ak pleasantly. 'You're my
sister, and I need a housekeeper. I'm thinking of leaving Colquhoun
Street, and taking a wee house somewhere in the suburbs. We can talk it
over when you come.'

Then Liz sat up and fixed her large, indescribable eyes full on her
brother's face.

'An' will ye tak' me withoot askin' a single question, Wat?'

'I can't do anything else,' he answered good-humouredly.

'But I've lost my character,' she said then, in a perfectly
matter-of-fact voice.

Although he was in a manner prepared for it, this calm announcement made
him wince.

'You can redeem it again,' he said in a slightly unsteady voice. 'I
don't want to be too hard on you, Liz. You never had a chance.'

Liz leaned back in her chair again and closed her eyes. She was, to
outward appearance, indifferent and calm, but her breast once or twice
tumultuously heaved, and her brows were knit, as if she suffered either
physical or mental pain.

'You'll come, won't you, Liz, either to-day or to-morrow? You know the
place,' he said rather anxiously.

'No,' she answered quietly; 'I'm no' comin'.'

'Why? I'm sure I will never cast up anything. I'm in solemn earnest,
Liz. I'll do the best I can for you, and nobody shall cast a stone at
you when I am by. I've lived to myself too long. Come and help me to be
less selfish.'

The girl's breast again tumultuously heaved, and one deep, bursting sob
forced itself from her lips; but all her answer was, to shake her head
wearily, and answer,--

'No.'

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXXIV.

WHAT WILL SHE DO?

Walter looked at her perplexedly, not knowing what to say.

'Why will you not come?' he asked at length quite gently.

'I've disgraced ye enough,' she answered, a trifle sharply. 'Ye dinna
ken what ye are daein', my man, askin' me to come an' bide wi' you. I've
mair respect for ye than ye hae for yersel'. I'm much obleeged, a' the
same, but I'm no' comin'.'

He perceived that the highest motive prompted her, and it convinced him
as nothing else could have done that, if she had erred, she had also
repented sincerely.

'What will you do, then?' he asked. 'Will you,' he added
hesitatingly--'will you go to the old folk?'

She gave a short, hard laugh.

'No' me. There wad be plenty castin' up there, if ye like. No; I hae nae
desire to see them again this side the grave.'

It was a harsh speech; but, knowing what the past had been, Walter could
not blame her. As he stood looking