’Oh, nonsense, my love—­only a lover’s tiff.  When it blows over, you will be happier than ever.’

‘I don’t like tiffs,’ Gladys answered, as she ran up-stairs to take off her wraps.

The lover’s tiff seemed to be rather a serious affair, for a week passed away and no letter came from George; nor did Gladys write any.  She felt secretly wounded over it, and though she often recalled that hour spent in the library at Bellairs Crescent, she could not remember anything which seemed to justify such a complete estrangement.  Never since she came to Bourhill had so long a time elapsed without communicating with one or other of the Fordyce family, but as the days went by and they made no sign, the girl’s pride rose, and she told herself that if they pleased to take offence because she reserved to herself the right to ask whom she willed to her own house, they should receive no advances from her.  But she was secretly unhappy.  Her nature craved sunshine and peace, and the conduct of her lover she could not possibly understand.  In all her imaginings how far was she always from the truth!  She did not dream that he believed his death-knell had been rung, and that he attributed her silence to her righteous and inexorable indignation over the story she had heard from the lips of Liz Hepburn.  He never for one moment doubted that she had told, and between conscience and disappointed love he had a very lively week of it.  All this time none could have been more discreet and reticent than the girl who was the cause of all this heart-burning.  Her behaviour was exemplary.  She was docile, courteous, gentle in demeanour and speech, grateful for everything, but enthusiastic over nothing, differing in this respect from Teen, who appeared to walk on air, and carried her exaltation of spirit in her look and tone.  But Liz was dull and silent, content to walk and drive, and breathe that heavenly air which ought to have been the very elixir of life to her, but otherwise appearing lifeless and uninterested.  Gladys was very kind and even tender with her, but just a little disappointed.  She watched her keenly, not knowing that all the while Liz was in turn watching her, and at last she breathed a hint of her disappointment into the ear of the little seamstress.

’Do you think Lizzie is enjoying Bourhill, Teen?  She looks so spiritless; but perhaps it is her health, though I think her looking a little better than when she came.’

‘It’s no’ her body, it’s her mind,’ said Teen slowly.  ’She has something on her mind.’

’Has she never said anything yet to you about where she was, or what she was doing, all the time she was lost?’ asked Gladys anxiously.

‘Naething,’ answered Teen, with a melancholy shake of her head.  ’But I think it’s on that she’s thinkin’, an’ whiles I dinna like her look.’

’I’m going to speak to her myself about it, Teen.  Perhaps it is something it would do her good to tell.  Like you, I am often struck by her look, it is so dreadfully sad.  Yes, I shall speak to her.’