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 nothing 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 happening, for they were seldom sober.  He could not help asking 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 were heavy burdens for the young man to bear, and he may be forgiven his morbid pride, his apparent hardness of heart.  It is a common saying 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 descended 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 unsavoury details of the neighbours’ shortcomings and domestic affairs.  It is a tragedy we see daily in our midst, this gradual estrangement of those bound by ties of blood, and who ought, but cannot 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 heavenliest 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 preparations for the mid-day meal.  He never knew how he should find them; too often a visit to that home made him sick at heart.