‘What do you think of her?’

‘I dinna ken; she’s no’ like ither folk.’

‘But you liked her, Liz?’ said Walter, with quite evident anxiety.

‘Oh ay; but she’s queer.  How does she get on wi’ Skinny?’

‘Well enough.  I believe he likes her, Liz, if he would let on.’

Liz made a grimace.

’I daursay, if he can like onything.  I telt her my mind on the business plain, an’ offered to get her into our mill.’

‘Oh, Liz, you might have had more sense!  Her work in a mill!’ cried Walter, with more energy than elegance.

‘An’ what for no’?’ queried Liz sharply.  ’I suppose she’s the same flesh and bluid as me.’

‘Shut up, you twa,’ said a querulous, peevish voice from the ingle-neuk, where the mother, dull-eyed, depressed, and untidy, sat with her elbows on her knees.  She was in a poor state of health, and had not recovered from the last week’s outburst.  It was Saturday night, but there was no pay forthcoming from the head of the house, who was still in Duke Street Prison.  Walter looked at his mother fixedly for a moment, and the shadow deepened on his face.  She was certainly an unlovely object in her dirty, unkempt gown, her hair half hanging on her neck, her heavy face looking as if it had not seen soap and water for long, her dull eyes unlit by any gleam of intelligence.  Of late, since they had grown more dissipated in their habits, Walter had fallen on the plan of keeping back his wages till the beginning of the week—­the only way in which to ensure them food.  Seldom, indeed, was anything left after Saturday and Sunday’s carousal.

‘Is there anything the matter the day, mother?’ he asked quite kindly and gently, being moved by a sudden feeling of compassion for her.

‘No, naething; but I’m clean dune.  Wad ye no’ bring in a drap, Wat?’ she said coaxingly, and her eye momentarily brightened with anticipation.

‘It won’t do you any good, mother, ye ken that,’ he said, striving still to speak gently, though repulsion now mingled with his pity.  ’A good dinner or supper would do ye more good.  I’ll bring in a bit steak, if ye’ll cook it.’

‘I’ve nae stammick for meat,’ she said, relapsing into her dull state.  ‘I’m no’ lang for this world, an’ my wee drap’s the only comfort I hae.  Ye’ll maybe wish ye hadna been as ill to me by an’ by.’

‘I’m comin’ alang some nicht, Wat,’ said Liz, who invariably treated such remarks with the most profound contempt, ignoring them entirely.  ‘D’ye think Skinny’ll let me in?’

‘I daresay,’ answered Walter abruptly, and, sitting down on the window-box, he looked through the blindless window upon the masses of roofs and the twinkling lights of the great city.  His heart was heavy, his soul sick within him.  His home—­so poor a home for him, and for all who called it by that sweet name—­had never appeared a more miserable and homeless place.  It was not the