‘And are you quite better, Liz?’ asked Gladys gently, with a look of real interest and sympathy in her face.

‘Oh ay, I’m fine.  Wat’s no’ in?’ she said, glancing inquiringly round the place.

’No; he has heard of a teacher who takes evening pupils for book-keeping and these things, and has gone to make arrangements with him.’

Never had the nicety of her speech and her sweet, refined accent been more marked by Abel Graham.  He looked at her as she stood by the table, a slender, pale figure, with a strange touch of both child and maiden about her, and he felt glad that she was not like Liz.  Not that he thought ill of Liz, or did not see her beauty, such as it was, only he felt that the maiden whom circumstances had cast into his care and keeping was of a higher type than the red-cheeked, bright-eyed damsel whom so many admired.

‘An’ when hae ye been oot, micht I ask?’ inquired Liz calmly.  ’Ye’re a jimpy-looking thing.’

‘Not since Sunday.’

‘Sunday!  Mercy me! an’ this is Friday.  She’ll sune be in her grave, Mr. Graham.  Folk maun hae fresh air.  What way d’ye no’ set her oot every day?’

‘She is welcome to go if she likes, miss.  I don’t keep her in,’ answered the old man tartly.

‘Maybe no’, but likely she has that muckle adae she canna get,’ replied Liz fearlessly.  ‘It’s a fine nicht—­suppose ye tak’ a walk wi’ me?  The shops is no’ shut yet.’

‘Shall I go, uncle?’ asked Gladys.

’If ye want, certainly; but come in in time of night.  Don’t be later than nine.’

‘Very well,’ answered Gladys, and retired into her own room to make ready for her walk.

Then Liz, turning round squarely on her seat, fixed the old man fearlessly with her eyes, and gave him a piece of her mind.

‘I saw ye lookin’ at her a meenit ago, Maister Graham, an’ maybe ye was thinkin’ the same as me, that she’s no’ lang for this world.  Is’t no’ a sin an’ a shame for a cratur like that to work in a place like this? but it’s waur, if it be true, as folk say, that there’s nae need for it.’

So astonished was Abel Graham by this plain speaking on the part of a girl he had never seen in his life, that he could only stare.

‘It’s true,’ added Liz significantly; ‘she’s yin o’ the kind they mak’ angels o’, and that’s no’ my kind nor yours.  If I were you, I’d see aboot it, or it’ll be the waur for ye, maybe, after.’

Happily, just then Gladys returned for her boots, and in her mild excitement over having a companion to walk with, she did not observe the very curious look on her uncle’s face.  But Liz did, and gave an inward chuckle.

‘How’s your father and mother?’ he asked, making the commonplace question a cover for the start he had got.

‘Oh, they’re as well as they can expect to be,’ Liz replied.  ‘He cam’ oot on Monday.  I spiered if they had gi’en him a return ticket available for a week.’