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