sual after the beauty and freshness of the country.

'Now, my dear,' said the lawyer, 'we must have a little talk before Mrs.
Fordyce comes. I have a great deal to say to you. You remember you would
not allow me to speak to you about business affairs until all was over?'

'Yes,' answered Gladys, and seated herself obediently, but without
betraying the slightest interest or anticipation.

'I shall be as brief and simple as possible,' he continued. 'I told you
that you need have no anxiety about your future, that it was assured by
your uncle's will. You were not aware, I suppose, that he died a rich
man?'

'No; I have heard people call him rich, but I never believed it. He
spoke and acted always as if he were very poor.'

'That is the policy of many who have earned money hardly, and are loath
to spend it. Well, it is you who will reap the benefit of his economy.
About six months ago your uncle called upon me at my office for the
first time in connection with the purchase of a small residential estate
in Ayrshire. He wished to buy it, and did so--at a bargain, for there
were few offers for it. That estate was Bourhill, and it was for you it
was bought. You are absolutely its owner to-day.'

'I--owner of Bourhill?' she repeated slowly, and as if she did not
comprehend. 'I owner of Bourhill?'

'Yes, my dear young lady; I congratulate you, not only as mistress of
Bourhill, but also as mistress of what, to you, must seem a large
fortune. Your uncle has left you Bourhill and the sum of ten thousand
pounds.'

She received this announcement in silence, but all the colour left her
face.

'Oh,' she cried at length, in a voice sharp with pain, 'how wrong! how
hard! To live here in such poverty, to be so hard on others, to act a
lie. It was that, Mr. Fordyce. Oh, my poor uncle!'

Her distress was keen. It showed itself in her heaving breast, her
saddened eye, her drooping lips. She could not realise her own great
fortune; she could only think of what it had cost. The lawyer was deeply
moved, and yet not surprised. It was natural that a nature so fine, so
conscientious, and so true, should see at once the terrible injustice of
it all.

'My dear, I must warn you not to dwell on the morbid side. We must admit
that it was a great pity, a very great pity, that your poor uncle did
not realise the responsibility of wealth, did not even take some comfort
for himself from it. But I may tell you it was a great, an inexpressible
j