‘Oh, I know.  Have I not thought of it all?’ cried Gladys, with a great mournfulness.  ’But don’t you think if they had some pleasant place of their own, where they could meet together of an evening, and read or work or amuse themselves, they would be happier?’

’There are some places.  I ken some lassies that belang to Christian Associations.  Liz an’ me gaed twice or thrice wi’ some o’ the members, but’—­

‘But what?’ asked Gladys, bending forward with keen interest.

‘We didna like it.  There was ower muckle preachin’, and some of the ladies looked at us as if we were dirt,’ responded Teen candidly.  ’Ye should hae heard Liz when we cam’ oot.  It was as guid as a play to hear her imitatin’ them.’

Gladys looked thoughtful, and a trifle distressed.  Curiously, at the moment she could not help thinking of the many societies and associations with which Mrs. Fordyce was connected, and of her demeanour that day at St. Enoch’s Station—­an exact exemplification of Teen’s plain-spoken objection.

‘Liz said she was as guid as them, an’ she wadna be patronised; an’ that’s what prevents plenty mair frae gaun.  A lot gang just to serve themselves, because they get a lot frae the ladies.  My, ye can get onything oot o’ them if ye ken hoo to work them.’

This was a very gross view of the case, which could not but jar upon Gladys, though she was conscious that there was a good deal of truth in it.  Somehow, in the light of Teen Balfour’s unvarnished estimate of philanthropic endeavour, her dreams seemed to become all at once impossible of fulfilment.

’I do not think they mean, the ladies, to patronise.  Do you not think the girls imagine, or at least exaggerate?’

’Maybe; but Susan Greenlees—­a lassie I ken, that works in a print-mill—­telt me one o’ them reproved her for haein’ a long white ostrich feather in her hat, and Susan, she just says, “Naebody askit you to pay for it,” an’ left.’

Gladys relapsed into silence; and Teen, all unconscious of the cold water she had thrown so copiously on a bright enthusiasm, sat back leisurely, and looked about her interestedly.

‘Here we are,’ said Gladys, at length rousing herself up, though with an evident effort; ’and there is Mrs. Macintyre at the gate.  You have never seen her, you say?  Hasn’t she a nice kind face?’

Gladys drew rein when they had passed through the gate, and introduced the two.  Mrs. Macintyre, who looked like a different being in her warm grey tweed gown, neat cap, and black apron, gave the pale city girl a hearty hand-shake, and prophesied that Bourhill air would soon bring a rose into her cheek.  Gladys nodded, and said she hoped so, then drove on to the house.  And when they went up the long flight of steps and into the wide, warm, beautiful hall, Teen’s shyness returned to her, and if it had been possible she would have turned and fled.

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