arn now,' Gladys answered,
with exemplary meekness.

'There is an old woman who comes to do my little turn of a morning.
There is no reason why now I should not dispense with her services. She
is dear at the money, anyhow. I have often grudged it.'

'I wonder to hear that you are so poor,' said Gladys, looking straight
into his face with her young, fearless eyes. 'Papa told me once that you
were quite rich, and that you had a splendid business.'

Abel Graham looked distinctly annoyed at this unexpected statement
regarding his worldly affairs.

'Your father, Mary, was as ignorant of the practical affairs of life as
an unborn babe. He never showed his ignorance more than when he told you
that fabrication--a pure fabrication of his fancy. I have a little trade
in the oil and tallow line. No, not a shop, only a little warehouse in a
back street in Glasgow. When you see it you will wonder how it has ever
kept body and soul together. A splendid business! Ha! ha! That is good!'

'And do you live near it, Uncle Abel?'

'I live at it--in it, in fact; my house is in the warehouse. It's not a
very genteel locality, nor a fine house, it is good enough for me; but I
warn you not to expect anything great, and I can't alter my way of life
for you.'

'I hope I should never expect it,' answered Gladys quietly. 'And you
live there quite alone?'

'Not quite. There is Walter Hepburn.'

'Who is Walter Hepburn?' asked Gladys, and the Scotch name fell most
musically from her lips for the first time, the name which was one day
to be the dearest to her on earth.

'He's the office boy--an imp of the devil he is; but he is sharp and
clever as a needle; and then he is cheap.'

'Are cheap things always good, Uncle Abel?' Gladys asked. 'I have heard
papa say that cheap things are so often nasty, and he has spoken to me
more than once of the sin of cheapness. Even genius must be bought and
sold cheaply. Oh, he felt it all so bitterly.'

'Mary Graham, your foolish father was his own worst enemy, and I doubt
he will prove yours too, if that is all he has taught you. You had
better get tea at once.'

Thus rebuked, Gladys retired to the kitchen, and, to the no small
concern of the little landlady, she sat down on the low window-seat,
folded her hands on the table, and began helplessly to weep.

'My dear, my dear, don't cry! He hasn't been good to you, I know he
hasn't. But never mind; better times will soon dawn for you, and he will
not