h!'

Gladys looked genuinely distressed, and perhaps for the first time Liz
thought of another side such degradation might have. She had often been
angry, had felt it keenly in her own passionate way, but it was always a
selfish anger, which had not in it a single touch of compassion for the
miserable pair who had so far forgotten their duty to each other and to
God.

'Gey bad, ye think, I see,' said Liz soberly. 'We're used to it, and
dinna fash oor thoombs. She'll be hame the nicht; but he's gotten thirty
days, an' we'll hae a wee peace or he comes oot.'

Gladys looked at the indifferent face of Liz with a vague wonder in her
own. That straight, direct glance, which had such sorrow in it,
disconcerted Liz considerably, and she again turned to the pages of
'Lord Bellew.'

'Don't you get rather tired of that work?' asked Gladys, looking with
extreme compassion on the little seamstress, who was again hard at work.

'Tired! Oh ay. We maun tire an' begin again,' she answered dully. 'It's
sair on the fingers.'

She paused a moment to stretch out one of her scraggy hands, which was
worn and thin at the fingertips, and pricked with the sharp points of
many needles.

'It's dreadful; the stuff looks so hard. What do you make?'

'Men's canvas jackets, number five, thirteenpence the dizen,' quoted the
little seamstress mechanically, 'an' find yer ain threed.'

'What does that mean?' asked Gladys.

'I get a penny each for them, an' a penny ower.'

'For making these great things?'

'Oh, I dinna mak' them a'. The seams are run up wi' the machine afore I
get them. I pit in the sleeves, the neckbands, an' mak' the buttonholes.
There's mair wark at them than ye wad think.'

'Is the money not very little?'

'Maybe; but I'm gled to get it. I'm no' able for the mill, an' I canna
sterve. It keeps body an' soul thegither--eh, Liz?'

'Nae mair,' said Liz abstractedly, again absorbed in her paper. 'But
maybe oor shot 'll come.'

Gladys rose to her feet, suddenly conscious that she had made a very
long visit. Her heart was heavier than when she came. More and more was
the terrible realism of city life borne in upon her troubled soul.

'I'm afraid I must go away,' she said very quietly. 'I am very much
obliged to you for being so kind to me. May I come again?'

'Oh, if ye like,' said Liz carelessly. 'But ye'll no' see Teen. She
lives doon the street. My mither canna bide her, an' winna let her nose
within the door, so we