’My dear, I must warn you not to dwell on the morbid side.  We must admit that it was a great pity, a very great pity, that your poor uncle did not realise the responsibility of wealth, did not even take some comfort for himself from it.  But I may tell you it was a great, an inexpressible joy to him to leave it in your hands.  I daresay he felt assured, as I do, that, though so young, you would know how to use it wisely.’

It was the right chord to touch.  The colour leaped back to her cheek, the light to her eyes, her whole manner changed.

’Oh, I will, I will!  God will help me.  I will do the work, his work.  If only he had told me how he wished it done.’

’I have a letter for you, written by his own hand the day he died; but it is not here.  I will bring it when I come from my office at night; and meanwhile, my dear, I would suggest that you should get ready to go.  My wife will be here very shortly.’

Immediately thought was diverted into another channel, and a great wistfulness stole over her.

‘And what,’ she asked in a low voice,—­’what will become of Walter?’

‘Has he not told you what his future is likely to be?’

‘No, he has told me nothing.’

’Your uncle has left him this business to make of it what he likes, and five hundred pounds to help him to carry it on.  It is a very good lift for a friendless young fellow—­a waif of the streets.’

‘He’s not a waif of the streets,’ cried Gladys hotly.  ’He has a home, not so happy as it might be, perhaps, but it is a home.  It is this dreadful drink, which ruins everything it touches, which has destroyed Walter’s home.  I am so glad for him.  He will get on so quickly now, only he will be so dreadfully lonely.  I must come and see him very, very often.’

’My dear, I do not wish you to turn your back on your old friend, but it might be better for you both, but more especially for him, if you let things take their course.  Your life must be very different henceforth.’

‘I do not understand you,’ said Gladys quite calmly, ’Please to explain.’

Not an easy task for Mr. Fordyce, with these large, sorrowful, half-indignant eyes fixed so questioningly on his face.  But he did his best.

’I mean, my dear, that for you, as Miss Graham of Bourhill, a new life is opening up—­a life in which it will be quite wise to forget the past.  Your life here, I should think,’ he added, with a significant glance round the place, ’has not held much in it worth remembering.  It will pass from you like a dream in the midst of the many new interests which will encompass you now.’

It was the wisdom of the world, not harshly nor urgently conveyed, but it sounded cruelly in the girl’s ears.  She rose to her feet, and somewhat wearily shook her head.

‘You do not know, you cannot understand,’ she said faintly.  ’I can never forget this place.  I pray I may never wish to forget it.  If you will excuse me, I shall get ready now, so as not to keep Mrs. Fordyce waiting when she comes.’