Next day Gladys had to rise quite early—­before six—­and with her own hands light the fire, under the old man’s superintendence, thus receiving her first lesson in the economy of firelighting.  She was very patient, and learned her lesson very well.  While she was brushing in the hearth she heard another foot on the passage, and was further astonished by the tones of a woman’s voice giving utterance to surprise.

‘Mercy on us! wha’s he gotten noo?’

The words, uttered in the broadest Scotch, and further graced by the unlovely Glasgow accent, fell on the girl’s ears like the sound of a foreign tongue.  She paused, broom in hand, and looked in rather a bewildered manner at the short stout figure standing in the doorway, with bare red arms akimbo, and the broadest grin on her coarse but not unkindly face.

‘I beg your pardon, what is it?’ Gladys asked kindly, and the surprise deepened on the Scotchwoman’s face.

’Ye’ll be his niece, mebbe—­his brither’s lass, are ye, eh?  And hae ye come to bide?  If ye hiv, Almichty help ye!’

Gladys shook her head, not understanding yet a single word.  At this awkward juncture the old man came hurrying along the passage, and Mrs. Macintyre turned to him with a little curtsey.

‘I’m speakin’ to the young leddy, but she seemin’ly doesna understand.  I see my work’s dune; mebbe I’m no’ to come back?’

’No; my niece can do the little that is necessary, so you needn’t come back, Mrs. Macintyre, and I’m much obliged to you,’ said the old man, who was polite always, in every circumstance, out of policy.

‘Ye’re awn me wan an’ nine, fork it oot,’ she answered brusquely, and held out her brawny hand, into which Abel Graham reluctantly, as usual, put the desired coins.

‘Yer brither’s dochter, genty born?’ said Mrs. Macintyre, with a jerk of her thumb.  ’Gie her her meat; mind, a young wame’s aye toom.  Puir thing, puir thing!’

Abel Graham hastened her out, but she only remained in the street until she saw his visage at one of the upper windows, then she darted back to the kitchen, and laid hold of the astonished Gladys by the shoulder.  ‘If ye ever want a bite—­an’ as sure as daith ye will often—­come ye to me, my lamb, the second pend i’ the Wynd, third close, an’ twa stairs up, an’ never heed him, auld skin o’ a meeser that he is!’

She went as quickly as she came, leaving Gladys dimly conscious of her meaning, but feeling intuitively that the words were kindly and even tenderly spoken, so they were not forgotten.

When the water had boiled, the old man came down to supervise the making of the porridge—­a mystery into which Gladys had not been yet initiated.  Three portions were served on plates, a very little tea put in a tiny brown teapot, and breakfast was ready.  Then Abel went into the passage and shouted to his young assistant to come down.