ys's new home. Her uncle did
not go out at all, but dozed in the chimney-corner between the intervals
of preparing the meagre meals. On Sunday Abel Graham attended to his own
housekeeping, and took care to keep a shilling off Mrs. Macintyre's
pittance for the same. Gladys, though unaccustomed to perform household
duties except of the slightest kind, was glad to occupy herself with
them to make the time pass. The old man from his corner watched with
much approval the slender figure moving actively about the kitchen, the
busy hands making order out of chaos, and adding the grace of her sweet
young presence to that dreary place. On the morrow, he told himself, he
should dismiss the expensive Mrs. Macintyre. Yes, he had made a good
investment, and then the girl would always be there, a living creature,
to whom he might talk when so disposed.

'It isn't at all a bad sort of place, my dear,' he said quite
cheerfully. 'At the back, in the yard, there's a tree and a strip of
grass. In spring, if you like, you might put in a pennyworth of seeds,
and have a flower.'

This was a tremendous concession. Gladys felt grateful for the kindly
thought which prompted it.

'One tree, growing all by itself. Poor thing, how lonely it must be!'

The old man looked at her curiously.

'That's an odd way to look at it. Who ever heard of a tree being lonely?
You have a great many queer fancies, but they won't flourish here.
Glasgow is given up to business; it has no time for foolish fancies.'

Gladys gravely nodded.

'Papa told me so. Is it very far to Ayrshire, Uncle Abel?'

The old man gave a quick start.

'To Ayrshire! What makes you ask the question? What has put such a thing
into your head?'

'Papa spoke of it so often, of that beautiful village where you and he
were born. He was so sorry I could not pronounce it right, Mauchline.'

As that sweet voice, with its pretty English accent, uttered the
familiar name, again a strange thrill visited the old man's withered
heart.

'No, you don't say it right. But I wonder that he spoke of it so much;
we were poor enough there, herd boys in the fields. We couldn't well
have a humbler origin, eh?'

'But it was a beautiful life--papa said so--among the fields and trees,
listening to the birds--the same songs Burns used to hear. I seem to
know every step of the way, all the fields in Mossgiel, and every tree
in the woods of Ballochmyle. Just before he died, he tried to sing,--oh,
it was