The calm self-assertion of Liz, which had something almost queenly in
it, compelled the respect of the old man, and he even smiled a little
across the table to the chair where she sat quite at her ease,
delivering herself of these remarkably plain statements. In his inmost
soul he even enjoyed them, and felt a trifle sorry when Gladys appeared,
ready to go. Liz sprang up at once, and favoured the old miser with a
gracious nod by way of farewell.

'Guid-nicht to ye, then, an' mind what I've said. I was in deid earnest,
an' I'm richt, as ye'll maybe live to prove. An' mind that there's ower
wee a pickle angels in Glesca for the ither kind, and we'd better tak'
care o' what we hae.'

[Illustration]




CHAPTER VIII.

EDGED TOOLS.


'Noo, whaur wad ye like to gang?' inquired Liz, as they shut the outer
door behind them.

'Anywhere; it is pleasant to be out, only the air is not _very_ good
here. Do you think it is?'