"Is there any advantage to be got," said Elinor, like an injured and indignant champion of the right, "in opening up the whole question over again now?" What could poor Mrs. Dennistoun do? She was confounded, as she often had been before, by those swift and sudden tactics. She gave a glance up at her daughter over her spectacles, but she said nothing. Argument, she knew by long experience, was difficult to keep up with such an opponent. "But John is an idea," said Elinor. "I don't know why I should not have thought of him. He may suggest something that could be done." "I thought of him, of course, at once," said Mrs. Dennistoun, not able to refrain from that small piece of self-assertion. "It is not a time that it would be easy for him to leave town; but at least you could write and lay your difficulties before him, and suggest----" "Oh, you may be sure, mother," cried Elinor, "I know what I have to say." "I never doubted it, my dear," said Mrs. Dennistoun, gently. And then there was a little pause. They sat and worked, the elder lady stumbling a little over her knitting, her thoughts being so much engaged; the younger one plying a flying needle, the passion and impetus of her thoughts lending only additional swiftness and vigour to everything she did. And for ten minutes or more there was nothing to be heard in the room but the little drop of ashes from the fire, the sudden burst of a little gas-flame from the coals, the rustle of Elinor's arm as it moved. The cat sat with her tail curled round her before the fire, the image of dignified repose, winking at the flames. The two human inhabitants, save for the movements of their hands, might have been in wax, they were so still. Suddenly, however, the quietness was broken by an energetic movement. Elinor threw her work down on the table and rose from her chair. She went to the window and drew the curtain aside, and looked out upon the night. She shut it carefully again, and going to the writing-table, struck a match and lighted the candles there, and sat down and began, or appeared to begin, to write. Then she rose quickly again and returned to the table at which Mrs. Dennistoun was still seated, knitting on, but watching every movement of her restless companion. "Mother," she said, "I can't write, I have far too much to say. I will run up to town to-morrow myself and see John." "To town, Elinor, by yourself? My dear, you forget it is not an hour's journey, as it was to Windyhill." "I know that very well, mother. But even the journey will be an advantage. The movement will do me good, and I can tell John much better than I could write. Who could write about a complicated business like this? He will understand me when he sees me at half a word; whereas in writing one can never explain. Don't oppose me, please, mother! I feel that to do something, to get myself in motion, is the only thing for me now."