The little seamstress looked hesitatingly at the bright, radiant face of Gladys, and it was upon her lips to say it might be better to let the matter rest.  But, with her old philosophical reflections that anything she might say could not possibly avert the march of fate, she held her peace.

Just after lunch that afternoon, as Gladys was writing some letters in her favourite window, she saw Liz sitting by herself in the drowsy sunshine on the lawn, and her face wore such a dejected, melancholy look that it was evident some hidden sorrow was eating into her heart.  Closing her desk, Gladys ran down-stairs, caught up a garden hat from the hall, and crossed the green lawn to Liz.

‘Dear me, how doleful you look!’ she cried gaily.  ’How can you look so dreadfully doleful on such a bright day?  Now tell me every simple, solitary thing you are thinking.’

A swift, rather startled glance crossed Liz’s face, and she gave rather a forced laugh.

’That wadna be easy.  I don’t think I was thinking onything, except a meenit syne, when I lookit up an’ wished I was that laverock in the lift.’

’But why?  It is much nicer to be a girl, I think.  Tell me, Lizzie, don’t you feel stronger since you came here?  I think you look it.’

‘I’m weel enough,’ responded Liz dully; ‘an’ it’s a lovely place—­a lovely place.  I’ll never forget it, never as long as I live.’

It was the first note of enthusiasm Gladys had heard regarding Bourhill, and it pleased her well.

‘I hope you won’t, and that you’ll come often to see it.’

‘I dinna think I’ll ever come again; it’s no’ likely.  Hoo lang are we to bide?’

‘As long as you like,’ answered Gladys frankly,—­’till you are quite strong, anyhow.  Teen is in no hurry to go back to Glasgow; are you?’

‘Sometimes it’s very quiet,’ said Liz candidly.

‘But what are you going to do when you return?’

Liz shook her head, but her lips gave forth no answer.

‘I hope you will go to your brother, as he wished,’ said Gladys, and she could not for the life of her help a curious restraint creeping into her voice.  ’It would be so very nice for him to have you; it is dreadful for him to live quite alone, as he does.  Why won’t you go?’

‘He kens what way,’ replied Liz quietly.

Gladys was perplexed.  There was nothing particularly encouraging in the girl’s look or manner, but she thought the time had come to put the question which had so often trembled on her lips.  It was a proof of Gladys Graham’s fine and delicate nature that she had not ere this sought to probe into Liz Hepburn’s secret, if she had one.

‘Lizzie,’ she said gently, ’I hope you won’t be angry at what I say; but often, looking at you, I see that you are unhappy.  I have never sought to pry into your concerns, but perhaps, if you were to tell me something about yourself, you would feel more at rest.’