who flourish in the quarters of the poor and rich alike, speedily learned that it was just as well not to mention the name of Liz Hepburn to Teen Balfour.  One day a visitor, in the shape of a handsomely-dressed young lady, did come to the little seamstress’s door.  Teen gave a great start when she saw the tall figure, and her face flushed all over.  In the semi-twilight which always prevails on the staircases of these great grim ‘lands’ of houses, she had imagined her dream to come true.

‘Oh, it’s you, miss?’ she said, recognising Gladys Graham at last.  ’I thought it was somebody else.  Ye can come in, if ye like.’

The bidding was ungracious, the manner of it as repellent as of yore; but Gladys, not easily repulsed, followed the little seamstress across the threshold, and closed the door.  The heavy, close smell of the place made a slight faintness come over her, and she was glad to sink into the nearest chair.

‘Do you never open your window?  It is very close in here.’

‘No, I never open it.  It takes me a’ my time to keep warm as it is.  There’s a perfect gale blaws in, onyhoo, at the chinks.  Jist pit yer hand at the windy, an’ ye’ll see.’

Gladys glanced pitifully round the place, and then fixed her lovely, compassionate eyes on the figure of the little seamstress, as she took up her position again on the stool by the fire and lifted her work.

’You look just as if you had been sitting there continuously since I saw you last,’ Gladys said involuntarily.

‘So I have, maistly,’ replied Teen dully, ‘an’ will sit or they cairry me oot.’

‘Oh, I hope not; indeed, you will not.  Have you had a hard summer?’

‘Middlin’; it’s been waur.  Five weeks in July I had nae wark; but I’ve been langer than that—­in winter, too.  In summer it’s no’ sae bad.  When ye’re cauld, ye feel the want o’ meat waur.’

‘Have you really sometimes not had food?’ asked Gladys in a shocked voice.

‘Whiles.  Do you ken onything aboot Liz?’ she asked, suddenly breaking off, and lifting her large sunken eyes to the sweet face opposite to her.

’No; that is one of the things I came about to-day.  Have you not heard anything of her?’

‘No’ a cheep.  Naebody kens.  I gaed up to Colquhoun Street one day to ask Walter, but he didna gie me muckle cuttin’.  I say, he’s gettin’ on thonder.’  She flashed a peculiar, sly glance at Gladys, and under it the latter’s sensitive colour rose.

‘I always knew he would,’ she replied quietly.  ’And he has not heard anything, either?  Do you ever see her father and mother?’

‘No; but it’s the same auld sang.  They’re no’ carin’ a button whaur Liz is,’ said Teen calmly.

‘Have you no idea?’ asked Gladys.

‘Not the least.  I may think what I like, but I dinna ken a thing,’ replied the girl candidly.

’What do you think, then?  You knew her so intimately.  If you would help me, we might do something together,’ said Gladys eagerly.