racter, and came to the conclusion that he had judged her
too hastily, and that she was a most unlikely person to throw away her
reputation. What an immense relief that thought gave him was known only
to himself and God.

Ten was pealing from the city bells when he reached home. When he
entered the kitchen, a strange scene met his view. His master was
propped up by pillows, and evidently suffering painfully from his
breathing, and over his pinched features had crept that grey shadow
which even the unpractised eye can discern and comprehend. The young
doctor stood sympathetically by, conscious that he had given his last
aid and must stand aside. Gladys knelt by the bed with folded hands,
her golden head bowed in deep and bitter silence. She saw her last
friend drifting towards the mystic sea, and felt as if the blackness of
midnight surrounded her.

'Surely, doctor, this is a sudden and awful change?' Walter said to the
doctor; but he put up his hand.

'Hush!' he said, pointing to the dying man, who essayed through his
struggling breath to speak.

'Pray,' he said at last; and they looked from one to the other dumbly
for a moment. Then the girl's sweet voice broke the dreary silence, and
she prayed as one who has been long familiar with such words, and who,
while praying, believes the answer will be given. The words of that
prayer were never forgotten by the two young men who heard them; they
seemed to bring heaven very near to that humble spot of earth.

'For Christ's sake.'

Abel Graham repeated these words after her in a painful whisper, and his
struggling ceased.

'It is all over,' said the doctor reverently. And it was. Ay, all over,
so far as this world was concerned, with Abel Graham.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIV.

THOSE LEFT BEHIND.

That was a sad night for Gladys Graham and for Walter. Feeling that she
required the help and presence of a woman, Walter ran up for the
kind-hearted Mrs. Macintyre, whom Gladys had occasionally seen and
spoken with since she took up her abode in Colquhoun Street. It is among
the very poor we find the rarest instances of disinterested and
sympathetic kindness--deeds of true neighbourliness, performed without
thought or expectation of reward. Mrs. Macintyre required no second
bidding. In five minutes she was with the stricken girl, ready, in her
rough way, to do all that was necessary, and to take the burden off the
young shoulders so early inured to care. When t