All this time nothing had been heard of Liz. She was no longer known in her old haunts--was almost forgotten, indeed, save by one or two. Among those who remained faithful to her memory was the melancholy Teen, and she thought of her hour by hour as she sat at her monotonous work--thought of her with a great wonder in her soul. Sometimes a little bitterness intermingled, and she felt herself aggrieved at having been so shabbily treated by her old chum. She had in her quiet way instituted a very thorough inquiry into all the circumstances of her flight, and had kept a watchful eye on every channel from which the faintest light was likely to shine upon the mystery, but at the end of six months it was still unsolved. Liz was as irrevocably lost, apparently, as if the earth had opened and swallowed her. Teen had come to the conclusion that Liz had veritably emigrated to London, and was there assiduously, and probably successfully, wooing fame and fortune. Sometimes the weary burden of her toil was beguiled by dreams of a bright day on which Liz, grown a great lady, but still true to the old friendship, should come, perhaps, in a coach and pair, up the squalid street and remove the little seamstress to be a sharer in her glory. In one particular Teen was entirely and persistently loyal to her friend. She believed that she had kept herself pure, and when doubts had been thrown on that theory by others who believed in her less, she had closed their tattling mouths with language such as they were not accustomed to hear from her usually reticent lips. These gossip-mongers, who flourish in the quarters of the poor and rich alike, speedily learned that it was just as well not to mention the name of Liz Hepburn to Teen Balfour. One day a visitor, in the shape of a handsomely-dressed young lady, did come to the little seamstress's door. Teen gave a great start when she saw the tall figure, and her face flushed all over. In the semi-twilight which always prevails on the staircases of these great grim 'lands' of houses, she had imagined her dream to come true. 'Oh, it's you, miss?' she said, recognising Gladys Graham at last. 'I thought it was somebody else. Ye can come in, if ye like.' The bidding was ungracious, the manner of it as repellent as of yore; but Gladys, not easily repulsed, followed the little seamstress across the threshold, and closed the door. The heavy, close smell of the place made a slight faintness come over her, and she was glad to sink into the nearest chair. 'Do you never open your window? It is very close in here.' 'No, I never open it. It takes me a' my time to keep warm as it is. There's a perfect gale blaws in, onyhoo, at the chinks. Jist pit yer hand at the windy, an' ye'll see.' Gladys glanced pitifully round the place, and then fixed her lovely, compassionate eyes on the figure of the little seamstress, as she took up her position again on the stool by the fire and lifted her work.