For Nelly Panton, sitting behind at the fire, is a mantua-maker, and maintains herself. By good fortune, this maintenance is very cheaply accomplished; and Nelly’s “drap parritch” and cup of tea are by much the smallest burden which her society entails upon her mother. Decent lass as Nelly is, she has come through no small number of vicissitudes, and swayed between household service and this same disconsolate mantua-making of hers, like the discontented pendulum--not to speak of two or three occasions past, when Nelly has been just on the eve of being married, a consummation which even the devout desire of Mrs Lithgow has not yet succeeded in bringing peacefully to pass--for Nelly and her lovers, as Mrs Lithgow laments pathetically, “can never gree lang enough,” and some kind fairy always interposes in time to prevent any young man of Kirklands from accomplishing to himself such a fate. Mrs Lithgow’s dress is scarcely less doleful than her daughter: a petticoat of some dark woollen stuff, and a clean white short-gown, are scarcely enlivened by the check apron, bright blue and white as it is, which girds in the upper garment; but the close cap which marks her second widowhood encloses a face fresh, though care-worn, with lines of anxious thought something too clearly defined about the brow and cheeks. A little perplexity adds just now to the care upon the widow’s face; for upon her counter stands a square wooden box, strongly corded and sealed, over which, with much bewilderment, the good woman ponders. Very true, it is directed to Mrs Lithgow, Kirklands, and Kirklands knows no Mrs Lithgow but herself; but with a knife in her hand to cut the cord, and a little broken hammer beside her on the counter, with which she proposes to “prise” open the securely nailed lid, the widow still hangs marvelling over the address, and the broad red office-seal, and wonders once again who it can be that sends this mystery to her. “I’ve heard of folk getting what lookit like a grand present, and it turning out naething but a wisp o’ straw, or a wecht o’ stanes,” said the perplexed Mrs Lithgow, as her young visitors saluted her; “but this is neither to ca’ very heavy nor very licht; and it’s no directed in a hand o write that ane might have kenned, but in muckle printed letters like a book; and I’m sure I canna divine, if I was thinking on a’body I ever kent a’ my days, wha could send such a thing to me.” “But if you open the box you’ll see,” cried July Home. “Eh! I wish you would open it the time we’re here; for I think I ken it’s from Johnnie, and Menie Laurie has grand news of Johnnie in her letter. I was as glad as if it was me. He’s turned clever, Mrs Lithgow; he’s growing to be a great man, like our Randall. Eh! Menie, what ails her?”