them, inly wondering what had transpired in her
absence.

'Liz will bide with you in the meantime,' said Walter, affecting a
cheerfulness he did not feel. 'I have been asking her to come and be my
housekeeper, but she won't promise in the meantime.'

'Oh, she'll be fine here the noo,' answered the little seamstress, with
a significance which did not convey anything to them, though it meant
something to her. She was thinking as she spoke of the probable result
of the letter she had just carried to the post, and which would be
delivered at Bourhill in the morning. She was not mistaken in her
calculations regarding it; for next morning, between eleven and twelve,
when the two were sitting by the fire keeping up a rather disjointed
conversation, during which Liz had exhibited distinct signs of
restlessness, a light, quick knock came to the door.

'That's her!' cried Teen, springing up, her sallow face all aglow. 'I
kent she wad come; yes, it's jist her.'

Liz sat up, her whole demeanour defiant, her face wearing its most
ungracious look.

She had not the remotest idea who was meant by 'her,' and it is certain
that had there been any other means of exit than the door in the
building, she would have taken herself off there and then. What was her
astonishment to behold presently a lissom, graceful figure and a sweet
face, which seemed familiar, though she could not for the moment believe
that they really pertained to Gladys Graham. And the face wore such a
lovely look of gladness and wonder and sorrow all mingled, that Liz was
struck dumb.

'Oh, Lizzie, I am so glad to see you. How could you stay away so long,
when you must have known we were all so anxious about you? But we will
forgive you quite, now that you have come back.'

She took the unwilling hand of Walter's sister in her firm, warm clasp,
and, bending forward, kissed her, as she had done once before, on the
brow. Then the face of Liz became a dusky red, and she started back,
saying hoarsely,--

'Don't! Never dae that again. Oh, my God, if ye kent, ye wadna let yer
eyes licht on me, far less that.'

'I know that we are very glad to see you again, and that you look very
ill, dear Lizzie,' said Gladys, her voice tremulous with her deep
compassion; 'and I have come to take you away to Bourhill. Here is
somebody quite ready, I think, to go.'

She turned with a smile to the little seamstress, whose face still wore
that intense, glorified look.

'Bourhill?'