ppear to mourn so sincerely for
him; it was an awful life for her here.'

'He was never unkind to her,' answered Walter; 'and latterly he could
not do enough for her. She won him completely, and made a different man
of him.'

'I quite believe it. One of the weak things of the world,' he said more
to himself than to his listener. 'There's a different life opening up
for her; it will be a great change to her. Well, good-morning. I wish
you well, and you'll remember my desire to be a friend to you should you
ever need me.'

'I won't forget,' replied Walter, with beaming eye. 'Miss Gladys said
you would make all the arrangements for the funeral.'

'I will. They are easily made, because Mr. Graham left the most explicit
directions. He desires to be buried by his own folk in the churchyard of
Mauchline. I am going out this afternoon.'

Then the lawyer went away, but before proceeding to the station he wrote
a note to his wife, and sent it by a messenger to his house at
Kelvinside.

About four o'clock in the afternoon, as Gladys was putting a black
ribbon in her hat, a cab rattled over the rough causeway, and a knock
came to the house door; and when Gladys went to open it, what was her
surprise to behold on the threshold a lady, richly dressed, but wearing
on her sweet, motherly face a look so truly kind that the girl's heart
warmed to her at once.

'I am Mrs. Fordyce,' the lady said. 'You, I think, are Miss Graham? May
I come in?'

'Certainly, madam.'

Gladys held open the door wide, and Mrs. Fordyce entered the dark and
gloomy passage.

'We have a very small, poor place,' said Gladys, as she led the way. 'I
ought to tell you that I have no room to show you into, except where my
poor uncle lies.'

'My dear, I quite know. Mr. Fordyce has told me. It is you I have come
to see.'

When they entered the kitchen, she laid her two kind hands on the girl's
shoulders, and turned her face to the light. Then, with a sudden
impulse, she bent down and kissed her brow. Gladys burst into tears. It
was the first kiss she had received since she came to Glasgow, and that
simple caress, with its accompanying tenderness of look and manner,
opened the floodgates of her pent heart, and taught her her own
loneliness and need.

'I cannot leave you here, my dear child. My carriage is at the door. You
must come home with me. I shall bring you back quite early to-morrow,
but I must insist on taking you away to-night. It is not possib