“That’s just her way,” said Nelly, with mournful complacency. “Instead of taking it kind when I try to ease her, ye would think I was doing somebody an injury; and I’m sure it’s a fashious temper indeed that canna put up with me--for I’ve aye been counted as quiet a lass as there is in the haill countryside, and never did ill to onyhody a’ my days. From morning to night I’m aye doing my endeavour to get comfort to her--hearing of the lads that have done weel in London, and aye standing up for Johnnie that he’s no sae ill as he’s ca’ed, though he mayna write as often as some do; and just yesterday I gaed myself to Burnside, a guid mile o’ gate from our house, to ask Miss Menie Laurie to write to Randall Home for word about Johnnie,--and I’m sure what ony mortal could do mair, I canna tell.” “What business has Miss Menie Laurie, or Randall Home either, with my trouble?” exclaimed the mother indignantly. “Am I no to daur shed a tear in my ain house, but a’ the toun’s to hear o’t? Yes, Miss Menie, I see it’s you, but I canna help it. I’m no meaning disrespect either to you or ony of your friends; but naebody could thole to have their private thoughts turned out for a’ the world to see--and she’ll put me daft if she gets encouragement to gang on at this rate.” “Must I not ask about Johnnie, Mrs. Lithgow?” said Menie; “Nelly said it would comfort you.” “Nelly’s aye saying something to aggravate a puir woman out of baith life and patience,” said Nelly’s mother; “and he’s just her half-brother, you see, and she hasna the interest in him she might have. I’m sure I canna tell how she came to be a daughter of mine,” continued the poor woman, rising and turning away to address herself, rapidly and low, to Menie’s particular ear. “I would do mony a thing afore I would have my ain troubled thoughts, or so muckle as a breath on Johnnie’s credit, kent in the countryside; and I’m no sae anxious--no near sae anxious as that cuttie says; but, Miss Menie, you’re an innocent lassie--I’ll trust you. I have a tremble in my heart for my young son, away yonder his lane. No that Johnnie has ony ill ways--far from that, far from that--and a better son to his mother never was the world owre; but an innocent thing like you disna ken how a puir laddie’s tempted--and there’s no a creature near hand to mind him of his duty, and naething but a wheen careless English, that disna ken our kirk nor our ways, at every side of him--and I charged him he was to gang to nae kirk but our ain. I’m sure I dinna ken--whiles things that folk mean for guid counsel turn out snares--and I’m sair bewildered in my mind. If you’ll just write, Miss Menie--just like as it was out of your ain head, and bid the young gentleman--I hear he’s turned a grand scholar, and awfu’ clever--take the pains to ask how Johnnie’s winning on--but no to say you have heard ony ill of him. I wouldna have him think his mother was doubtful of him, no for a’ Kirklands parish--and he’s aye in the