She endeared herself at once by her gentleness of manner to every inmate of the house, and very speedily conquered the boy Leonard’s aversion to ‘new girls.’  In less than a week they were chums, and she was a frequent visitor to his den in the attics, where he contrived all sorts of wonderful things, devoting more time to them than to his legitimate lessons, which his soul abhorred.  But though she was invariably cheerful, ever ready to share and sympathise with all the varied interests of the house, there was a stillness of manner, a ’dreamy far-offness,’ as Mina expressed it, which indicated that sometimes her thoughts were elsewhere.

The three girls were sitting round the drawing-room fire one wet, boisterous afternoon, chatting cosily, and waiting for tea to come up.  Between Clara and Gladys there seemed to be a peculiar understanding, although Mr. Fordyce’s elder daughter was not the favourite of the family.  Her manner was too stiff, and she had a knack at times of saying rather sharp, disagreeable things.  But not to Gladys Graham.  In these few days they had become united in the bonds of a love which was to stand all tests.  Clara was sitting on a low chair, Gladys kneeling by her side, with her arm on her knee.  So sitting, they presented a contrast, each a fine foil to the other.  The stately, dark beauty of Clara set off the fairer loveliness of the younger girl; neither suffered by the contrast.  These days of peace and restful, luxurious living had robbed Gladys of her wearied listlessness, had given to her delicate cheek a bloom long absent from it.  Her simple morning gown, made by a fashionable modiste who had delighted to study her fair model, seemed part of herself.  She was a striking and lovely girl, of a higher type than the two beside her.

‘Oh, girls,’ cried Mina, with a yawn, and tossing back her brown unruly locks with an impatient gesture, ’isn’t it slow?  Can’t you wake up?  You haven’t spoken a word for half an hour.’

‘Do you never want to be quiet, Mina?’ asked Gladys, with the gleam of an amused smile.

’No, never.  I’m not one of your pensive maidens.  One silent member in a family is enough, or it would stagnate.  Clara sustains the dignity, I the life, of the house, my dear.  Oh, I wish somebody would come in.  I guess half a score of idle young women in the other houses of this Crescent are consumed with the same desire.  But nobody ever does come in, by any chance, when you want them.  When you don’t, then they come in in shoals.  I say, Clara, isn’t it ages since we saw any of them from Pollokshields?’

’Yes; but you know we ought to have gone to ask for Aunt Margaret long ago.’

’I suppose so.  We don’t love our aunt, Gladys.  It’s the misfortune of many not to love their relations.  Can you explain that mystery?’

‘Perhaps they are not very lovable,’ suggested Gladys.

’That’s it exactly.  Aunt Margaret is—­Well, you’ll see her some day, and then you’ll admit that if she possesses lovable qualities she doesn’t wear them every day.  They are so rich, so odiously rich, that you never can forget it.  She doesn’t allow you to.  And Julia is about as insufferable.’