Through these bright days of the early summer Walter kept plodding on at his business, but life had lost its charm.  He was, indeed, utterly sick at heart; all incentive to push on seemed to be taken from him, and the daily round was gone through mechanically, simply because it waited his attention on every hand.  As is often the case when success becomes no longer an object of concern, it became an assured matter.  Everything he touched seemed to pay him, and he saw himself, while yet in his young manhood, rapidly becoming rich.  But this did not make him happy—­ah, how utterly inadequate is wealth to the making of happiness how many have bitterly proved!—­on the contrary, it made him yet more restless, moody, and discontented.  Looking ahead, he saw nothing bright—­a long stretch of grey years, which held nothing beautiful or satisfying or worthy of attainment—­a melancholy condition of mind, truly, for a young, prosperous, and healthy man.  In the midst of this deep depression came the letter from Gladys conveying the news of Liz’s sudden and strange flight from Bourhill.  He smiled grimly when he read it, and, putting it in his pocket, returned to his work as if it concerned him not at all.  Nevertheless, in the course of the afternoon, he left his place of business and took the car to Maryhill.  Gladys had given him the address of Mrs. Gordon, with whom Liz had formerly lodged, and he felt himself impelled to make some listless inquiries there regarding her.  The result was quite unsatisfactory.  The landlady regarded him with considerable suspicion, and did not appear disposed to give him any information.  But after repeated questioning, Walter elicited from her the fact that Mrs. Gordon had gone to Dublin with the Eighty-Fifth Regiment, and she believed Miss Hepburn was with her.  Walter thanked the woman and went his way, scarcely affected one way or the other, at least to outward seeming.  Liz was lost.  Well, it fitted in with the rest of his dreary destiny; her ultimate fate, which could not be far off, weaved only some darker threads into the grey web of life.

Next morning Gladys received an answer to her letter, and it made her feel very strange when she read it.  It ran thus:—­

’COLQUHOUN STREET, Thursday Night.

’DEAR MISS GRAHAM,—­I received your kind letter this morning, and I thank you for acquainting me with my sister’s departure from Bourhill.  The news did not surprise me at all.  I was only astonished that she stayed so long.  This afternoon I called at the address you gave me, and the landlady informed me that Mrs. Gordon has gone to Dublin with the Eighty-Fifth Regiment, taking my sister with her.  After this there is nothing we can do.  Poor Liz is lost, and we need not blame her too hardly.  You reproved me once for calling myself the victim of circumstances, but I ask you to think of her as such with what kindness you can.  Of one thing we may be sure, her punishment will far exceed her sin.—­Thanking you for all your past kindness, and wishing you in the future every good thing, I am, yours sincerely, WALTER HEPBURN.’

It was a sad letter, conveying a great deal more than was actually expressed.  Gladys threw it from her, and, laying her head on her hands, sobbed bitterly.