Gladys was conscious of a strong sense of curiosity as she awaited the coming of the ‘imp,’ which was his master’s favourite name for him, and when he entered she felt at first keenly disappointed.  He was only a very ordinary-looking street boy, she thought, rather undersized, but still too big for his clothes, which were stretched on him tightly, his short trousers showing the tops of his patched boots, which were several sizes too large for him, and gave him a very ungraceful appearance.  He had not even a collar, only an old tartan scarf knotted round his neck, and from the shrunk sleeves of the old jacket his hands, red and bony, appeared abnormally large.  But when she looked at his face, at the eyes which looked out from the tangle of his hair, she forgot all the rest, and her heart warmed to him before he had uttered a word.

’This is Walter Hepburn—­my niece, Mary Graham; and you may as well be friendly, because I can’t have any quarrelling here,’ was the old man’s introduction; then, without a word of thanksgiving, he fell to eating his porridge, after having carefully divided the sky-blue milk into three equal portions.

The two young persons gravely nodded to each other, and also began to eat.  Gladys, feeling intuitively that a kindred soul was near her, felt a wild desire to laugh, her lips even trembled so that she could scarcely restrain them, and Walter Hepburn answered by a twinkle in his eye, which was the first bright thing Gladys had seen in Glasgow.  But though she felt kindly towards him, and glad that he was there, she did not by any means admire him, and she even thought that if she knew him better she would tell him of his objectionable points.  For one thing, he had no manners; he sat rather far back from the table, and leaned forward till his head was almost on a level with his plate.  Then he made a loud noise in his eating, which disturbed Gladys very much—­certainly she was too fastidious and delicate in her taste for her present lot in life.  When that strange and silent meal was over, the old man retired to the warehouse and left the children alone.  But that did not disconcert them, as might have been expected.  From the first moment they felt at home with each other.  Walter was the first to speak.  He leaned up against the chimneypiece, and meditatively watched the girl as she began deftly to clear the table.

‘I say, miss,’ he said then, ‘do you think you’ll like to be here?’

The English was pretty tolerable, though the accent was very Scotch.

‘No.  How could I?’ was the frank reply of Gladys.  ’But I have nowhere else, and I should be thankful for it.’

‘Um.’

Walter thrust his hands into his diminutive pockets, and eyed her with a kind of meditative gravity.

‘Are you always thankful when you should be?’ he inquired.

‘I am afraid not,’ Gladys answered, with a little shake of her head.  ’You live here all the week, don’t you, till Saturday night, when you go home?’