'I wonder to hear that you are so poor,' said Gladys, looking straight
into his face with her young, fearless eyes. 'Papa told me once that you
were quite rich, and that you had a splendid business.'

Abel Graham looked distinctly annoyed at this unexpected statement
regarding his worldly affairs.

'Your father, Mary, was as ignorant of the practical affairs of life as
an unborn babe. He never showed his ignorance more than when he told you
that fabrication--a pure fabrication of his fancy. I have a little trade
in the oil and tallow line. No, not a shop, only a little warehouse in a
back street in Glasgow. When you see it you will wonder how it has ever
kept body and soul together. A splendid business! Ha! ha! That is good!'

'And do you live near it, Uncle Abel?'

'I live at it--in it, in fact; my house is in the warehouse. It's not a
very genteel locality, nor a fine house, it is good enough for me; but I
warn you not to expect anything great, and I can't alter my way of life
for you.'

'I hope I should never expect it,' answered Gladys quietly. 'And you
live there quite alone?'

'Not quite. There is Walter Hepburn.'

'Who is Walter Hepburn?' asked Gladys, and the Scotch name fell most
musically from her lips for the first time, the name which was one day
to be the dearest to her on earth.