A bitter wind, laden with the promise of snow, swept through it from end to end, and caught Gladys in the teeth as she entered it.  It was not a very cheerful welcome, and Gladys looked with compassion upon the children playing on the pavement and about the doorways, but scantily clad, though their blue fingers and pinched faces did not seem to damp their merriment.  The child-heart, full of glee and ready for laughter, always will assert itself, even in the most unfavourable circumstances.  Round the door which Gladys desired to enter, a little band of boys and girls were engaged playing the interesting game of ’Here’s the Robbers passing by,’ and Gladys stood still, watching them with a kind of quiet, tender interest, trying to understand the words, to which they gave many strange meanings.  They grew shy of the scrutiny by and by, and the spell was broken by an oath which fell glibly from the lips of a small boy, showing that it was no stranger to them.  Gladys looked inexpressibly shocked, and hastened into the stair, which was very dirty, and odorous of many evil smells.  The steps seemed endless, but she was glad as she mounted to find the light growing broader, until at last she reached the topmost landing, where the big skylight revealed a long row of doors, each giving entrance to a separate dwelling.  The girl looked confusedly at them for a moment, and then, recalling sundry directions Walter had given, proceeded to knock at the middle one.  It was opened at once by a young woman wearing a rusty old black frock and a large checked apron, a little shawl pinned about her head quite tightly, and making her face look very small and pinched.  It was a very pale face,—­quite ghastly, in fact,—­the very lips white, and her eyes surrounded by large black circles, which made Gladys think she must be very ill.

‘Well, miss?’ she said coolly and curtly, holding the door open only about three inches.

‘Does Mrs. Hepburn live here?’ asked Gladys, thinking she had made a mistake.

‘Yes, but she’s no’ at hame.  Come back the morn.  Eh, Liz, will yer mither be oot the morn?’

‘Ay; ask her what she wants,’ a somewhat husky voice announced from the interior, followed by a fit of coughing quite distressing to hear.

‘Oh, is that Walter’s sister, who is ill?’ said Gladys eagerly.  ’Please, may I come in?  Ask her.  Tell her that I have come from Colquhoun Street to see her.  I am Gladys Graham.’

The young woman disappeared into the interior; a whispered consultation followed, and a general hurrying movement of things being put straight, then Gladys was bidden come in.

She stepped into the little narrow dark passage, closed the door, and entered the kitchen where the two girls were.  It was quite a comfortable place, clean and warm, though the air was close, and not wholesome.  It had a few articles of kitchen furniture, and two beds, one in each corner, which rather crowded the space.  On one of the beds, half-lying, half-sitting, was Liz, Walter’s sister, with a blanket pinned round her shoulders, and a copy of the Family Reader in her hand, open at a thrilling picture of a young lady with an impossible figure being rescued from a runaway horse by a youth of extraordinary proportions.