Matthew Irving of Friarsford was wealthy and had some ambition. He was exceedingly desirous to give his children good education, and with the masculine part of them he had succeeded tolerably well, thanks to the academy of Fendie; but the hapless Maggie was less fortunate. She was the only daughter; especial pains, and care, and labour had been expended upon her training, and the father and mother, exulting over their accomplished girl, thought the process a perfectly satisfactory and successful one. Maggie had been sent to the house of a relative in one of the busy towns of Lancashire to learn English, and she had learnt it to perfection. Maggie had a piano, and could play you against time, all manner of inarticulate music. Maggie could draw, as three or four copies made from French lithographs--_patterns_, as Maggie and her mother called them--hung there, elaborately framed, upon the walls, to testify. Moreover, Hope Oswald’s quick movements had swept upon the ground a couple of handsome specimens of knitting, displayed upon the arm and cushions of the sofa, before Hope had been ten minutes in the lightsome cheerful apartment, which was the comfortable parlour once, but had now obtained brevet rank as drawing-room. As Maggie hastened to arrange them, she pointed out the stitch to her visitor, and offered to show her the various stock she had. Hope was dismayed; never girl of fourteen was more innocent of stitches than she, and this branch of her friend’s acquirements had very little interest for her. It was not so with Mrs Irving, a comfortable, kindly, vulgar woman, who was very proud of her daughter’s accomplishments, and eager to exhibit them. “Miss Hope will give you a tune, Maggie,” she said; “and you can let her hear how you come on yoursel. She’s very good at it, Mrs Oswald, though she hasna had the same advantages as Miss Hope.” Hope started in alarm. “On, don’t let us have any music, Mrs Irving!--I mean, I shall be very glad to hear Maggie, but I don’t like playing.” Mrs Irving thought the young lady only coy. “Hout, Miss Hope! a’body that’s very good at it makes that excuse, ye ken; and I’m sure ye must aye be getting new tunes in Edinburgh.” “But I don’t like new tunes,” pleaded Hope. “Oh, Miss Oswald!” said the astonished Maggie, in gentle reproof. Hope was offended; Maggie Irving called her Miss Oswald; Maggie Irving had nothing to talk about, after so long a separation, but stitches and new tunes! Their friendship was at an end. Hope walked indignantly to the piano, and played her favourite air of “Hame, hame, hame!” “It’s a bonnie bit simple thing that,” said Mrs Irving, looking proudly at her own accomplished performer, as she took her place at the instrument, by the side of which Hope and her mother were reluctantly compelled to sit for a dull half hour, listening to jingling pieces of music, whose brief moment of fashion was long ago over, and which had never had anything but fashion to recommend them.