In Miss Annie’s desk, a half-written paper, intimating vaguely that, in case of “anything happening” to her at any future time, she wished all that she had to be given to Menie Laurie--was found immediately after the funeral. But some superstitious terror had prevented her from finishing it, far more from making a will. Menie was her next of kin; it pleased them to have this sanction of her willingness to the inheritance of the natural heir. Miss Annie had been rather given to speak of her savings; but no vestige of these savings was to be found. She had practised this on herself like many another delusion; and saving the furniture of Heathbank, and a profusion of ornaments not valuable, there remained little for Menie to inherit. Miss Annie’s maid was her well-known favourite, and had been really attentive, and a good servant to her indulgent mistress. Her name was mentioned in the half-written paper, and Maria’s own report of many conversations, modestly hinted at a legacy. Miss Annie’s furniture, pretty and suitable for her house as it was, was not valuable in a sale; and Mrs Laurie, acting for her daughter, bestowed almost the whole amount received for it upon Maria, as carrying out the will of her mistress. Having done this, they had done all, Mrs Laurie thought, and would now go home to live as they could upon what remained to them. Burnside, with all its plenishing, brought in no greater revenue than fifty pounds a-year, and Mrs Laurie had two or three hundred pounds “in the bank.” This was all. She began to calculate painfully what the home-journey would cost them, and called Jenny to consult about their packing. They were now in a little lodging in the town of Hampstead. They had no inducement to stay here; and Menie’s face looked very pale--very much in want of the fresh gale on the Dumfriesshire braes. True, they knew not where they were going, but the kindly soil was home. When her mother and Jenny began to take enumeration of the bags and boxes which must go with them, Menie entered the room. Menie looked very slight, very pale, and exhausted, almost shadowy in her mourning dress; but Menie’s now was a face which had looked on Death. The conflict and sullen warfare were gone out of it. Dead and silent within her lay her chilled heart, like a stricken field when the fight is over, with nothing but moans and sighs, and voices of misery, where the music and pomp of war has so lately been. The contest was over; there was nothing to struggle for or struggle with, in this dull unhappiness--and a heavy peace lay upon Menie like a cloud. “There is a wee kistie wi’ a lock. I set it by mysel for Miss Menie; and there’s the muckle ane that held the napery at hame; but I’m no gaun owre them a’. I’ll just lay in the things as I laid them when we came. Miss Menie! gang away your ways, like a guid bairn, and read a book; your mamma’s speaking about the flitting, and I can only do ae thing at a time.” “Are we going home, mother?”