Mrs Laurie coloured scarcely less than Menie. “I cannot guess what you mean,” she said hurriedly. “You did not consult me before—I am, perhaps, an unsuitable adviser now; but I cannot stay in London without having a reason for it. This place has nothing but painful associations for me. You are not well, Menie,” continued the mother, softening; “we shall all be better away—let us go home.” The colour wavered painfully on Menie Laurie’s cheek, and it was hard to keep down a groan out of her heart. “I am not come to myself—my mind is unchanged,” she said with sudden meekness. “I want you to stay for a month or two—as short a time as possible—and to let me have some lessons. Mother, look at these.” Menie had brought her little portfolio. With some astonishment Mrs Laurie turned over its contents, and delicately—almost timidly too—lest Randall’s face should look out upon her as of old. But all the sketches of Randall were removed. Jenny pressed forward to see; but Jenny, as bewildered as Menie’s mother, could only look up with a puzzled face. What did she mean? “They are not very well done,” said Menie; “but, for all that, they are portraits, and like. I want to have lessons, mother. Once before, long ago,”—poor Menie, it seemed to be years ago,—“I said this should be my trade. I will like the trade; let me only have the means of doing it better, and it will be good for me to do it. This is why I ask you to stay in London.” Jenny, very fierce and red, grasping the back of a chair, thrust it suddenly between them at this point, with a snort of emphatic defiance. “Ye’ll no let on ye hear her!” exclaimed Jenny; “you’ll let her get her whimsey out like ony ither wean!—ye’ll pay nae attention to her maggots and her vanities! Trade! My patience! to think I should live to hear a bairn of ours speak of a trade, and Jenny’s twa hands to the fore!” And a petulant reluctant sob burst out of Jenny’s breast—an angry tear glittered in her eye. She drew a long breath to recover herself— “Jenny’s twa hands to the fore, I say, and the bere a’ to shear yet, and the ’taties to gather—no to say the mistress is to buy me twa kye, to take butter to the market! I would just like to ken where’s the pleasure in working, if it’s no to gi’e ease to folk’s ain? I’ve a’ my ain plans putten down, if folk would just let me be; and we’ll can keep a young lass to wait upon Miss Menie,” cried Jenny, with a shrill tone in her voice, “and the first o’ the cream and the sweetest o’ the milk, and nae occasion to wet her finger. You’re no gaun to pay ony heed to her—you’re no gaun to let on you hear what she says!” Reaching this point, Jenny broke down, and permitted, much against her will, a little shower of violent hot tears to rain down upon the arms which she folded resolutely into her apron. But Jenny shook off, with indignation, the caressing hand which Menie laid upon her shoulder. Jenny knew by experience that it was better to be angry than to be sad.