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

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

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

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

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

‘A man?’ asked Liz, with interest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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