mercy of Heaven.

As the days went by, Walter dreaded yet more the coming of Saturday, and
Sunday to be spent in his own house in Bridgeton, but as yet he had not
spoken of his great sorrow to Gladys, only she was quick to notice how,
as the week went by and Saturday came, the shadow deepened on his face.
She felt for him keenly, but her perception was so delicate, so quick,
she knew it was a sorrow with which she must not intermeddle. There were
very many things in life, Gladys was learning day by day, more to be
dreaded than death, which is so often, indeed, the gentlest friend.

One Monday morning Walter appeared quite downcast, so unusual with him
that Gladys could not forbear asking what troubled him.

'It's Liz,' he said, relieved to be asked, though diffident in
volunteering information. 'She's ill,--very badly, too,--and she is not
looked after. I wish I knew what to do.'

Gladys was sympathetic at once.

'What is it?--the matter, I mean. Have they had a doctor?'

'Yes; it's inflammation of the lungs. She's so much in the streets at
night, I think, when it's wet; that's where she's got it.'

'I am very sorry. Perhaps I could do something for her. My father was
often ill; he was not strong, and sometimes caught dreadful chills
painting outside. I always knew what to do for him. I'll go, if you
like.'

The lad's face flushed all over. He was divided between his anxiety for
his sister, whom he really loved, and his reluctance for Gladys to see
his home. But the first prevailed.

'If it wouldn't be an awful trouble to you,' he said; and Gladys smiled
as she gave her head a quick shake.

'No trouble; I shall be so glad. Tell me where to find the place, and
I'll go after dinner, before it is dark. Uncle Abel says I must not go
out after dark, you know.'

'It's a long way from here, and you'll have to take two cars.'

'I know the Bridgeton car; but may I not walk?'

'No; please take these pennies. When you are going to see my sister, I
should pay. Yes, take them; I want you to.'

Gladys took the coppers, and put them in her pocket. She knew very well
they would reduce the hoard he was gathering for the purchase of a
coveted book, but she felt that in accepting them she was conferring a
rare pleasure on him. And it was so. Never was subject prouder of a gift
accepted by a sovereign than Walter Hepburn of the fact that that day
Gladys should ride in comfort through the wet streets at his expense. It
was