But Miss Annie Laurie never wears ringlets more. Strangely upon her conscience, like a reproach for her unnatural attenuated youth, came Menie’s appeal to her for help and comfort. Feeling herself so frivolous and feeble, so unable to sustain or strengthen, Miss Annie made a holocaust of her curls, and was satisfied. So much vanity was relinquished not without a struggle; but great comfort came from the sacrifice to the heroic penitent. And Jenny, discontented and angry with them all, furiously now takes the part of Randall Home, and wonders, in a fuff and outburst, what Miss Menie can expect that she “lightlies” a bonnie lad like yon. A great change has taken place on Menie; no one can say it is for the better--and sullenly and sadly this bright year darkens over the house of Heathbank. CHAPTER XXVIII. “You’re to bide away--you’re no to come near this place. Na, you may just fecht; but you’ve nae pith compared to Jenny, for a’ sae auld and thrawn as Jenny has been a’ her days. It’s no me just--it’s your mamma and the doctor. Bairn! will you daur struggle wi’ me?” But Menie would dare straggle with any one--neither command nor resistance satisfies her. “Let me in--I want to see my mother.” “You can want your mother for a day--there’s mair than you wanting her. That puir old haverel there--guid forgie me--she’s a dying woman--has sairer lack o’ her than you. Keep to your ain place, Menie Laurie--muckle made o’--muckle thocht o’--but you’re only a bairn for a’ that--you’re no a woman o’ judgment like your mamma or me. I tell yon to gang away--I will not let you in.” And Jenny stood firm--a jealous incorruptible sentinel in the passage which led to Miss Annie Laurie’s room. “Miss Menie, ye’ll no take it ill what I say,” said Jenny; “there’s death in the house, or fast coming. I ken what the doctor means. Gang you ben the house, like a guid bairn; look in your ain glass, and see if there should be a face like that in a house where He comes.” Menie looks silently into the countenance before her--the keen, impatient, irascible face; but it was easy to see a hasty tear dashed away from Jenny’s cheek. And without another word, Menie Laurie turned away. Some withered leaves are lying on the window-sill--the trees are yielding up their treasures, dropping them down mournfully to the disconsolate soil--but the meagre yew-tree rustles before her, darkly green in its perennial gloom. Rather shed the leaves, the hopes--rather yield to winter meekly for the sake of spring--rather be cut down, and rooted up altogether, than grow to such a sullen misanthrope as this. And Menie Laurie looks into her own face; this gloomy brow--these heavy eyes--are these the daylight features of Menie Laurie?--the interpretation of her heart? Earnestly and long she reads--no lesson of vanity, but a stern sermon from that truthful mirror. Hush!--listen!--what was that?--a cry!