memories tortured him now with the stings of the bitterest regret.  It was not known to any save himself and his Maker what agony his awakened soul passed through in the still hours of that spring day.  Seeing him lie apparently in such restfulness, the two young creatures spoke to each other at their breakfast only in whispers, and when Walter went up to the warehouse, Gladys continued to perform her slight tasks as gently and noiselessly as possible; but sometimes, when she looked at the face on the pillow, with its closed eyes and pinched, wan features, she wished the doctor would come again.

About half-past nine a knock came to the door, and Gladys ran out almost joyfully, expecting to see the young physician with the honest face and the pleasant eyes, but a very different-looking personage was presented to her view when she opened the door.  A man in shabby workman’s garb, dirty, greasy, and untidy—­a man with a degraded type of countenance, a heavy, coarse mouth, and small eyes looking out suspiciously from heavy brows.  She shrank away a little, and almost unconsciously began to close the door, even while she civilly inquired his business.

‘Is Wat in?  I want to see my son, Walter Hepburn,’ he said; and when he opened his mouth Gladys felt the smell of drink, and it filled her with both mental and physical repulsion.  So this was Walter’s father?  Poor Walter!  A vast compassion, greater than any misery she had before experienced, filled the girl’s gentle soul.

‘Yes, he is in, up-stairs in the warehouse.  Will you come in, please?’ she asked; but before the invitation could be accepted, Wat came bounding down the stairs, having heard and recognised the voice, and there was no welcoming light in his eye as he gazed on his father’s face.

‘Well, what do you want?’ he asked abruptly; and Gladys, slipping back hastily, left them alone.

And after she had returned to the kitchen she heard the hum of their voices in earnest talk for quite five minutes.  Then the door was closed, and she heard Walter returning to his work.  It appeared to her as if his step sounded very heavy and reluctant as it ascended the stair.

Presently her uncle roused himself up, and asked for something to eat or drink.

‘Are you feeling better?’ she asked, as she shook up his pillows, and did other little things to make him comfortable.

‘No; there’s a load lying here,’ he answered, touching his chest, ’which presses down to the grave.  If they can’t do something to remove that, I’m a dead man.  No word of that young upstart doctor yet?’

‘Not yet.  Shall I send for him, uncle?’

’No, no; he’ll come sure enough, and fast enough—­oftener than he’s wanted,’ he answered.  ‘Who was that at the door?’

‘Walter’s father.’

’Eh?  Walter’s father?  What did he want?  Is he smelling round too, to see if he can get anything?’ he said querulously.  ’When you’ve given me that tea, I wish you to take my keys from my coat pocket and go up to the safe.  When you’ve opened it, you’ll find an old pocket-book, tied with a red string.  I want you to bring it down to me.’