‘Nothing, nothing,’ Gladys answered, with mournful bitterness.  ’But it is too late.  It is Walter’s fault, not mine; he left me in my desolation, when I needed him most.  I did everything I could to show him that I could never forget him, and he repulsed me every time, until it was too late.  If he is unhappy, it is no more than he deserves, and I am not going to be so dishonourable as to draw back now from my plighted word.  George has always been kind to me, he has never hurt my feelings, and I will try and repay him by being to him a good and faithful wife.’

‘A good and faithful wife!’

The little spinster repeated these words in a half-mournful whisper, as she walked slowly to and fro the room.

Ah, not thus was it meet for a heart like Gladys Graham’s to anticipate the most momentous crisis of a woman’s life.  She felt powerless to help, but Heaven was still the Hearer and Answerer of prayer, and with Heaven Miss Peck left the case.

She prayed that her darling’s way might be opened up, and that she might be saved from committing so great a wrong, which would bring upon her the curse of a loveless marriage.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE MAGDALENE.

Summer seemed no longer to smile upon Bourhill.  That sunny evening was the last for many days.  A wild, chill, wintry blast ushered in September, if the Lammas spates had tarried, when they came they brought destruction in their train.  All over the country the harvest was endangered, in low-lying places carried away, by the floods.  Whole fields lay under water, and there were many anxious hearts among those who earned their bread by tillage of the soil.  These dull days were in keeping with the mood prevailing at Bourhill.  Never had the atmosphere of that happy house been so depressed and melancholy; its young mistress appeared to have lost her interest in life.  Many anxious talks had the little spinster and the faithful Teen upon the theme so absorbingly interesting to both—­unsatisfactory talks at best, since none can minister to a mind diseased.  One day a letter came which changed the current of life at Bourhill.  How often is such an unpretending missive, borne by the postman’s careless hand, fraught with stupendous issues?  It came in a plain, square envelope, bearing the Glasgow post-mark, and the words ‘Royal Infirmary’ on the flap.  Gladys opened it, as she did most things now, with but a languid interest, which, however, immediately changed to the liveliest concern.

’Why, Miss Peck, it is a letter, see, about poor Lizzie Hepburn.  I must go to her at once, I and Teen.  Where is she?  If we make haste, we shall catch the eleven-o’clock train.’

She handed Miss Peck the letter, and sprang up from a half-finished breakfast.  The little spinster perused the brief communication with the deepest concern.

WARD XII., ROYAL INFIRMARY, GLASGOW,
’September 6, 188 .