‘Here now.  Perhaps you had better stay here till I bring a light,’ said the old man at length.

’Oh no, I can’t; I am terrified.  I will come in, cried Gladys, in affright.

’Very well.  But there’s a stair; you must stand there a moment.  I know where the matches are.’

Gladys stood still, holding in to the wall in silent terror.  The atmosphere of the place depressed her—­it smelt close and heavy, of some disagreeable oily odour.  She felt glad to turn her face to the door, where the cool night air—­a trifle fresher—­could touch her face.  Her uncle’s footsteps grew fainter and fainter, then became louder again as he began to return.  Presently the gleam of a candle appeared at the farther end of a long passage, and he came back to the door, which he carefully closed and locked.  Then Gladys saw that a straight, steep stair led to the upper 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 fireplace was very old and quaint, having a little grate set quite unattached into the open space, leaving room enough for a stool on either side.  It was, however, choked with dead ashes, and presented a melancholy spectacle.

‘Now,’ said the old man, as he set the 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’ll see if there’s anything in the press.  There should be a bit of bread and a morsel of cheese, if that rascal hasn’t gobbled them up.’

Gladys sat down, and her eyes wandered over all the great wide room into its shadowy corners, and it was as if the frost of winter settled on her young heart.  The old man hung up his coat and hat behind the door, and, opening the press, brought therefrom the half of a stale loaf, a plate on which reposed a microscopic portion of highly-coloured butter, and a scrap of cheese wrapped in paper.  These he laid on the bare table, where the dust lay white.

‘Eat a mouthful, child, and then we’ll get to bed,’ he said.  ’You’ll need to sleep here in my bed to-night, and I’ll go to the back room, where there’s an old sofa.  On Monday I’ll get some things, and you can have that room for yourself.  Tired, eh?’

Uncle Abel’s spirits rose to find himself at home, and the child’s sank lower at the prospect stretching out before her.

‘No—­that is, not very.  It seems very long since morning.’

’Ay, it’s been a longish day.  Never mind; tomorrow’s Sunday, and we needn’t get up before ten or eleven.’

‘Don’t you go to church, Uncle Abel?’