’MADAM,—­I write to you at the request of one of the patients under my care, a young woman called Lizzie Hepburn, who, I fear, is dying.  She appears very anxious to see you, and asked me to write and ask you to come.  I would suggest that, if at all possible, you should lose no time, as we fear she cannot last many days, perhaps not many hours.—­Yours truly,

‘CHARLOTTE RUTHERFURD.’

‘This is from one of the nurses, I suppose,’ said the little spinster pityingly.  ’Poor girl, poor thing! the end has come only a little sooner than we anticipated.’

Gladys did not hear the last sentence.  She was already in the hall giving her orders, and then off in search of Teen, whose duties were not very clearly defined, and who had no particular place of habitation in the house.  It said a great deal for Teen’s prudence and tact that her rather curious positions in the house—­the trusted companion of the housekeeper and the friend of the young lady—­had not brought her into bad odour with the servants.  She was a favourite with them all, because she gave herself no airs, and was always ready to lend a hand to help at any time, disarming all jealousy by her unpretentious, willing, cheerful ways.  Gladys found her in the drawing-room, dusting the treasures of the china cabinet.

‘Oh, Teen, there is a letter about poor Lizzie at last!’ she cried breathlessly.  ’It is from the Infirmary; the nurse says she is very ill, perhaps dying, and she wishes to see me.  You would like to go, I am sure, and if we make haste we can get the eleven train.’

Teen very nearly dropped the Sevres vase she held in her hand in her sheer surprise over this news.

’There is no time to talk.  Make haste, if you wish to go; we must be off in fifteen minutes,’ cried Gladys, and ran off to her own room to make ready for her journey, Miss Peck fussing about her as usual, anxious to see that she forgot nothing which could protect her from the storm.  It was indeed a wild morning, a heavy rain scudding like drift before the biting wind, and the sky thickly overcast with ink-black clouds; but they drove off in a closed carriage, and took no hurt from the angry elements.  They did not speak much during the journey.  In addition to her natural excitement and concern for the poor lost girl, Gladys was also possessed by a strange prevision that that day was to be a turning-point in her history.

’Surely Walter will have seen his sister; he cannot have left Glasgow so soon,’ she said, as they drove from St. Enoch’s Station, by way of the old High Street, to the Infirmary.  These streets, with their constant stream of life, were all familiar to the eyes of Gladys.  Many an hour in the old days she had spent wandering their melancholy pavements, scanning with a boundless and yearning pity the faces of the outcast and the destitute, feeling no scorn of them or their surroundings, but only a divine compassion, which had betrayed itself in her