smallness nor the poverty of its furnishing which concerned him, but the human beings it sheltered, who lay a burden upon his heart.  Liz was out of bed, crouching over the fire, with an old red shawl wrapped round her—­a striking-looking figure in spite of her general deshabille, a girl at whom all men and many women would look twice.  He wished she were less striking, that her appearance had matched the only destiny she could look for—­grey, meagre, commonplace, hopeless as a dull November day.

‘Your pecker’s no’ up, Wat?’ she said, looking at him rather keenly.  ‘What are ye sae doon i’ the mooth for?’

Walter made no reply.  Truth to tell, he would have found it difficult to give expression to his thoughts.

‘He’s aye doon i’ the mooth when he comes here, Liz,’ said the mother, with a passing touch of spirit.  ’We’re ower puir folk for my lord noo that he’s gettin’ among the gentry.’

‘The gentry of Argyle Street an’ the Sautmarket, mother?’ asked Walter dryly.  ‘They’ll no’ do much for ye.’

‘Is Skinny no’ gaun to raise yer screw, Wat?’ asked Liz.  ’It’s high time he was thinkin’ on’t.’

‘I’ll ask him one o’ these days, but he might as well keep the money as me.  This is a bottomless pit,’ he said, with bitterness.  ’It could swallow a pound as quick as five shillings, an’ never be kent.’

’Ye’re richt, Wat; but I wad advise ye to stick in to Skinny.  He has siller, they say, an’ maybe ye’ll finger it some day.’

One night not long after, Liz presented herself at the house in Colquhoun Street, to return the visit of Gladys.  As it happened, Walter was not in, having heard of a night school where the fees were so small as to be within the range of his means.  Gladys looked genuinely pleased to see her visitor, though she hardly recognised in the fashionably-dressed young lady the melancholy-looking girl she had seen lying on the kitchen bed in the house of the Hepburns.

‘Daur I come in?  Would he no’ be mad?’ asked Liz, when they shook hands at the outer door.

‘Do you mean my uncle?’ asked Gladys.  ’He will be quite pleased to see you.  Come in; it is so cold here.’

‘For you, ay; but I’m as warm’s a pie, see, wi’ my new fur cape—­four an’ elevenpence three-farthings at the Polytechnic.  Isn’t it a beauty, an’ dirt cheap?’

Thus talking glibly about what was more interesting to her than anything else in the world, Liz followed Gladys into the kitchen, where the old man sat, as usual, in his arm-chair by the fireside, looking very old and wizened and frail in the flickering glow of fire and candle light.

‘This is Walter’s sister, Uncle Abel,’ Gladys said, with that unconscious dignity which singled her out at once, and gave her a touch of individuality which Liz felt, though she did not in the least understand it.

The old man gave a little grunt, and bade her sit down; but, though not talkative, he keenly observed the two, and saw that they were cast in a different mould.  Liz looked well, flushed with her walk, the dark warm fur setting off the brilliance of her complexion, her clothes fitting her with a certain flaunting style, her manner free from the least touch of embarrassment or restraint.  Liz Hepburn feared nothing under the sun.