? I always ex- 
 pected 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 mo- 
 ment over his next words. He had to weigh them rather 
 carefully for the ears of this singularly placid and self-pos- 
 sessed young lady, whose demeanor was so little the index to 
 her state of mind. 
 
 " Well, if I admit I was in the wrong all the time though 
 I really, upon my word, do n't know very well what the row
 
 312 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 was about will you forgive me?" he asked in his most irre- 
 sistible manner, which was so far successful that the first ap- 
 proach to a smile he had seen since they met now appeared 
 on her lips. 
 
 " You know 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 night. 
 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 downfall 
 that is not generous in the least." 
 
 " My darling, how can you think me capable of such mean- 
 ness? Would it not be more charitable to think I came to 
 condole and sympathize with you?" 
 
 "It would, of course," she admitted, with a sigh. "But 
 I am rather suspicious of everybody. 1 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 that nothing would ever induce him to give her up. They 
 had now left the town behind, and were on the brow of the hill 
 where four roads meet. To the right stood the cozy homestead 
 of Mossgiel, and to the left the whole expanse of lovely coun- 
 try, hill and field and wood, which had so often filled the soul 
 of Burns with the lonely rapture of the poet's soul. Gladys 
 never passed up that way without thinking of him ; and it 
 seemed to her sometimes that she shared with him that 
 deep yearning depression of soul which found a voice in the 
 
 words, 
 
 "Man is made to mourn."
 
 A GREAT RELIEF. 313 
 
 The road was quite deserted. Its grassy slopes were white 
 with the go wan, and in the low ragged hedges there were 
 clumps of sweet-smelling hawthorn. All the fields were green 
 and lovely with thepromise which summer crowns and autumn 
 reaps ; and it was all so lovely a world that there seemed in it 
 no room for care or sadness or any dismal thing. Being thus 
 alone, with no witness to their happiness but the birds and the 
 bees, the pair of lovers ought to have found it a golden hour ; 
 but something appeared still to stand between them like a 
 gaunt shadow, keeping them apart. 
 
 " I have been awfully miserable, Gladys. You see I did n't 
 know what to do. You are so different from any girl I have 
 ever met. I never know exactly what will please you and 
 what will aggravate you. Upon my word, you have no idea 
 what an amount of power you have in those frail little 
 hands." 
 
 Gladys smiled, and colored a little. She was not quite 
 insensible to flattery. She was young enough to feel that it 
 was rather pleasant, on the whole, to have so much power over 
 a big, handsome fellow like George Fordyce. 
 
 " I wish you would not talk so much nonsense," she said, 
 quickly; but her tone was more encouraging, and with a 
 sudden inspiration George followed up his advantage. He 
 put his arm around the slender waist to the great amazement 
 of Castor and Pollux, who, finding the firm hand relaxed on 
 the reins, had no sort of hesitation about coming to an im- 
 mediate stop. 
 
 " But, all the same, I 'm going to keep hold of these little 
 hands/' he said, passionately, "because they hold my hap- 
 piness in their grasp ; and I 'm not going to allow them to 
 torture me very much longer. How soon can you be ready 
 to marry me, Gladys?" 
 
 " To marry you ! 0, not for ages ! Let me go. Just look 
 at the ponies they are utterly scandalized!" she cried, her 
 sweet face suffused with red. But he did not release her 
 until he had stolen a kiss from her unwilling lips a kiss
 
 314 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 which seemed to him to bridge entirely the slight estrange- 
 ment which had been between them. 
 
 She sat very far away from him, and gathering up the 
 reins again, brought Castor and Pollux to their scattered 
 senses ; but her face was not quite so grim and unreadable 
 as before. After all, it was something to be of so much im- 
 portance to one man. The very idea of her power over him 
 had something intoxicating in it, thus proving her to be a 
 very woman. 
 
 " I am going to London very soon with your Aunt Isabel 
 and the girls," she said, trying t'o lead the conversation into 
 more commonplace grooves. 
 
 "And could n't you see about your trousseau when you 
 are there? Is n't London the place to get such things?" he 
 asked. But Gladys calmly ignored this speech. 
 
 " I have engaged Christina Balfour to remain at least all 
 summer at Bourhill. She can be useful to Miss Peck in 
 many ways, and she is devoted to the place. Poor Lizzie 
 has fearfully disappointed me ! What would you advise me 
 to do about her?" 
 
 "Nothing. There is nothing you can possibly do now 
 but leave her alone," he answered at once. "Do you think 
 it is wise to keep the other one here?" 
 
 "O yes; why not? I am really going to perfect that 
 scheme for the working-girls soon. Meantime I think I 
 have got a little disheartened. I am afraid I am not very 
 brave. I hoped that you would help me in that." 
 
 She turned to him with a look which no man could resist. 
 
 " My darling, I '11 do anything you wish. I 'm not half 
 good enough for you," he cried, uttering this solemn truth 
 with all sincerity. " Only give me the right to be interested 
 in all that interests you, and you '11 find you can make of 
 me what you like." 
 
 Gladys was silent a moment, on her face a strange look. 
 She was thinking, not of the lover pleading so passionately 
 at her side, but of one who, while loving her not less dearly,
 
 A GREAT RELIEF. 
 
 315 
 
 had sufficient manliness and strength of will to go his way 
 alone, conquering, unassisted, difficulties which would appear 
 unsurmountable to most men. George Fordyce, looking at 
 her, wondered at the cloud upon her brow. 
 
 " Promise me, my darling, that you won't keep me wait- 
 ing too long. Surely three months is long enough for the 
 making of the best trousseau any woman can want? Won't 
 you promise to come to me in autumn, and let us have a 
 lovely holiday, coming back in winter to work together in 
 real earnest?" 
 
 She turned her head to him slowly, and her eyes met his 
 with a long, questioning, half-pathetic look. 
 
 " In autumn ; that is very soon," she said. " But well, 
 perhaps I will think about it; only you must let me be till I 
 have made up my mind. Why, here we are already at home."
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 A. REVELA.TION. 
 
 T was some days before Gladys could summon 
 courage to write to Walter about his sister. Had 
 she known the consequences of that delay she 
 would have been profoundly unhappy; it gave 
 Liz the chance, which she took advantage of, to 
 get clear away from the city. 
 
 Through these bright days of the early summer Walter 
 kept plodding on at his business, but life had lost its charm. 
 He was, indeed, utterly sick at heart ; all incentive to push 
 on seemed to be taken from him, and the daily round was 
 gone through mechanically, simply because it waited his 
 attention on every hand. As is often the case when success 
 becomes no longer an object of concern, it became an assured 
 matter. Everything he touched seemed to pay him, and he 
 saw himself, while yet in his young manhood, rapidly becom- 
 ing rich ; but this did not make him happy ah ! how utterly 
 inadequate is wealth to the making of happiness how many 
 have bitterly proved ! on the contrary, it made him yet 
 more restless, moody, and discontented. 
 
 Looking ahead, he saw nothing bright a long stretch of 
 gray years which held nothing beautiful or satisfying or 
 316
 
 A RE DELATION. 317 
 
 worthy of attainment. A melancholy condition of mind truly 
 for a young, prosperous, and healthy man ! In the midst of 
 this deep depression came the letter from Gladj'S, conveying 
 the news of Liz's sudden and strange flight from Bourhill. 
 He smiled grimly when he read it, and, putting it in his pocket, 
 returned to his work as if it concerned him not at all. 
 
 Nevertheless, in the course of the afternoon he left his 
 place of business and took the car to Maryhill. Gladys had 
 given him the address of Mrs. Gordon, with whom Liz had 
 former/ly lodged, and he felt himself impelled to make some 
 listless inquiries there regarding her. The result was quite 
 unsatisfactory. 
 
 The landlady regarded him with considerable suspicion, 
 and did not appear disposed to give him any information. 
 But after repeated questioning, Walter elicited from her the 
 fact that Mrs. Gordon had gone to Dublin with the Eighty- 
 third Eegiment, and she believed Miss Hepburn was with her. 
 Walter thanked the woman and went his way, scarcely 
 affected one way or the other, at least to outward seeming. 
 Liz was lost. Well it fitted in with the rest of his dreary 
 destiny; her ultimate fate, which could not be far off, 
 weaved only some darker threads into the gray web of life. 
 Next morning Gladys received an answer to her letter, and 
 it made her feel very strange when she read it. It ran thus : 
 
 "COLQUHOUN STREET, Thursday night. 
 
 "DEAR Miss GRAHAM, I received your kind letter this morning, 
 and I thank you for acquainting me with my sister's departure from 
 Bourhill. The news did not surprise me at all. I was onh r astonished 
 that she staid so long. This afternoon I called at the address you gave 
 me, and the landlady informed me that Mrs. Gordon has gone to Dublin 
 with the Eighty-third Regiment, taking my sister with her. After this, 
 there is nothing we can do. Poor Liz is lost, and we need not blame her 
 too hardly. 5fou reproved me once for calling myself Hie victim o:' circum- 
 stances; but I ask yon to think of her as such with what kindness you 
 can. Of one thing we may be sure her punishment will far exceed her 
 sin. Thanking you for all your past kindness, and wishing you in the 
 future every good thing, I am, yours sincerely, 
 
 " WALTER HEPBURN."
 
 318 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 It was a sad letter, conveying a great deal more than 
 actually expressed. Gladys threw it from her, and, laying 
 her head on her hands, sobbed bitterly. 
 
 " My dear," cried the little spinster in sympathetic con- 
 cern, " do n't break your heart ! You have done a great deal 
 far more, I assure you, than almost any one else would have 
 done. You can not help the poor girl having chosen the 
 way of transgressors." 
 
 11 It is not Liz I am crying for at present, Miss Peck," 
 said Gladys, mournfully. " It is for Walter. It is a heart- 
 breaking letter. I can not, dare not, comfort him. I must 
 take it to Christina to read." 
 
 She picked it up and ran to the still-room, where the 
 happy and placid Teen sat by the open window with some 
 sewing in her hand, love making the needle fly in and out 
 w T ith a wondrous speed. Her resentment against Liz for her 
 ingratitude had taken the edge off her grief, and she was dis- 
 posed to be as hard upon her as the rest of the world. 
 
 " 0, Teen, I have had a letter from Walter ! I shall read 
 it to you. It is dreadful !" Gladys cried, and with trembling 
 voice she read the epistle to the little seamstress. "7s n't it 
 dreadful? Away to Dublin ! What will she do there?" 
 
 Teen laid down her sewing, and looked at Gladys with the 
 simplest wonder in her large eyes. She could scarcely be- 
 lieve that a human being could be so entirely innocent and 
 unsuspecting as Gladys Graham ; for it was quite evident 
 she did not really know what Walter meant by saying Liz 
 "was lost. 
 
 " He says her punishment will be greater than her sin, 
 whatever he means. Do you know what he means?" 
 
 "Ay, fine," was Teen's reply, and her mouth trembled. 
 
 " Tell me, then. I want to understand it," cried Gladys, 
 with a touch of impatience. " There have been things kept 
 from me ; and if I had known everything I could have done 
 more for her, and perhaps she would not have run away." 
 
 "There was naething kept frae ye; if ye hadna been a
 
 A REVELATION. 319 
 
 perfect bairn in a'tliing ye wad bae seen tbrougb a'thing. 
 That was wby all the folks your grand freens, I mean were 
 so angry because ye bad Liz bore. But I believed in her my- 
 sel' up till she ran awa'. Although a lassie 's led a\va' she 's 
 no aye lost ; but, I doot, I doot, and noo Liz is waur than we 
 thoucht." 
 
 Gladys stood as if turned to stone. Slowly a dim com- 
 prehension seemed to dawn upon her; and it is no exaggera- 
 tion to say that it was a shock of agon}*. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that the poor girl is really bad ; 
 that she has deliberately chosen a wicked life?'' she asked, in 
 a still, strained voice. 
 
 Teen gravely nodded, and her lips trembled still more. 
 
 "And what will be the end of it what will become of 
 her, Teen?" 
 
 " The streets, an' she '11 dee in a cellar or a hospital 
 maybe, if she 's fortunate enough to get into one; an' it '11 
 no be lang either," said Teen, in a quite matter-of-fact way, 
 as if it were the merest commonplace detail. " She has nae 
 strength. Wan winter will finish her.'' 
 
 Here the composure of the little seamstress gave way, 
 and, dropping her heavy head on the sunny window-sill, she 
 too wept passionately over the ruin of the girl she had loved. 
 But Gladys wept no more. Standing there in the long, yel- 
 low shaft cast by the sunshine, memory took her back to a 
 never-to-be-forgotten night when an old man and a maiden 
 child had toiled through the streets of Glasgow after mid- 
 night; and how the throng of the streets had bewildered 
 the wondering child, and had made her ask questions which 
 never till this time had been satisfactorily answered. 
 
 ' I begin to understand, Teen," she said slowly, and a 
 shiver, as if a cold wind had passed over her. " Life is even 
 sadder than I thought. I wonder how God can bear to have 
 it so ; I can not bear it even in thought." 
 
 She went out into the sunny garden, and, casting herself 
 on the soft green sward, wept her heart out over the new
 
 320 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 revelation which had come to her. Never had life seemed so 
 bitter, so mysterious, so unjust. What matter that she was 
 surrounded by all that was 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. Look- 
 ing up into the cloudless blue of the summer sky, she won- 
 dered 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 concerns of 
 the day waiting for her. 
 
 "You know, my dear, we can't stand still, though 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 things ; but as you grow older and 
 gain more experience, you will learn to regard them philo- 
 sophically. It is the onfy way." 
 
 " Philosophically," repeated Gladys, slowly. " What does 
 that mean, Miss Peck? If it means that we are to think 
 lightly of them, then I pray I may be spared acquiring such 
 philosophy. 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 a 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 oi 
 Gladys. 
 
 " I fear it is quite useless, my dear. It is almost impos- 
 sible 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, 
 see, when a woman once loses her character she has no
 
 A REVELATION. 
 
 321 
 
 chance ; the whole world is against her, and everybody re- 
 gards her with suspicion. Sometimes, my love, I have felt 
 quite wicked thinking of the inequality of the punishment 
 meted out to men and women in this world. Women are 
 the burden-bearers and the scape-goats always." 
 
 Gladys rose up weary and perplexed, her face looking 
 worn and gray in the brilliant sunshine. 
 
 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 be- 
 yond 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.
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 A. WOMAN'S HEA.RT. 
 
 HE second summer of Gladys Graham's changed 
 life was less happy than the first. Her young 
 enthusiasm had received many chills, and some- 
 how 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 will, 
 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 disheart- 
 ened her inexpressibly, and for the time being she felt inclined 
 to let her scheme for 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 favorable 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. 
 322
 
 A WOMAN'S HEART. 323 
 
 All the time, however, she felt secretly uneasy and dissat- 
 isfied. 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 won- 
 dered how it was likely to end. She did not believe that 
 the marriage would ever come off, and her 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 inexpressibly by the wistful looks 
 with which these two, the most faithful friends she possessed, 
 regarded her. They thought her changed. She was thinned 
 and older looking ; her grace and dignity not less marked, 
 her beauty not impaired ; only the brightness, the inexpressi- 
 ble 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, O no, my child," announced Miss Peck, quickly. 
 " We are so thankful to have you home again ; we thought 
 the day would never come. Have we not counted the very 
 hours this week, Christina?"
 
 324 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 "Ay, we hae, but I dinnathink she 'sfell 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. 
 
 " O, such 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, and we shall 
 have somebody falling in love with you directly. I do n't 
 suppose you have heard or seen anything of poor Lizzie." 
 
 " No, naething. Walter was here, Miss Gladys, last week, 
 .seeking ye." 
 
 The color rose in the face of Gladys, and she averted her 
 liead 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 about Liz, an' some aboot his 
 ain affairs. Miss Peck saw him maist o' the time. He 's 
 gaun to sell his business, an' gang awa' to America or Aus- 
 tralia." 
 
 " O !" 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 
 father 's deid ; he de'ed efter a week's illness, just at the Fair 
 time, an' he 's gaun to tak' his mither wi' him.. She 'sbidin' 
 at Colquhoun Street the now." 
 
 "A great deal seems to have happened since I went 
 away," said Gladys, with something of an effort. " Is he 
 going to do this soon?" 
 
 " Yes, I think immediately at least he cam' doon here to 
 say guid-bye to you ; but Miss Peck can tell ye mair nor me. 
 She spoke a long time till him." 
 
 A question was on the lips of Gladys ; but she held it back, 
 and again changed the theme,
 
 A WOMAN'S HEART. 325 
 
 "And what docs he think about poor Lizzie? I suppose 
 he has never gone to Dublin to seek for her?'' 
 
 ' Xo, I dinna think it." 
 
 "It is all very sad. Don't you think life very sad, 
 Teen?" asked Gladys, with a great wistfulness, which made 
 the eyes of the little seamstress become suddenly dim. 
 
 "Ay, it is. O Miss Gladys, excuse me for sayin 't ; but if 
 3~e had seen his face when I tel't him ye were maybe to be 
 married in September or October, ye wadna dae 't.'' 
 
 "Why not? That could not possibly make any differ- 
 erence 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. I 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 seamstress 
 to her work ; but it lay unheeded on her lap, and her eyes 
 were heavy with a gray mist which came up from her heart's 
 bitterness. Yes, life did indeed appear sad and hard to 
 Teen, and all things moving in an entirely contrary way. 
 
 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 sufficiently 
 to show her gladness at having her back. Gladys did not 
 say very much for awhile ; but at last, when she was brush- 
 ing at her soft, shining hair, she turned round suddenly, 
 and looked into the old lady's face with rather an odd look 
 on her own. 
 
 " Xow, sit down. Miss Peck, and tell me every single, 
 solitary thing about Walter." 
 
 The little lad}* gave a nervous start, She had just been 
 wondering how to introduce this subject. 
 
 " Christina has told you that he has been here. My dear, 
 I was very sorry for him. He is a splendid young fellow, 
 and I wish "
 
 326 TlfE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 She paused there, nor did Gladys 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 can not 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 in- 
 formation," 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 granted, anyhow. And what did he give you in exchange 
 for all your interesting information ? Did he condescend to 
 tell you anything about himself?" 
 
 Miss Peck was wounded by the tone ; such bitter and sar- 
 castic 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 write 
 and let me know all this."
 
 A WOMAN'S HEART. 327 
 
 " My deai* child, be reasonable/' said the little spinster, in 
 gentle reproof. " He came expecting to see you, and he left 
 a kind message for you. I do n't see that it would have 
 done either you or him any good to write a letter. Your 
 ways must lie so far apart now. I told him we expected 
 your marriage shortly." 
 
 " I have never said it will take place," said Gladys, calmly. 
 "I wish people would leave me and my concerns alone." 
 
 Miss Peck could see the girl's face in the long glass, the 
 red spot burning on her cheeks, and the beautiful lips angrily 
 quivering, and she became more and more perplexed. Of 
 late Gladys had become a being difficult to understand. 
 
 "What i.s the use of talking in that manner, Gladys?" 
 she said, with a faint show of sternness. ' ; I saw Mr. For- 
 dyce in toAvn the other day, and he told me it is quite likely 
 the marriage will take place on the eighth of October. It is 
 quite impossible that it could be definitely fixed without you.'' 
 
 " I suppose so ; and what did Walter say when you told 
 him my marriage-day was fixed?" inquired Gladys, as she 
 tied the ribbon on her hair. 
 
 "I shall not tell you what he said," answered the little 
 spinster, quite severely for her. " You are in a mood which 
 would make you laugh at an honest heart's suffering." 
 
 "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 suffer 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 
 spinster. " 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
 
 328 TSE G VINE A STAMP. 
 
 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 ; lived and longed 
 for it. It has been an idol to me, and my punishment is 
 here. I wish I had never seen it. I 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 throw- 
 ing 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 marry him a wrong done to 
 yourself and to him. If there is a chord in your heart re- 
 sponsive to Walter's, do n't stifle it. What is anything in 
 this world in comparison with happiness and peace of mind?'' 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," Gladys answered, with mournful bit- 
 terness. " 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 dishonorable 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- mourn- 
 ful whisper, as she walked slowly to and fro. 
 
 Ah ! not thus was it meet for a , heart like Gladys Gra- 
 ham's to anticipate the most momentous crisis of a woman's 
 life. She felt powerless to help, but Heaven was still the
 
 A WOMAN'S HEART. 
 
 329 
 
 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 that she might be saved from committing so great a 
 wrong, which would bring upon her the curse of a loveless 
 marriage.
 
 CHAPTER XL1V. 
 
 THE 
 
 BUMMER seemed DO longer to smile upon Bour- 
 hill. That sunny evening was the last for many 
 days. A wild, chill, wintry blast ushered in Sep- 
 tember; if the Lammas spates had tarried, when 
 they came 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 with the mood prevail- 
 ing 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 faithful Teen upon the 
 theme 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 stupen- 
 dous issues ! It came in a plain, square envelope, bearing the 
 Glasgow postmark, and the words Royal Infirmary on the 
 330
 
 THE MAGDALENE. 331 
 
 flap. 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 : 
 
 " WARD 12, ROYAL INFIRMARY, ) 
 
 " GLASGOW, September 6, 188. J 
 
 " MADAM, I write to you at the request of oue of the patients under 
 my care, a young woman called Lizzie Hepburn, who, I fear, ia 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 can not last many days perhaps not many hours. 
 "Yours truly, CHARLOTTE RUTHERFITRD." 
 
 " This is from one of the nurses, I suppose," said the little 
 spinster, pityingly. "Poor girl, poor thing! the end has 
 vome 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 off 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 curi- 
 ous positions in the house the trusted companion of the 
 housekeeper, and the friend of the young lady had not 
 brought her into bad odor with the servants. She was a 
 favorite with them all, because she gave herself no airs, and 
 was always ready to lend a hand to help at any time; dis- 
 arming all jealousy by her unpretentious, willing, cheerful 
 ways. 
 
 Gladys found her in the drawing-room dusting the treas- 
 ures of the china cabinet. " O, Teen, there is a letter about 
 poor Lizzie at last !" she cried, breathlessly. " It is from the 
 infirmary. The nurse says she is very ill, perhaps dying, and
 
 332 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 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 car- 
 riage, and took no hurt 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, Walter will have seen his sister; he can not 
 have left Glasgow so soon," she said, as they drove from St. 
 Enoch's Station by way of the old High Street to the in- 
 firmary. 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 
 the faces of the outcast and the destitute 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 compassionate now only a degree more hope- 
 less. 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
 
 THE MAGDALENE. 333 
 
 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 somewhat 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 left, so 
 there were no impediments put in their way, and one of the 
 housemaids speedily brought Xurse Rutherfurd to them. 
 She was a pleasant-faced, brisk little body, whose very pres- 
 ence was suggestive of skill and patience and kindly thought 
 for others. 
 
 "O yes; you are Miss Graham, and have come to see 
 poor Lizzie," she said. " Will you just come in here a mo- 
 ment? Her brother is with her. I will tell her you have 
 come." 
 
 She took them into a little room outside the ward door, 
 and lingered only a moment to give them some particulars. 
 
 "She has been here three weeks," she explained. "She 
 was over in the surgical wards first, and then came to us. It 
 was too late for us to do any good. The doctor said 
 this morning that she will probably slip away to-day." 
 
 The little seamstress turned away to the gray window, 
 and wept silently; Gladys remained composed, but very 
 pale. 
 
 "And her brother is with her. Is this the first time?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Yes; it was only when we told her there was no hope 
 that she mentioned the names of anybody belonging to her. 
 She spoke of you yesterday, and asked only this morning 
 that her brother might be sent for. Shall I tell her you have 
 come?" 
 
 "If you please. Tell her her old chum is with me she
 
 334 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 will quite understand," said Gladys, quietly; and the nurse 
 withdrew. Not a word passed between her and Teen while 
 they were alone. 
 
 The nurse was not many moments absent, and the two 
 followed her into the long ward. It. was a painful sight to 
 Gladys, who had never before been within the walls of a 
 hospital. Teen, however, looked about her with her usual 
 calm self-possession, only her heart gave a great beat when 
 the nurse stopped at a bed surrounded and shut off by 
 draught-screens from sight of the other beds. She knew, 
 though Gladys did not, why the screens had been placed 
 there. The nurse drew one aside, and then slipped away. 
 
 There was absolute silence there when these four met 
 again. Walter, who had been sitting with his face buried in 
 his hands, rose from the chair and offered it to Gladys ; but 
 he did not look at her, nor did any sort of greeting pass 
 between them. Gladys mechanically sat down ; then Walter 
 walked away slowly out of the ward. 
 
 With a low cry, Teen flung herself on her knees, laying 
 her face on the white, wasted hand of Liz as it lay outside 
 the coverlet. The figure in the bed, raised up in a half-sitting 
 posture, had an unearthly beauty in the haggard face, a 
 brilliance in the eye, which struck her chilly to the heart. 
 It was like Liz, and yet strangel} 7 unlike. Gladys felt a 
 strange thrill pass over her as she bent towards her, trying 
 to smile and to sa,y a word of kindly greeting. It brought 
 no answering smile to the dying girl's face, and the only 
 sign of recognition she betrayed was to raise her feeble hand 
 and touch the bowed head of the little seamstress with a tender 
 touch, never bestowed in the days of health and strength. 
 
 " Well," she said, looking at Gladys, and speaking in the 
 feeblest whisper, " I 'm gled ye Ve come. I culdna dee with- 
 oot seein' ye. Ye bear me nae grudge for takin' French 
 leave ; ye can see I 've suffered for it. I say, is 't true that 
 ye are to be married to George Fordyce? Tell me that 
 plain. I must ken/'
 
 THE MAGDALENE. 335 
 
 These words were spoken with difficult}' at intervals, and 
 so feebly that Gladys had to bend forward to catch the 
 sound. She felt that there was not only anxiety, but a cer- 
 tain solemnity in the question, and she did not evade it, even 
 for a moment. 
 
 " They have fixed my marriage for the eighth of October," 
 she answered, and the manner of the reply struck even Liz, 
 and her great hollow eyes dwelt yet more searchingly on the 
 girl's sweet face. 
 
 "It '11 no be noo," she said. "I 've lain here ever since 
 the nurse tel't me she heard it was to be, wonderin' whether 
 I should tell. If ye hadna been what ye are 1 wad never 
 hae tel't ; but though I hae suffer't, I wad spare you. It was 
 him that brocht me to this." 
 
 Gladys neither started nor trembled, but sat quite mo- 
 tionless, staring at the sad, beautiful face before her, as if 
 not comprehending 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' straicht. He said he 
 wad mairry me, an' I believed it, as mony anither has afore 
 me. Wheesht, Teen, dinna greet." The sobs of the little 
 seamstress shook the narrow bed, and appeared to distress 
 Liz inexpressibly. Presently she glanced again at the face 
 of Gladys, and was struck by its altered look. It was no 
 longer sympathetic nor sweet in its expression, but very 
 pale and hard and set, as if the iron had entered into the 
 soul within. 
 
 "Is this quite true?'' she asked, and her very voice had a 
 hard, cold ring. 
 
 " When you 're deein' ye dinna perjure yersel'," replied 
 Liz, with a faint return of the old caustic speech. " If ye 
 dinna believe me, ask him. Is Wat away? Teen, ye micht 
 gang an' bring him back." 
 
 The little seamstress rose obediently, and when they were 
 alone behind the screens, Liz lifted her feeble hand again and 
 touched the arm of Gladys.
 
 336 TEE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " 0, dinna tak' him! He's a bad man bad, selfish, 
 cruel; dinna tak' him, or you'll rue'd but aince. I dinna 
 want to excuse mysel'. Maybe I wasna guid, but afore God 
 I lo'ed him, an' I believed I wad be his wife. Eh, d'ye think 
 that'll be onything against me in the ither world? Eh, 
 wummin, I'm feared if only I had anither chance." 
 
 That pitiful speech, and the unspeakable pathos on 
 the face of Liz, lifted Gladys above the supreme bitterness 
 of that moment. 
 
 " 0, do not be afraid !" she cried, folding her gentle hands, 
 whose very touch seemed to carry hope and healing. " Jesus 
 is so very tender with us ; he will never send the erring 
 away. Let us ask him to be with you now; to give you of 
 his own comfort and strength and hope." 
 
 She knelt down by the bed, unconscious of any listener 
 save the dying girl, and there prayed the most earnest and 
 heart-felt prayer which had ever passed her lips. While she 
 was speaking the other two had returned to the bedside, and 
 stood with bowed heads, listening with a deep and solemn awe 
 to the words which seemed to bring heaven so very near to 
 that little spot of eai'th. The dying girl's strength was evi- 
 dently fast ebbing; the brilliance died out of her eyes, 
 and the film of death took its place. She smiled faintly upon 
 them all with a glance of sad recognition ; but her last look, 
 her last word, was for Gladys, and so she passed within the 
 portals of the unseen without a struggle, nay, even with an 
 expression of deep peace upon her worn face. 
 
 A wasted life? Yes; and a death which might have 
 wrung tears of pity from a heart of stone. 
 
 But the Pharisee who wraps the robe of his respectability 
 around him, and, with head high in the air, thanks God he is 
 not as other men are, what spark of divine compassion pr 
 human feeling has he in his soul? 
 
 Yet what saith the Scriptures? " He that is without sin 
 among you, let him first cast a stone at her!"
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 ROM that sad death-bed Gladys passed out into 
 the open air alone. 
 
 " When you are ready, Teen," she said, "you 
 can go home and tell Miss Peck I shall come 
 to-day, some time. I have something to do first." 
 
 She neither spoke to nor looked at Walter, but passed out 
 into the open square before the cathedral, and down the old 
 High Street, with a steady, purposeful step. The rain had 
 ceased, but a heavy mist hung low and drearily over the city, 
 and the wind swept across the roofs with a moaning cadence 
 in its voice. The bitter coldness of the weather made no 
 difference to the streets. Those depraved and melancholy 
 men and women, the bold-looking girls, and the wretched 
 children, were constantly before the vision of Gladys as she 
 walked, but she saw them not. For once in her life her 
 unselfish heart was entirety concentrated upon its own con- 
 cerns, and she was in a fever of conflicting emotions a fever 
 so high and so uncontrollable that she had to walk to keep 
 it down. It was close upon the hour of afternoon tea at 
 Bellairs Crescent when Gladys rang the bell. 
 
 " Is Mrs Fordyce at home, Hardy ?" .she asked the servant ; 
 "and is she alone no visitors. I mean?" 
 
 22 337
 
 338 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 " Quite alone, with Miss Mina, in the drawing-room, Miss 
 Graham," announced the maid, with a smile ; but thinking 
 at the same time that the girl looked very white and tired. 
 " Miss Fordyce is spending the day at Pollokshields, and 
 will dine and sleep there, we expect." 
 
 Gladys nodded, gave her cloak and umbrella into the 
 maid's hand, and went up-stairs, not with her usual spring- 
 ing step, but slowly, as if she were very tired. 
 
 Hardy, who had a genuine affection for the young mis- 
 tress of Bourhill, looked after her with some concern on her 
 honest face. 
 
 " She does n't look a bit like a bride," she said to herself. 
 " There 's something gone wrong." 
 
 With a little exclamation of joyful surprise, Mina jumped 
 up from her stool before the fire. 
 
 " 0, you delightful creature ! to take pity on our loneli- 
 ness on such a day ! Mother, do wake up ; here is Gladys." 
 
 "O, my dear, how are you?" said Mrs. Fordyce, waking 
 up with a start. " When did you come up ? Were you not 
 afraid to venture on such a day ?" 
 
 " I had to come," Ghulvs made reply, and she kissed them 
 both with a perfectly grave face. " Will you do something 
 for me, Mrs. Fordj^ce?" 
 
 " Why, certainly, my dear. But what is the matter with 
 you? You look as melancholy as an owl." 
 
 "Will you send a servant to Gorbals Mill, to ask 
 3'our nephew to come here on his way home from business? 
 I want to see him very particular ly." 
 
 It was a very natural and simple request; but somehow, 
 Mrs. Fordyce experienced a sense of uneasiness as she 
 heard it. 
 
 " Why, certainly but will a telegram not do as well ? It 
 will catch him 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
 
 THE BOLT FALLS. 339 
 
 George Fordyce had taken for his bride; but the allusion to 
 it had no effect 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 tele- 
 gram 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 infirmary just now, 
 walking all the way." 
 
 " Walking all the way ! but from the Western of course?" 
 
 "Xo, from the Koyal ; it seemed quite short. O, that tea 
 is delicious !" 
 
 She drank the contents of the cup at one feverish draught, 
 and held it out for more. Both mother and daughter re- 
 garded her with increased anxiety in their looks. 
 
 " My dear, it is quite time you had some one to exercise 
 a gentle authority over you. To walk from the Koyal In- 
 firmary here! It is past speaking of. Child, what do you 
 mean? You will be ill on our hands next, and that will be 
 a pretty to-do. Surely you came off in post-haste this morn- 
 ing without your rings," she added, with a significant glance 
 at the girl's white hand, from which she had removed the 
 glove. Gladys took no notice of the remark; but Mina, ob- 
 servant as usual, saw a look she had never before seen creep 
 into the girl's eyes. 
 
 " But you have never told us yet what you were doing at 
 the infirmary," she said, suggestively; but Gladys preserved 
 silouce for a few minutes more. 
 
 " Please not to ask any questions," she said, rather
 
 340 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 hurriedly. " You will know everything very soon ; only let 
 me be quiet now. I know you will, for you have always 
 been good to me." 
 
 A great dread instantly seized upon those who heard 
 these words, and Mrs. Fordyce became nervous and appre- 
 hensive. But she was obliged to respect such a request, and 
 they changed the subject, trying, dismally, to turn the talk 
 into a commonplace groove. But it was a strain and an 
 effort on all three; and at last Gladys rose and began to 
 walk up and down the room, giving an occasional glance out 
 of the window, as if impatient for her lover's coming. But 
 it was an impatience which made Mrs. Fordyce's heart sink, 
 and she feared the worst. 
 
 George was no laggard lover ; within the hour he rang 
 the familiar bell. Then the nervous restlessness which had 
 taken possession of Gladys seemed to be quieted down, and 
 she stood quite still on the hearth-rug, and her face was 
 calm, but deadly pale. 
 
 " Shall we go before George comes up ?" asked Mrs. For- 
 dyce, involuntarily rising ; but Gladys made answer with a 
 shade of imperious command : 
 
 "No, I wish you to remain. Mina can go if she likes." 
 
 Mina had not the opportunity A quick, eager footstep 
 came hurrying up-stairs, and the door was thrown open with 
 a careless hand. 
 
 "You here, Gladys!" he exclaimed, with all the eager- 
 ness and delight he might have been expected to display ; 
 but next moment the light died out of his face, and he knew 
 that the bolt had fallen. Even those who blamed him most 
 must have commiserated the man upon whom fell that light- 
 ning glance of unutterable loathing and contempt. 
 
 " I have sent for you to come here, because it was here I 
 saw you first," she said, and her voice rang out clear and 
 sweet as a bell. " You know why I have sent for you to 
 give you back these things, the sign of a bond which ought 
 never to have been between ust How dared you how
 
 THE BOLT FALLS. 341 
 
 dared you offer them to me after your monstrous cruelty to 
 that poor girl from whose death-bed I have just come?" 
 
 She tln-ew the rings down upon the table. They rolled to 
 the floor, sparkling as if in mockery as they went; but none 
 offered to touch them. Mina opened the door hurriedly, and 
 left the room. Mrs. Fordyce turned away also, and a sob 
 broke from her lips. 
 
 Gladys stood quite erect, the linen at her stately throat 
 not whiter than her face, her clear eyes, brilliant with indig- 
 nation, fixed mercilessly on her lover's changing face. He' 
 was, indeed, a creature to be pitied even more than de- 
 spised. 
 
 " Gladys, Gladys ! do n't be too hasty. Give me op- 
 portunity for explanation. I admit that I did wrong, but 
 there are extenuating circumstances. Let me explain, I en- 
 treat you, before you thus blight my life and your own." 
 
 "What explanation is there to give? If it is true that 
 }'ou ruined that poor girl and do you think that a lie can 
 be uttered on a death-bed? what more is there to say? 
 Gather up these baubles, and take them away." Her bear- 
 ing was that of a queen. Well might he shrink under that 
 matchless scorn ; yet never had she appeared more beautiful, 
 more desirable in his eyes. He made one more attempt. 
 
 " Take time, Gladys. I deny nothing; 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 life-time of de- 
 votion." 
 
 " To whom ?" 
 
 " To you. I have been a wild, foolish, sinful fellow, if you 
 like, but never wholly bad," he said, eagerly. "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 poor 
 girl, and the insult you were base enough to offer me in asking 
 me to be your wife an insult, I fear, I can never forgive."
 
 342 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 "Aunt Isabel, will you not help me?" said he, then turn- 
 ing 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 investiga- 
 tion. 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 oft' 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. 
 
 " I can not, George. Gladys is right ; you had better go." 
 
 Then George Fordyce, with a malignant scowl on his 
 face, put his heel on the bauble which had cost him a hun- 
 dred guineas, crushed it into powder, and flung himself out 
 of the room. And Gladys, with a low, faint, shuddering 
 cry, threw herself upon the couch, and gave way to the flood- 
 tide of her grief and humiliation and angry pain. 
 
 Mrs. Fordyce wisely allowed it to have full vent ; but at 
 last she seated hei'self 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 bet- 
 ter 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 truth 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 do n'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 can not believe it." 
 
 " Nor do I. There are some, I know, who have had an
 
 THE BOLT FALLS. 343 
 
 unworthy past ; but you must remember 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 men. 
 It shall never be said of me. If I can not marry a man who 
 entertains a high and reverent ideal of manhood and woman- 
 hood, 1 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 Pollok- 
 shields." 
 
 "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 bloAV, 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 3*0111* 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 homo 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.
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 THE WORLD WELL LOST. 
 
 LADYS returned to her own home that night, 
 and when she again left it, it was in altered and 
 happy circumstances. Those who loved her so 
 dearly watched over her the next day with a 
 tender and solicitous concern ; but they did not 
 see much, in her outward demeanor at least, to give them 
 cause for alarm. She was certainly graver, preoccupied, and 
 rather sad; but, again, her natural gayety would overflow 
 more spontaneously than it had done for long, thus showing 
 that, though 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 things 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 great sky dear to 
 her. How much and how often her thoughts were concen- 
 trated upon that lowly place, none knew save herself. 
 
 Since that melancholy morning in the ward of the Koyal 
 Infirmary she had not heard of or seen Walter ; but she 
 344
 
 THE WORLD WELL LOST. 345 
 
 knew in her inmost heart that she should see him, and 
 waited for it with a strange restful ness of heart. Therefore 
 it was no surprise to her when he came, one sunny evening, 
 up the avenue to the house. She saw him coming, and ran 
 out to meet him something in the old childish fashion 
 with a look of eager welcome on her face. His dark face 
 flushed at her coming, and he gave his head a swift turn 
 away, and swallowed something in his throat. When they 
 met he was grave, courteous, hut 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 cor- 
 diality of tried friends. " 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, re- 
 lieved 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 four- 
 teenth 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 ar- 
 ranged 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, Walter, 
 or can you go on a little further ? It is a shame that you 
 have never seen anything of Bourhill. Surely you will at 
 least sleep here to-night, or have you to run away again by 
 the nine-fifteen ?" 
 
 " I can stay, since }-ou are good enough to wish it," he
 
 340 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 said, a trifle formally. "And you know I shall be only too 
 happy to walk anywhere you like with you." 
 
 "How accommodating!" said Gladys, with a faint touch 
 of ironical humor. " Well, let us go up to the Birch Wood. 
 We shall see the moon rising shortly, if you care about any- 
 thing so commonplace as the rising of a moon. To Aus- 
 tralia? 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 old bantering 
 mood. 
 
 " She has not done much for me. I leave few but pain- 
 ful 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 Birch Wood crowning the little hill which shel- 
 tered Bourhill from the northern blast. It was a still and 
 beautiful evening, with a lovely softness in the air, suggest- 
 ive 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 growing corn was to be seen. 
 All the woods were growing mellow, and the fullness and 
 plenty of the autumn were abroad in the land. 
 
 " It 's dowie at the hint o' hairst, at the wa' gaun o' the 
 swallow," quoted Walter, in a low voice, and his eye grew 
 moist as it ranged across the beautiful landscape with some- 
 thing of that unutterable and painful longing with which 
 the exile takes his farewell of the land he loves. 
 
 " Walter," said Gladys, quite softly, as she leaned against 
 the straight, white trunk of a rowan-tree, on which the ber- 
 ries hung rich and red, " I have often thought of you since 
 that sad day. Often I wished to write, but I knew that you 
 would come when you felt like it. Did you understand?"
 
 THE WORLD WELL LOST. 347 
 
 "I hoard that your marriage was broken off. and 1 
 thanked God for that," Walter answered, and Gladys heard 
 the tremor in his voice, and saw his firm, fine mouth take a 
 long, stern curve. 
 
 " It did not surprise you?'' she asked, in the same soft, 
 far-off voice which betrayed nothing but the gentlest sisterly 
 confidence and regard. 
 
 " No ; but I suffered agony enough till I heard it. When 
 one lives through such dark days as those were, Gladys, faith 
 in human kind becomes very difficult. I feared lest your 
 scruples might be overcome.'' 
 
 " I am sorry you had such a fear for me, Walter, even for 
 a moment; but perhaps it was natural. And when will you 
 come back from this dreadful Australia, did you say?" 
 
 " Perhaps never." 
 
 He 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. Xever had he loved her as he did then in the an- 
 guish of farewell, and he called himself a fool for not hav- 
 ing gone, as prudence prompted, leaving only a written 
 message behind. 
 
 "And is that all you have to say to me. Walter, that you 
 are going to Australia on the fourteenth, is it? and that 
 you will never come back?" 
 
 " It is all I dare to say," he answered, nor did he look at 
 her yet, though there was a whimsical, tender little smile on 
 the lovely mouth, which might have won his gaze. 
 
 'And you are quite determined to go alone?'' 
 
 " Well, you see," he began, glad of anything to get on 
 commonplace ground, "I might get plenty of fellows, but 
 it's an awful bore, unless they happen just to be the right 
 sort." 
 
 " Yes, that is quite true ; there are so few nice fellows," 
 said Gladys, innocently. " Don't you think you might get 
 a nice girl to go with you, if you asked her properly ?"
 
 348 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 Then Walter flashed a sad, proud look at her a look 
 which Gladys fearlessly met, and thought at that very mo- 
 ment that she had never seen him look so well, so handsome, 
 so worthy of regard. Sorrow had wrought her perfect work 
 in him, and he had emerged from the shadow of blighted 
 hope and frustrated ambition a gentler, humbler, ay, and a 
 holier man than he had yet been. Suddenly that look of 
 sad, quiet wonder, which had a touch of reproach in it, quite 
 broke Gladys down, and she made no effort to stem the tears 
 which might make him sad or glad, she did not care. 
 
 " Gladys, " he began hurriedly, " it is more than man is fit 
 to bear, to see these tears If they mean nothing more than 
 a natural regret at parting from one whom circumstances 
 have strangely thrown in your way, perhaps too often, tell 
 me so, and i shall thank you, even for that kindly regret; 
 but if they mean that I may come back some day, worthier, 
 perhaps, than I am to-day " 
 
 " That day will never come," broke in Gladys, quietly. 
 " But if you will take me to Australia with you, Walter, I 
 am ready to go this very day." 
 
 His face grew dusky red, his eyes shone, he looked at 
 her as if he sought to read her soul. 
 
 " Do you know what you are saying, Gladys? If you go, 
 it can only be in one way, as my wife." 
 
 " Well." 
 
 She took a long breath, but was allowed to say no more, 
 until a long time after, when she raised her face from her 
 lover's breast, and demanded that he should take her 
 home. 
 
 " It is an awful thing we have done, Gladys," he said, 
 touching her dear head for the twentieth time, and looking 
 down into her eyes, which were luminous with the light of 
 love " an awful thing for me, at least. We shall have to flee 
 the country, and they will say I have abducted the heiress of 
 Bourhill." 
 
 " 0, do run off with me as the Red Reiver, and all these
 
 THE WORLD WELL LOST. 349 
 
 nice, interesting sort of people used to do long ago. Let 
 us abscond, and not tell a single living soul, except the faith- 
 ful Teen." 
 
 But "Walter shook his head. 
 
 " It is what I should like to do above every thing ; but I 
 must resist the temptation. No, my darling; for your sake 
 everything must be most scrupulously conventional, if a little 
 hurried. I shall pay your guardian a visit to-morrow morn- 
 ing, which will somewhat astonish him." 
 
 Gladys looked at him with a sudden access of admiration. 
 To hear him speak in that calm, masterful tone pleased her 
 as nothing else could have done. 
 
 "But you won't let them frighten you, and abscond with- 
 out me ; that would be too mean," she said, saucily. 
 
 Walter made no verbal reply; and so, hand in hand, 
 they turned to leave the moonlit woods, and there was a look 
 on the face of Walter such as you see on the faces of reverent 
 worshipers who have found rest and peace to their souls. 
 
 " Poor Liz !" he said, under his breath, and he uplifted his 
 eyes to the clear sky, as if seeking to penetrate its mystery, 
 and find whither that wayward soul had fled. 
 
 Gladys laid her soft cheek against his arm, and silence 
 fell upon them again. But the heart of each was full to the 
 uttermost, and they asked no more. 
 
 It was indeed the world well lost for love. 
 
 On the morning of the 9th of October, this announcement 
 appeared in the marriage-list of the Glasgow Herald, and was 
 read and discussed at many breakfast-tables : "At Bourhill, 
 Ayrshire, on the 8th instant, Walter Hepburn to Gladys 
 Graham." 
 
 It may be added that it was a source of profound wonder 
 to many, and of awful chagrin to a few. In the house of the 
 Pollokshields Fordyces the announcement was discreetly 
 tabooed, though George must have felt it keenly, seeing 
 Gladys had suffered so little over the unhappy termination
 
 350 THE GUINEA STAMP. 
 
 of their engagement that she could substitute another bride- 
 groom, though retaining the same marriage-day. 
 
 On the fourteenth the young couple set sail for the land 
 of the Southern Cross, and were absent exactly twelve 
 months ; the reason for their return being that they wished 
 their first-born child to see the light first in Bourhill. And 
 they never left it again ; for Walter made use of the colonial 
 connection he had made to build up a new business in Glas- 
 gow, which has prospered far above his expectation. So for- 
 tune has blessed him in the end, and he can admit now that 
 the bitterness of the old days was not without its purpose. 
 
 The faithful Teen, no longer melancholy, reigns in a snug 
 house of her own, not a hundred miles from Mauchline, but 
 retains her old adoration for Bourhill and its bonnie sweet 
 mistress. 
 
 There are occasional comings and goings between the 
 Bellairs Crescent Fordyces and Bourhill, and the family are 
 united in approving the marriage of Gladys now, though 
 they had their fling at it with the rest of the folk when it 
 was a nine-days' wonder. But that is the way of the world 
 mostly to go with the crowd, which jumps on a man when 
 he is down, and gives him a kindly pat or a cringing salute, 
 as may seem most advisable, when he is up. 
 
 But the wise man takes no account of such, pursuing his 
 own path with integrity and perseverance, cherishing the 
 tried friends, and keeping warm and close in his heart, like 
 a dove in its nest, the love which, through sunshine and 
 storm, remains unchanged. 
 
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