'That's an odd way to look at it. Who ever heard of a tree being lonely?

You have a great many queer fancies, but they won't flourish here.

Glasgow is given up to business; it has no time for foolish fancies.'

Gladys gravely nodded.

'Papa told me so. Is it very far to Ayrshire, Uncle Abel?'

The old man gave a quick start.

'To Ayrshire! What makes you ask the question? What has put such a thing into your head?'

'Papa spoke of it so often, of that beautiful village where you and he were born. He was so sorry I could not p.r.o.nounce it right, Mauchline.'

As that sweet voice, with its pretty English accent, uttered the familiar name, again a strange thrill visited the old man's withered heart.

'No, you don't say it right. But I wonder that he spoke of it so much; we were poor enough there, herd boys in the fields. We couldn't well have a humbler origin, eh?'

'But it was a beautiful life--papa said so--among the fields and trees, listening to the birds--the same songs Burns used to hear. I seem to know every step of the way, all the fields in Mossgiel, and every tree in the woods of Ballochmyle. Just before he died, he tried to sing,--oh, it was so painful to hear his dear, trembling voice,--and it was "The Bonnie La.s.s o' Ballochmyle." If it is not very far, will you take me one day, when you have time, Uncle Abel, to see Mauchline and Mossgiel and Ballochmyle?'

She looked at him fearlessly as she made her request, and her courage pleased him.

'We'll see. Perhaps at the Fair, when fares are cheap. But it will only be to please you; I never want to see the place again.'

'Oh, is not that very strange, Uncle Abel, that papa and you should think of it so differently? He loved it all so much, and he always said, when we were rich, we should come, he and I together, to Scotland.'

'He was glad enough to turn his back on it, anyhow. If he had stayed in Glasgow, and attended to business, he might have been a rich man,' said he incautiously.

'_You_ are not rich, though you have done so,' said Gladys quickly, looking at him with her young, fearless eyes. 'I think papa was better off than you, because he could always be in the country, and not here.'

The undisguised contempt on the girl's face as she took in her surroundings rather nettled the old man, and he gave her a snappish answer, then picked himself up, and went off to his warehouse.

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 pa.s.sage, 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 coa.r.s.e 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 la.s.s, 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 pa.s.sage, 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 pa.s.sage and shouted to his young a.s.sistant to come down.

Gladys was conscious of a strong sense of curiosity as she awaited the coming of the 'imp,' which was his master's favourite name for him, and when he entered she felt at first keenly disappointed. He was only a very ordinary-looking street boy, she thought, rather undersized, but still too big for his clothes, which were stretched on him tightly, his short trousers showing the tops of his patched boots, which were several sizes too large for him, and gave him a very ungraceful appearance. He had not even a collar, only an old tartan scarf knotted round his neck, and from the shrunk sleeves of the old jacket his hands, red and bony, appeared abnormally large. But when she looked at his face, at the eyes which looked out from the tangle of his hair, she forgot all the rest, and her heart warmed to him before he had uttered a word.

'This is Walter Hepburn--my niece, Mary Graham; and you may as well be friendly, because I can't have any quarrelling here,' was the old man's introduction; then, without a word of thanksgiving, he fell to eating his porridge, after having carefully divided the sky-blue milk into three equal portions.

The two young persons gravely nodded to each other, and also began to eat. Gladys, feeling intuitively that a kindred soul was near her, felt a wild desire to laugh, her lips even trembled so that she could scarcely restrain them, and Walter Hepburn answered by a twinkle in his eye, which was the first bright thing Gladys had seen in Glasgow. But though she felt kindly towards him, and glad that he was there, she did not by any means admire him, and she even thought that if she knew him better she would tell him of his objectionable points. For one thing, he had no manners; he sat rather far back from the table, and leaned forward till his head was almost on a level with his plate. Then he made a loud noise in his eating, which disturbed Gladys very much--certainly she was too fastidious and delicate in her taste for her present lot in life. When that strange and silent meal was over, the old man retired to the warehouse and left the children alone. But that did not disconcert them, as might have been expected. From the first moment they felt at home with each other. Walter was the first to speak. He leaned up against the chimneypiece, and meditatively watched the girl as she began deftly to clear the table.

'I say, miss,' he said then, 'do you think you'll like to be here?'

The English was pretty tolerable, though the accent was very Scotch.

'No. How could I?' was the frank reply of Gladys. 'But I have nowhere else, and I should be thankful for it.'

'Um.'

Walter thrust his hands into his diminutive pockets, and eyed her with a kind of meditative gravity.

'Are you always thankful when you should be?' he inquired.

'I am afraid not,' Gladys answered, with a little shake of her head.

'You live here all the week, don't you, till Sat.u.r.day night, when you go home?'

'Yes; and I'm always thankful, if you like, when Monday comes.'

Gladys looked at him in wonder.

'You are glad when Monday comes, to come back here? How strange!--and the other place is home. Have you a father and mother?'

'Yes, worse luck.'

Again Gladys looked at him, this time with strong disapproval.

'I don't understand you. It is very dreadful, I think, that you should talk like that.'

'Is it? Perhaps if you were me, and had it to do, you'd understand it. I wish I was an orphan. When a man's an orphan he may get on, but he never can if he has relations like mine.'

'Are they--are they wicked?' asked Gladys hesitatingly.

The lad answered by a short, bitter laugh.