“I would think with you too, Jenny,” said Mrs Laurie, slowly. “I could do anything myself; but a bairn of mine doing work for money—Menie, we will not need it—we will try first—” “Mother,” said Menie, interrupting her hastily, “_I_ will need it—I will never be wilful again—let me have my pleasure now.” It was a thing unknown in the household that Menie should not have her pleasure. Even Jenny yielded to this imperative claim. The boxes were piled up again in Jenny’s little bedchamber. Jenny herself, able to do nothing else, set to knitting stockings with great devotion. “I’ll ha’e plenty to do when we get hame, without ever taking wires in my hand,” said Jenny. “Nae doubt it’s just a providence to let me lay up as mony as will serve.” Their parlour was in the first floor, over one of the trim little ladies’ shops, which have their particular abode in little towns of competence and gentility. Toys and Berlin wool—a prim, neat, gentle Miss Middleton sitting at work on some pretty bit of many-coloured industry behind the orderly counter—gay patterns and specimens about—little carts and carriages, and locomotive animals upon the floor—bats, balls, drums, shining tin breastplates, and glorious swords hanging by the door, and a linen awning without, throwing the little shop into pleasant shade. This was the ground floor; above it was a very orderly parlour, and the sun came glistening in upon the little stand of flowers through the bright small panes of the old-fashioned window, and fell upon Mrs Laurie, always at work upon some making or mending—upon Jenny’s abrupt exits and entrances—her keen grey eyes and shining ‘wires,’ the latter of which were so nobly independent of any guidance from the former—and upon Menie’s heavy meditations, and Menie’s daily toil. For toil it came to be, exalted from the young lady’s accomplishment to the artist’s labour. She worked at this which she harshly called her trade with great zeal and perseverance. Even herself did not know how deficient she was till now; but Menie worked bravely in her apprenticeship, and with good hope. CHAPTER XXX. “I wouldna ha’e come hame as I gaed away, if I had been you, Jenny.” The speaker stands at the door of Jenny’s little byre, looking on, while Jenny milks her favourite cow. “Ye see what Nelly Panton’s done for hersel; there’s naething like making up folk’s mind to gang through wi’ a’ thing; and you see Nelly’s gotten a man away in yon weary London.”