‘If you call her an oddity, Mina, I cannot talk to you,’ said Gladys, with a laugh and a shake of the head.  ’I am going home to-morrow.  Could Leonard and you not go down with me?’

’Going home to-morrow!  Not if we know it.  The people are just going away, and we shall have a delightful cosy chat.  Here’s that tiresome George; but isn’t he looking handsome?  Really, one is proud to have such a cousin.’

It was now half-past five, and the company began to disperse.  In about ten minutes there were no guests left but Gladys and the two cousins from Pollokshields.

‘Now I can talk to you, my dear child,’ said Mrs. Fordyce.  ’Why didn’t you let us know you were coming to town, and one of the girls, at least, would have come to meet you?’

‘I had something to do in the city, dear Mrs. Fordyce,’ replied Gladys.  ‘There is something troubling me a good deal just now.’

’What is it?  Nothing must be allowed to trouble Miss Graham of Bourhill.  Her star should always be in the ascendant,’ said Mina banteringly.

‘It is a mystery—­a lost girl,’ said Gladys rather gravely.  ’Some one I knew in the old life, who has disappeared, and nobody knows where she has gone.’

‘How exciting!  Has she not gone “ower the border an’ awa’, wi’ Jock o’ Hazeldean"?’ asked Mina.  ‘Do tell us about her.  What is her name?’

‘Lizzie Hepburn; she is the sister of Walter, who was with my uncle,’ said Gladys gravely.  ‘It is the strangest thing.’

‘George, my dear, look what you are doing.  Oh, my beautiful gown!’

It was Mrs. Fordyce who thus turned the conversation.  Her nephew, handing the cup of tea she had never found time to drink while her guests were present, had deliberately spilled it on the front of her tea-gown.  The incident was laughed over in the end, and the only person present who thought of associating his awkwardness with the name Gladys had mentioned was Mina, the shrewdest of them all; but though she had many a strange and anxious thought on the subject, she held her peace.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXIII.

REAL AND IDEAL.

The little seamstress had never been out of Glasgow in her life.  Even the Fair holidays, signal for an almost universal exodus ’doon the water,’ brought no emancipation for her.  It may be imagined that such a sudden and unexpected invitation to the country filled her with the liveliest anticipation.  By eight o’clock that night she had finished her pile of work, and immediately made haste with it to the warehouse which employed her.  When she had received her meagre payment, and had another bundle rather contemptuously pushed towards her by the hard-visaged forewoman, she experienced quite a little thrill of pride in refusing it.

‘No, thank you, Mrs. Galbraith; I dinna need ony mair the day,’ she said, and her face flushed under the forewoman’s strong, steady stare.