‘I’ll come fast enough,’ said Mrs. Macintyre, rubbing away as for dear life at her wash-board, upon which the big salt tears were dropping surreptitiously.  ‘Me no’ want to leave this place?  I’m no’ that fond o’t.  Sometimes it’s a perfect wee hell in this stair; it’s no’ guid for Tammy or ony wean.  ‘Deed, it’s no’ guid for onybody livin’ in sic a place; but if ye are puir, an’ tryin’ to live decent, ye jist have to pit up wi’ what ye can pay for.  Ay, I’ll come fast enough, an’ thank ye kindly.  But ye micht get a mair genty body for yer gate.  I’m a rough tyke, an’ aye was.’

‘It is you I want,’ replied Gladys; then, in a few words, she explained the very liberal arrangement she had in view for her old friend.  After that, a little silence fell upon them, and a great wistfulness gathered in the girl’s gentle eyes.

‘So ye hinna been up by?’ said Mrs. Macintyre.  ‘Are ye gaun?’

‘Not to-day.  Is Walter well?’

‘Ay, he is weel.  He’s a fine chap, an’ he’s in terrible earnest aboot something,’ said Mrs. Macintyre thoughtfully, as she shook out the garment she had been rubbing.  ’There’s a something deep doon in thon heart no’ mony can see.  But the place is no’ the place it was to him or to me.  What way wull ye no’ gang up?  Eh, but he wad be fell glad to see ye, my lady’—­

‘I am not going to-day,’ replied Gladys quietly, and even with a touch of coldness.  ’You can tell him, if you like, that I was here, and that I hoped he was well.’

‘Ay, I’ll tell him.  And are ye happy, my doo?’

It was a beautiful and touching thing to see the rare tenderness in the woman’s plain face as she asked that question.

‘Yes, I—­I think so,’ Gladys replied, but she got up suddenly from her seat, and her voice gave a suspicious tremor.  ’Money can do a great deal, Mrs. Macintyre, but it cannot do everything—­not everything.’

‘Aweel, no.  I dinna pray muckle,—­there’s no’ muckle encouragement for sic releegious ordinances this airt,—­but I whiles speir at the Lord no’ to mak’ siller a wecht for ye to cairry.  Weel, are ye awa?’

’Yes; good-bye.  When you come down to Bourhill, after I come back, we’ll have long talks.  I shall be so glad to have you there.’

‘Aweel, wha wad hae thocht it?  Ye’ll no’ rue’d, my doo, if I’m spared, that’s a’ the thanks I can gie.  An’ wull ye no’ gang up by?’

There was distinct anxiety in her repetition of the question.  But Gladys, with averted head, hastened towards the door.

‘Not to-day.  Good-bye,’ she said quickly; and, with a warm hand-shake, which anew convinced the honest woman that the girl in prosperity remained unchanged, she went her way.

But instead of going back through the lane to Argyle Street, she continued up the familiar dull street till she reached the warehouse door.  She stopped outside, and there being no one in sight, she laid her slender hand on the handle with a lingering—­ay, a caressing touch, and then, as if ashamed, she turned about and quickly hurried out of sight.