‘Would you mind telling me some of them?’ said Mrs. Fordyce rather anxiously.  She was a very practical person—­attentive to the laws of conventionality, and she did not feel at all sure of the views entertained by her husband’s ward.

‘I want to be a help to people, if I can,’ said Gladys, ’especially to working girls in Glasgow—­to those poor creatures who sew in the garrets and cellars.  I know of them.  I have seen them at their work, and it is dreadful to me to think of them.  Sometimes this summer, when I have been so happy, I have thought of some I know, and reproached myself with my own selfish forgetfulness.  You see, if I do not help where I know of the need, I am not a good steward of the money God has given me.’

‘But tell me, my dear child, how would you propose to help?’ asked Mrs. Fordyce, inwardly touched, but wishing to understand clearly what Gladys wished and intended to do.  There seemed no indecision or wavering about her, she spoke with all the calm dignity of a woman who knew and owned her responsibilities.

’I can help them in various ways.  I can have them here sometimes, especially when they are not strong; so many of them are not strong, Mrs. Fordyce.  Oh, I have been so sorry for them, and some of them have never, never been out of these dreadful streets.  Oh, I can help them in a thousand ways.’

Mrs. Fordyce was silent, not knowing very well how to answer.  She saw many difficulties ahead, yet hesitated to chill the girl’s young enthusiasm, which seemed a beautiful and a heavenly thing even to the woman of the world, who believed that it could never come to fruition.

’There is something else which might be done.  What would you say to Madame Bonnemain coming here to live with you as housekeeper and chaperon?’

’If you, knowing us both, think it would be a happy arrangement, I shall be happy,’ Gladys said; and the wisdom of the reply struck Mrs. Fordyce.  Certainly, in many respects Gladys spoke and acted like a woman who had tasted the experience of life.

’My love, anybody could live with you, and unless sorrow and care have materially changed Henrietta Bonnemain, anybody could live with her,’ she said cheerfully.  ’Suppose we take a little trip to Belgium, and see what can be done to arrange it?’

’Oh yes, that would be delightful.  I shall know just at once whether Madame Bonnemain and I can be happy together.  Is she a Scotch lady?’

’To the backbone.  She was born at Shandon, on the Gairloch, and we went to Brussels to school together.  She never came back—­married at eighteen, Gladys, and only a wife five years.  She has had a hard life,’ said Mrs. Fordyce, and her eyes grew dim over the memories of her youth.

‘Can we go soon, then?’ asked Gladys fervently; ’just when they are finishing the house?  Then we could bring Madame back with us.’

’My dear, you will not let the grass grow under your feet, nor allow any one else to loiter by the way,’ said Mrs. Fordyce, with a laugh.  ’Well, we shall see what Mr. Fordyce has to say to-night to these grand plans.’