“There is nothing else we can do, Menie,” said Mrs Laurie. “I suppose none of us have any inducement now to stay in London.” A flush of violent colour came to Menie’s cheeks. She paused and hesitated. “_I_ have, mother.” “Bless me, I aye said it,” muttered Jenny quickly, under her breath, as she turned round with an eager face, and thrust herself forward towards the mother and daughter. “The bairn’s come to hersel.” Mrs Laurie coloured scarcely less than Menie. “I cannot guess what you mean,” she said hurriedly. “You did not consult me before--I am, perhaps, an unsuitable adviser now; but I cannot stay in London without having a reason for it. This place has nothing but painful associations for me. You are not well, Menie,” continued the mother, softening; “we shall all be better away--let us go home.” The colour wavered painfully on Menie Laurie’s cheek, and it was hard to keep down a groan out of her heart. “I am not come to myself--my mind is unchanged,” she said with sudden meekness. “I want you to stay for a month or two--as short a time as possible--and to let me have some lessons. Mother, look at these.” Menie had brought her little portfolio. With some astonishment Mrs Laurie turned over its contents, and delicately--almost timidly too--lest Randall’s face should look out upon her as of old. But all the sketches of Randall were removed. Jenny pressed forward to see; but Jenny, as bewildered as Menie’s mother, could only look up with a puzzled face. What did she mean? “They are not very well done,” said Menie; “but, for all that, they are portraits, and like. I want to have lessons, mother. Once before, long ago,”--poor Menie, it seemed to be years ago,--“I said this should be my trade. I will like the trade; let me only have the means of doing it better, and it will be good for me to do it. This is why I ask you to stay in London.” Jenny, very fierce and red, grasping the back of a chair, thrust it suddenly between them at this point, with a snort of emphatic defiance. “Ye’ll no let on ye hear her!” exclaimed Jenny; “you’ll let her get her whimsey out like ony ither wean!--ye’ll pay nae attention to her maggots and her vanities! Trade! My patience! to think I should live to hear a bairn o’ ours speak o’ a trade, and Jenny’s twa hands to the fore!” And a petulant reluctant sob burst out of Jenny’s breast--an angry tear glittered in her eye. She drew a long breath to recover herself--