'My uncle?' repeated Gladys wistfully. 'Oh yes; it will be Uncle Abel
from Scotland. Mr. Courtney said he had written to him.'

She rose from her stool and turned to follow Miss Peck down-stairs.

'In the sitting-room, my dear, he waits for you,' said Miss Peck, and a
look of extreme pity softened her pinched features into tenderness. 'I
hope--I hope, my dear, he will be good to you.' She did not add what she
thought, that the chances were against it; and, still holding the lamp
aloft, she guided Gladys down-stairs. There was no hesitation, but
neither was there elation or pleasant anticipation in the girl's manner
as she entered the room. She had ceased to expect anything good or
bright to come to her any more, and perhaps it was as well just then
that her outlook in life was so gloomy; it lessened the certainty of
disappointment. A little lamp also burned on the round table in the
middle of the narrow sitting-room, and the fire feebly blinked behind
Miss Peck's carefully-polished bars, as if impressed by the subdued
atmosphere without and within. Close by the table stood a very little
man, enveloped in a long loosely-fitting overcoat, his hat in one hand
and a large damp umbrella in the other. He had an abnormally large head,
and a soft, flabby, uninteresting face, which, however, was redeemed
from vacancy by the gleam and glitter of his remarkably keen and
piercing black eyes. His hair was grey, and a straggling beard, grey
also, adorned his heavy chin. Gladys was conscious of a strong sense of
repulsion as she looked at him, but she tried not to show it, and feebly
smiled as she extended her hand.

'Are you Uncle Abel, papa's brother?' she asked--a perfectly unnecessary
question, of course, but it fell from her involuntarily, the contrast