streets, of dull and dreadful stones, against which the tide of life beat remorselessly for ever.  And such life!  For very pity the child’s heart grew heavy within her often as she looked upon the stream of humanity in these poor streets, on the degraded, hopeless faces, the dull eyes, the languid bearing of those who appeared to have lost interest in, and respect for, themselves.  She believed it wholly sad.  Standing on the outside, she knew nothing of the homely joys, the gleams of mirth, the draughts of happiness possible to the very poor.  She thought their laughter, when it fell sometimes upon her ears, more dreadful than their tears.  So she slipped silently about among them, quite unnoticed, looking on with large sad eyes, and almost as an angel might.  Sometimes looking to the heavens, which even walls and roofs of stone could not shut out, she wondered how God, who loved all with such a tender love, could bear to have it so.  It vexed her soul with doubts, and made her so unhappy that even in her dreams she wept.  Of these things she did not speak to those about her yet, though very soon it became a habit with her and Walter to discuss the gravest problems of existence.

The old man offered no objections to the lessons, only stipulating that no unnecessary candles should be consumed.  He allowed but one to lighten the gloom of the large kitchen; and every evening after tea the same picture might have been seen—­the old man dozing in the chimney-corner, and the two young creatures at the little table with books and slates, the unsteady light of the solitary candle flickering on their earnest faces.  Teacher and taught!  Very often in the full after years they looked back upon it, and talked of it with smiles which were not far off from tears.  It is not too much to say that the companionship of Walter was the only thing which saved Gladys from despair; but for the bright kinship of his presence she must have sunk under the burden of a life so hard, a life for which she was so unfitted; but they comforted each other, and kept warm and true in their young hearts faith in humankind and in the mercy of Heaven.

As the days went by, Walter dreaded yet more the coming of Saturday, and Sunday to be spent in his own house in Bridgeton, but as yet he had not spoken of his great sorrow to Gladys, only she was quick to notice how, as the week went by and Saturday came, the shadow deepened on his face.  She felt for him keenly, but her perception was so delicate, so quick, she knew it was a sorrow with which she must not intermeddle.  There were very many things in life, Gladys was learning day by day, more to be dreaded than death, which is so often, indeed, the gentlest friend.

One Monday morning Walter appeared quite downcast, so unusual with him that Gladys could not forbear asking what troubled him.

‘It’s Liz,’ he said, relieved to be asked, though diffident in volunteering information.  ’She’s ill,—­very badly, too,—­and she is not looked after.  I wish I knew what to do.’