might not be better to let the whole matter rest. She suspected that
there might be in this case wheels within wheels which might seriously
involve the happiness of her who deserved above all others the highest
happiness the world can give. The little seamstress was perplexed,
saddened, half-afraid, torn between two loves and two desires. She
wished she knew how much or how little George Fordyce was to Gladys
Graham, yet dared not to ask the question.

But so great was the absorbing desire of Gladys to find means of
communication with Liz that she would not let the matter rest. Next day
the visit of the little seamstress to Bourhill was brought apparently to
a very sudden end and she returned to town--not, however, to sue for
work at the hands of the stony-visaged forewoman, but to carry out the
behest of the young lady of Bourhill.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXIX.

AN AWAKENING.

The interview with Gladys upset Walter for the day. When she was gone,
he found it impossible to fix his attention on his books or any of the
details of his business. He could not even sit still, but wandered
restlessly up and down his domain, trying to unravel his own thoughts.
The subtle fragrance of her presence, like some rare perfume, seemed to
pervade the place, and her words continued to haunt him, till he felt
angry and impatient with her, with himself, with all the world. He had
now two persons in his employment--a man who delivered goods on a
hand-barrow, and a lad who filled a position similar to that which had
been Walter's own in Abel Graham's days.

When this lad returned after the dinner hour, Walter left him in charge,
and took himself into the streets, pursued by that vague restlessness he
could neither understand nor shake off. Looking in at the mirrored
window of a great shop in St. Vincent Street, he saw the image of
himself reflected, a tall, lean figure, shabbily clad--an image which
filled him with a sudden loathing and contempt. He stood quite still,
and calmly appraised himself, taking in every meagre detail of his
appearance, noting the grimy hue of the collar he had worn three days,
the glazed front of the frayed black tie, the soft, greasy rim of the
old hat. Yes, he told himself, he was a most disreputable-looking
object, with nothing in his appearance to suggest prosperity, or even
decent comfort. A grim humour smote him suddenly, and thrusting his hand
into his pocket, he brought it out full of mone