In stolid malice Nelly Panton sits still, and listens with a certain melancholy enjoyment of the mischief she has made, protesting, under her breath, that “she meant nae ill; she aye did a’thing for the best;” while Randall, forgetful of his own acknowledgment, repeats again and again his indignant remonstrance, “a woman like this!” “No, she has no such power,” said Menie firmly--“no such power. Pardon me--I am wanted to-night. My strength is not my own to be wasted now; we can conclude this matter another time.” Before he could say a word the door had closed upon her. There was a hustle without, a glimmer of coming lights upon the wall. In a few minutes the room was lighted up, the lady of the house in her presiding place--and Randall started with angry pride from the place where he stood, by the side of Nelly Panton, whose gloomy unrelieved figure suddenly stood out in bold relief upon the brightened wall. Another time! Menie Laurie has not gone to ponder upon what this other conference shall be--she is not by her window--she is not out of doors--she has gone to no such refuge. Where she never went before, into the heart of Miss Annie’s preparations--into the bustle of Miss Annie’s hospitality--shunning even Jenny, far more shunning her mother, and waiting only till the room is full enough, to give her a chance of escaping every familiar eye. This is the first device of Menie’s mazed, bewildered mind. These many days she has lived in hourly expectation of some such blow; but it stuns her when it comes. Forlorn! forlorn! wondering if it is possible to hide this misery from every eye--pondering plans and schemes of concealment, trying to invent--do not wonder, it is a natural impulse--some generous lie. But Menie’s nature, more truthful than her will, fails in the effort. The time goes on, the lingering moments swell into an hour. Music is in her ears, and smiling faces glide before her and about her, till she feels this dreadful pressure at her heart no longer tolerable, and bursts away in a sudden passion, craving to be alone. Another heart, restless by reason of a gnawing unhappiness, wanders out and in of these unlighted chambers--oftenest coming back to this one, where the treasures of its life rest night by night. This wandering shadow is not a graceful one--these pattering hasty footsteps have nothing in them of the softened lingering tread of meditation. No, poor Jenny, little of sentiment or grace embellishes your melancholy--yet it is hard to find any poem so full of pathos as a desolate heart, even such a one as beats in your homely breast to-night.