hope had been wrested from her, how absolute and unassailable had been her faith in her friend’s honour.  And now she knew intuitively the very worst.  It needed no sad story from Liz to convince the little seamstress that she had tried the way of transgressors, and found it hard.  Mingling with her intense sorrow over Liz was another and, if possible, a more painful fear—­lest this deviation from the paths of rectitude might be fraught with painful consequences to the gentle girl whom Teen had learned to love with a love which had in it the elements of worship.  These melancholy forebodings banished sleep from the eyes of the little seamstress, and early in the morning she rose, sore, stiff, and unrefreshed, from her hard couch, and began to move about the house again, setting it to rights for Liz’s awakening.  She, however, slept on, the heavy sleep of complete exhaustion; and finally, Teen, not thinking it wise to disturb her, laid herself down on the front of the bed to rest her tired bones.  She too fell asleep, and it was the sunshine upon her face which awakened her, just as the church bells began to ring.

With an exclamation which awoke her companion, she leaped up, and ran to break up the fire, which was smouldering in the grate.

‘Mercy me! it’s eleeven o’clock; but it’s Sunday mornin’, so it doesna matter,’ she said almost blithely, for in the morning everything seems brighter, and even hard places less hard.  ’My certy, Liz, ye’ve sleepit weel.  Hae ye ever wakened?’

‘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 cosy breakfast, talking of commonplace things, when Walter’s double knock came to the door.  Teen ran to admit him, and, with a series of nods, indicated to him that his sister was all right within.  There was a strained awkwardness in their meeting.  Liz felt and resented the questioning scrutiny of his eyes, and had not Teen thrown herself into the breach, it would have been a strange interview.  As it was, she showed herself to be a person of the finest and most delicate tact, and 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 pretence of going to inquire for a sick neighbour, took herself off, and left the brother and sister alone.  It had to come sooner or later, she knew, and she hoped that Liz, in her softer mood, would at least meet Walter half-way.

When the door was closed upon the two there was a moment’s silence, which Walter broke quite abruptly; it was not his nature to beat about the bush.