Now come hither: Jenny’s candle in the kitchen thriftily extinguished, leaving her window only lightened by the firelight, proves that Jenny has come “ben” to the family service—the daily meeting-ground of mistress and servant, child and mother. There is no need to close the shutters on this window, which no one ever passes by to see. Calm in her fireside corner sits Mrs Laurie, with her open Bible in her lap; Jenny is close by the table, drawing near the light, and poring very closely upon the “sma’ print,” which runs into a confused medley before her, not to be deciphered—for Jenny will not be persuaded to try spectacles, lest they should “spoil her een;” while Menie, who reads the chapter aloud, reverently turns over the leaves of the family Bible, and, with all her quiet restored, speaks the words which say peace to other storms than that storm never to be forgotten, in the Galilean Sea. You remember how she was when you saw her last—you remember her through the flush of your own anger, the mortification of your own pride—but pride and mortification have little to do with this atmosphere which surrounds our Menie now. Her delicate hand is on the open Book—her reverent eyes cast down upon it—her figure rising out of its old girlish freedom and carelessness, into a womanly calm and dignity. He follows the motion of her head and lips with an unconscious eager gesture—follows them with devotion, longing to feel himself engaged with her; and hears, his frame quivering the while—rising upon his heart with a command, that hushes all these violent strong voices round—the low sound of _her_ voice. Now they are at prayer. Her face is folded in her hands, Randall; and there may be a prayer in Menie’s heart, which Mrs Laurie’s voice, always timid at this time, does not say. Whatever there is in Menie’s heart, you know what is in your own—know at once this flood of sudden yearning, this sudden passion of hope and purpose, this sudden burst of womanish tears. Now then, overmastered, subdued, and won, turn away, Randall Home—but not till Jenny, starting from her knees, has burst into a violent sob and scream. “I dreamt he was come back this very nicht; I dreamt o’ him yestreen—Randall—Randall Home!” But, with an awed face, Jenny returned from the door to which she had flown. Randall was not there! CHAPTER XXXVI. Something of languor is in this chill morning, as its quiet footstep steals upon the path of the exhausted storm—something worn out and heavy are Menie’s eyes as she closes them wearily upon the daylight when Jenny has cleared the little breakfast-table, and it is time for the day’s work to begin. They speak to her softly, you will perceive, and are very tender of Menie, as if she were ill, and Jenny cannot forgive herself for the shock that her exclamation caused last night.