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.