'Rather; but I don't agree with all you say,' replied the minister, 'and I'll watch with interest the development of Miss Graham's history. If that determined-looking youth doesn't have a hand in it, I've made a huge mistake, that's all.'

Mr. Fordyce had made his plans for the day, and arranged with his wife to bring the carriage to Colquhoun Street at five o'clock. Gladys had been made acquainted with this arrangement, and acquiesced in it. It was about four o'clock when they returned to the empty house, which looked more cheerless than usual 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 antic.i.p.ation.

'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 a.s.sured 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 joy to him to leave it in your hands. I daresay he felt a.s.sured, as I do, that, though so young, you would know how to use it wisely.'

It was the right chord to touch. The colour leaped back to her cheek, the light to her eyes, her whole manner changed.

'Oh, I will, I will! G.o.d will help me. I will do the work, his work. If only he had told me how he wished it done.'

'I have a letter for you, written by his own hand the day he died; but it is not here. I will bring it when I come from my office at night; and meanwhile, my dear, I would suggest that you should get ready to go. My wife will be here very shortly.'

Immediately thought was diverted into another channel, and a great wistfulness stole over her.

'And what,' she asked in a low voice,--'what will become of Walter?'

'Has he not told you what his future is likely to be?'

'No, he has told me nothing.'

'Your uncle has left him this business to make of it what he likes, and five hundred pounds to help him to carry it on. It is a very good lift for a friendless young fellow--a waif of the streets.'

'He's not a waif of the streets,' cried Gladys hotly. 'He has a home, not so happy as it might be, perhaps, but it is a home. It is this dreadful drink, which ruins everything it touches, which has destroyed Walter's home. I am so glad for him. He will get on so quickly now, only he will be so dreadfully lonely. I must come and see him very, very often.'

'My dear, I do not wish you to turn your back on your old friend, but it might be better for you both, but more especially for him, if you let things take their course. Your life must be very different henceforth.'

'I do not understand you,' said Gladys quite calmly, 'Please to explain.'

Not an easy task for Mr. Fordyce, with these large, sorrowful, half-indignant eyes fixed so questioningly on his face. But he did his best.

'I mean, my dear, that for you, as Miss Graham of Bourhill, a new life is opening up--a life in which it will be quite wise to forget the past.

Your life here, I should think,' he added, with a significant glance round the place, 'has not held much in it worth remembering. It will pa.s.s from you like a dream in the midst of the many new interests which will encompa.s.s you now.'

It was the wisdom of the world, not harshly nor urgently conveyed, but it sounded cruelly in the girl's ears. She rose to her feet, and somewhat wearily shook her head.

'You do not know, you cannot understand,' she said faintly. 'I can never forget this place. I pray I may never wish to forget it. If you will excuse me, I shall get ready now, so as not to keep Mrs. Fordyce waiting when she comes.'

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XVI.

FAREWELL.

The carriage was at the door, and they stood face to face, the young man and the maiden, in the little office up-stairs, to say farewell.

'I am quite ready, Walter,' Gladys said in a still, quiet voice. 'I am going away.'

'Are you? Well, good-bye.'

He held out his hand. His face was pale, but his mouth was set like iron, and these apparently indifferent words seemed to force themselves from between his teeth. Sign of emotion or sorrow he exhibited none, but the maiden, who understood and who loved him,--yes, who loved him,--was not in the least deceived.

'Have you nothing else to say than that, Walter? It is very little when I am going away,' she said wistfully.

'No,' he replied in the same steady, even tone, 'nothing. You had better not keep them waiting, these grand people, any longer. They are not used to it, and they don't like it.'

'Let them wait, and if they don't like it they can go away,' she answered, with unwonted sharpness. 'I want to say, Walter, that if I could have stayed here, I would. I would rather be here than anywhere.

It once seemed very dreadful to me, but now I love it. But though I am going away, I will come to see you very often, very often indeed.'

'Don't come,' he answered sharply. 'Don't come at all.'

A vague terror gathered in her eyes, and her mouth trembled.

'Now you are unkind, Walter, unkind and unreasonable. But men are often unreasonable, so I will forgive you. If I may not come here, will you promise to come to Bellairs Crescent and see me?'

Then Walter flung up his head and laughed, that laugh which always stabbed Gladys.

'To have the door slammed in my face by a footman or a smart servant?

No, thank you.'

'Very well. Good-bye. If you cast me off, Walter, I can't help it.

Good-bye, and G.o.d bless you. I hope I shall see you sometimes, and if not, I shall try to bear it, only it is very hard.'

She was a woman in keenness of feeling, a very child in guilelessness.