Softly--the room is not vacant now, as it was when you last entered here. Some one stands by the window, stooping forward to look at the stars; and while you linger by the door, a low cry, half a sigh, half a moan, breaks the silence faintly--not the same voice which just now bore its part so well below;--not the same, for that voice came from the lips only--this is out of the heart. “Bairn, you’re no weel--they’ve a’ wearied you,” said Jenny, stealing upon her in the darkness: “lie down and sleep; its nae matter for the like o’ me, but when you sigh, it breaks folk’s hearts.” The familiar voice surprised the watcher into a sudden burst of childish tears. All the woman failed in this great trial. “Oh, Jenny, dinna tell my mother!” Menie Laurie was capable of no other thought. CHAPTER XXV. But this Menie Laurie, rising up from her bed of unrest, when the morning light breaks, cold and real, upon a changed world, has wept out all her child’s tears, and is a woman once again. No one knows yet a whisper of what has befallen her, not even poor Jenny, who sobbed over her last night, and implored her not to weep. Now, how to tell this--how to signify, in the fewest and calmest words, the change that has come upon her. Sitting, with her cheek leant on her hand, by the window where she heard it, before any other eyes are awake, Menie ponders this in her heart. Always before in little difficulties counsel and help have been within her reach; few troublous things have been to do in Menie’s experience; and no one ever dreamt that _she_ should do them, when they chanced to come to her mother’s door. But now her mother’s honour is involved--she must not be consulted--she must not know. With a proud flush Menie draws up herself--herself who must work in this alone. Ah, sweet dependence, dear humility of the old times! we must lay them by out of our heart to wait for a happier dawn. This day it is independence--self-support--a strength that stands alone; and no one who has not felt such an abrupt transition can know how hard it is to take these unused weapons up. “Will you let me speak to you, aunt?” Menie’s heart falters within her, as she remembers poor Miss Annie’s unaccepted sympathy. Has she indeed been driven to seek refuge here at last? “My love! how can you ask such a question, darling, when I am always ready to speak to you?” exclaimed Miss Annie, with enthusiasm. “But not here--out of doors, if you will permit me,” said Menie in a half whisper. “I--I want to be out of my mother’s sight--she must not know.” “You delightful creature,” said Miss Annie, “are you going to give me your confidence at last?”