‘Tired!  Oh ay.  We maun tire an’ begin again,’ she answered dully.  ’It’s sair on the fingers.’

She paused a moment to stretch out one of her scraggy hands, which was worn and thin at the fingertips, and pricked with the sharp points of many needles.

‘It’s dreadful; the stuff looks so hard.  What do you make?’

‘Men’s canvas jackets, number five, thirteenpence the dizen,’ quoted the little seamstress mechanically, ‘an’ find yer ain threed.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Gladys.

‘I get a penny each for them, an’ a penny ower.’

‘For making these great things?’

‘Oh, I dinna mak’ them a’.  The seams are run up wi’ the machine afore I get them.  I pit in the sleeves, the neckbands, an’ mak’ the buttonholes.  There’s mair wark at them than ye wad think.’

‘Is the money not very little?’

‘Maybe; but I’m gled to get it.  I’m no’ able for the mill, an’ I canna sterve.  It keeps body an’ soul thegither—­eh, Liz?’

‘Nae mair,’ said Liz abstractedly, again absorbed in her paper.  ’But maybe oor shot ‘ll come.’

Gladys rose to her feet, suddenly conscious that she had made a very long visit.  Her heart was heavier than when she came.  More and more was the terrible realism of city life borne in upon her troubled soul.

‘I’m afraid I must go away,’ she said very quietly.  ’I am very much obliged to you for being so kind to me.  May I come again?’

‘Oh, if ye like,’ said Liz carelessly.  ‘But ye’ll no’ see Teen.  She lives doon the street.  My mither canna bide her, an’ winna let her nose within the door, so we haud a jubilee when she’s nailed.’

‘Oh, please don’t speak like that of your mother!’

Liz looked quite thunderstruck.

‘What for no’?  I’ve never gotten onything frae her a’ my days but ill.  I’ll tell ye what—­if I had ta’en her advice, I’d hae gane to the bad lang syne.  Although she is my mither, I canna say black’s white, so ye needna stare; an’ if ye are no’ pleased ye needna come back, I didna spier ye to come, onyway.’

’Oh no; pray forgive me if I have made a mistake.  I am so sorry for it all, only I cannot understand it.’

‘Be thankfu’ if ye dinna, then,’ replied Liz curtly.  ‘I’m no’ very ceevil to ye.  I am much obleeged to ye for comin’, for the flooers, an’ mair than a’, for teachin’ Wat to read.’

Her face became quite soft in its outline; the harshness died out of her bright eyes, leaving them lovely beyond expression.  Gladys felt drawn to her once more, and, leaning forward, without a moment’s hesitation she kissed her on the brow.  It was a very simple act, no effort to the child who had learned from her English mother to give outward expression to her feelings; but its effect on Liz was very strange.  Her face grew quite red, her eyes brimmed with tears, and she threw the blanket over her head to smother the sob which broke from her lips.  Then Gladys bade good-bye