'Do you mean my uncle?' asked Gladys. 'He will be quite pleased to see you. Come in; it is so cold here.' 'For you, ay; but I'm as warm's a pie, see, wi' my new fur cape--four an' elevenpence three-farthings at the Polytechnic. Isn't it a beauty, an' dirt cheap?' Thus talking glibly about what was more interesting to her than anything else in the world, Liz followed Gladys into the kitchen, where the old man sat, as usual, in his arm-chair by the fireside, looking very old and wizened and frail in the flickering glow of fire and candle light. 'This is Walter's sister, Uncle Abel,' Gladys said, with that unconscious dignity which singled her out at once, and gave her a touch of individuality which Liz felt, though she did not in the least understand it. The old man gave a little grunt, and bade her sit down; but, though not talkative, he keenly observed the two, and saw that they were cast in a different mould. Liz looked well, flushed with her walk, the dark warm fur setting off the brilliance of her complexion, her clothes fitting her with a certain flaunting style, her manner free from the least touch of embarrassment or restraint. Liz Hepburn feared nothing under the sun. 'And are you quite better, Liz?' asked Gladys gently, with a look of real interest and sympathy in her face. 'Oh ay, I'm fine. Wat's no' in?' she said, glancing inquiringly round the place. 'No; he has heard of a teacher who takes evening pupils for book-keeping and these things, and has gone to make arrangements with him.' Never had the nicety of her speech and her sweet, refined accent been more marked by Abel Graham. He looked at her as she stood by the table, a slender, pale figure, with a strange touch of both child and maiden about her, and he felt glad that she was not like Liz. Not that he thought ill of Liz, or did not see her beauty, such as it was, only he felt that the maiden whom circumstances had cast into his care and keeping was of a higher type than the red-cheeked, bright-eyed damsel whom so many admired. 'An' when hae ye been oot, micht I ask?' inquired Liz calmly. 'Ye're a jimpy-looking thing.' 'Not since Sunday.' 'Sunday! Mercy me! an' this is Friday. She'll sune be in her grave, Mr. Graham. Folk maun hae fresh air. What way d'ye no' set her oot every day?' 'She is welcome to go if she likes, miss. I don't keep her in,' answered the old man tartly. 'Maybe no', but likely she has that muckle adae she canna get,' replied Liz fearlessly. 'It's a fine nicht--suppose ye tak' a walk wi' me? The shops is no' shut yet.' 'Shall I go, uncle?' asked Gladys. 'If ye want, certainly; but come in in time of night. Don't be later than nine.' 'Very well,' answered Gladys, and retired into her own room to make ready for her walk. Then Liz, turning round squarely on her seat, fixed the old man fearlessly with her eyes, and gave him a piece of her mind.