‘If the lassie I’m lodgin’ wi’ is in, Teen, ye can tell her I’m no’ comin’ back.  I’m very gled to get quit o’ her, onyway,’ she said, as Teen buttoned on her shabby black jacket.

‘What’s her name?  Had ye better no’ write a line, for fear she’ll no’ gie me the things?’

’Oh, she’ll gie ye them withoot ony bother; they wadna bring her abune ten shillin’s, onyhoo.  An’, I say, dinna tell her onything aboot me, mind.  She’d think naething o’ comin’ onywhere efter me.’

‘Oh, I’ll no’ tell.  Clashin’ was never my sin,’ said Teen.  ’But her name?—­ye havena telt me that yet.’

‘Oh, weel, she ca’s hersel’ Mrs. Gordon, but I dinna believe she’s a wife at a’.  She’s in the ballet at the Olympic the noo.’

‘An’ what way is she bidin’ at Maryhill?’

‘Oh, her man’s there.  She says she’s mairret to yin o’ the officers, but I’ve never set een on him.’

‘Is she a nice lassie?’

‘Oh, weel enough.  She’s no’ mean, onyhoo, but she’s gey fast.  She was tryin’ to get me ta’en 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 onything.’

Teen was silent as she put her long hat-pin through the heavy masses of her hair and pulled her fringe a little lower 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.

‘Noo I’m ready.  Ye’ll 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 to 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 contrariness 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’, an’ I’ll 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 stairs up a tall tenement, in one of these dreary and uninteresting streets which are only distinguishable 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 daylight had faded, leaving a kind of semi-twilight in the room, which was of a fair size, and comfortably, though not luxuriously, 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 visitor 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,—­