This did not exactly mend matters; but Menie had taken off her bonnet by this time, and found her usual seat in the dim farm-parlour, with its small windows and low-roofed green-stained walls. It was one of the articles of Miss Janet’s creed, that blinds looked well from without; so, although there could never a mortal look in through the thick panes to spy the household economics of Crofthill, only one narrow strip of the unveiled casement appeared between the little muslin curtain and the blind. The gable window, commanding as it did half the level country of Dumfriesshire, was less protected; but the front one cast a positive shadow upon the dark thrifty coloured carpet, the hair-cloth chairs, the mahogany table with its sombre cover, and gave to the room such an atmosphere of shrouded shadowed quiet, that the little bouquet of daffodils and wallflowers on the side-table hung their heads with languid melancholy, and an unaccustomed spectator scarcely ventured with more than a whisper to break the calm. But Menie Laurie was not unaccustomed, and knew very well where was the brightest corner, nor had much hesitation in drawing up the blind. But Menie had grown very busy with the “fancy” work she had brought with her, when Miss Janet approached with Randall’s letter in her hand. Scandal said that Menie Laurie’s pretty fingers were never so industrious at home as they found it agreeable to be abroad, and Menie was coy and occupied, and put Randall’s letter aside. “My dear, if you’re busy I’ll read it to you, mysel,” said Miss Janet, who had no appreciation of coyness, “and you can tell your faither, July, that Miss Menie’s come, and that the tea’s just ready; and ye can gie a look ben to the kitchen as you’re passing, and see that Tibbie’s no forgetting the time; and now gang about quiet, like a good bairn, and dinna disturb me. I’m gaun to read the letter.” And Miss Janet smoothed down her apron, to lay this prized epistle safely on her knee, and wiped her glasses with affectionate eagerness. “My dear, I’m no a grand reader of Randall’s write mysel,” said Miss Janet, clearing her voice, “and he’s getting an awfu’ crabbed hand, as you ken; but I’ve good-will, and you’ll just put up with me.” It would have been hard for any one gifted with a heart to fail of putting up with Miss Janet as she conned her nephew’s letter. True, she had to pause now and then for a word--true, that she did not much assist Randall’s punctuation; but it was worth even a better letter than Randall’s to see the absorbed face, the affectionate care upon her brow, the anxiety that pondered over all these crabbed corners, and would not lose a word. Menie Laurie had soul enough not to be impatient--even to look up at the abstracted Miss Janet with a little dew in her eye, though her process of reading was very slow.