He was fair as Janet, though with a differently-shaped face; rather a long face, with a square, determined-looking chin; and, besides being one of the handsomest, was assuredly one of the cleverest boys I ever knew.  He had a good, sound, strong Scotch intellect, and was as sharp as a needle, or any Yankee, into the bargain.

But he would have his own way, whatever it was, and was often mischievous as a fiend incarnate; and in his contradictory moods, would have gone on saying black was white all day on the chance of getting somebody to argue with him.  Duncan paid no attention whatever to the lad, except, from time to time, to speculate what particular bad end he would come to.

But I loved Paul, and Paul loved me—­and adored Janet.

The boy had one exceedingly beautiful feature in his face:  sometimes I could not take my eyes from it; I used to wonder if it could be that which made me love him so much—­his mouth.  I have never seen another anything like it.  The steady, strong, and yet delicate lips—­so calm and serious when still, as to make one feel at rest merely to look at them; but when in motion extraordinarily sensitive, quivering, curving, and curling in sympathy with every thought.

I loved both children; but perhaps the reason that made me love Paul most was—­that whilst I knew Janet’s nature, out and in, to the core of her very loving little heart, Paul’s often puzzled me.

There was not much in the way of landscape to be seen from that villa in the suburbs of Glasgow; but we did catch just one glimpse of sky which was not always obscured by smoke, and I have seen Paul, lost in thought, looking up at this patch of blue, with an expression on his face—­at once sweet and sorrowful—­so strange in one so young, that it made me instinctively move more quietly, not to disturb him, and set me wondering.

However, what with one thing and another, I was not by any means heart-broken when Duncan married again—­one of the kindest women in the world; I can’t think what she saw in him—­and thus released me.

So the years flew on—­and the wheel of fortune gave some strange turns for Duncan.  By a series of wonderfully successful speculations he rapidly amassed a huge fortune.

They left Glasgow then, and built a colossal white brick mansion not far from London.

When Janet was eighteen and Paul twenty-one, I paid them a visit there.  Except that Janet was now grown up, she was just the same—­with her thriftless, thoughtless ways, and her laughing baby face, and her yellow head—­a silly little head enough, perhaps, but a dear, dear little head to me.

She had the same admiration, almost awe, of the splendours of this world in any form; the same love of fine clothes—­with the same carelessness as to how she used them.  It gave me a good laugh, the first afternoon I was there, to see her come in with a new dress all soiled and torn by a holly-bush she had pushed her way through on the lawn.  It made me think of the time when she had gone popping in and out to the little back garden at Glasgow, and singing and swinging about the stairs—­a bonnie wee lassie with a dirty pink cotton gown, and, as often as not, dirtier face.