Nelly Panton sits mournfully upon the wooden stool. If you take her own word for it, no one is more contemptuous of “fyking” and “making a wark” than Jenny of Burnside; but the kitchen--woe be to the hapless stranger who ventures to commend it!--is quite resplendent with brightness and good order. The fire, cheerfully burning in the grate, finds a whole array of brilliant surfaces to dance in, and dances to its heart’s content. Glittering metal and earthenware, Jenny’s looking-glass at one side, and the dark polish of Jenny’s oak table with its folding leaf at the other, line all the walls with warmth and light; and the fire, repulsed and defeated only by this one obstinately opaque body before it, besets the dark outline of Nelly Panton with a very tremble of eagerness, seeking in vain for something, if it were but the pin of her shawl, or the lifting of her eye, to repeat its kindly glimmer in. There is no pin visible in Nelly’s doleful shawl, so closely wrapped about her person, and Nelly’s pensive glances seek the floor, and the light falls off from her figure foiled and baffled, finding nothing congenial there. Come you hither, Menie Laurie, that the friendly fireside spirit may be consoled--playing in warm rays upon your hair, which the wind has blown about so pleasantly that the bright threads hang a hundred different ways, and catch a various glow of reflection in every curl--leaping up triumphantly under the raised lids of these sunny eyes--catching a little ring upon your finger, a little golden clasp at your white neck. No wonder Nelly draws her shawl closer, and turns her back upon the light, as she rises to speak to you. “My mother’s ill and anxious in her mind, Miss Menie; and no to say _that_ its lane, but thrawn and perverse as onybody could conceive. I’m sure ye’ll hear nae character of me in the haill countryside for onything but being as harmless a person as could gang about quiet wark in ony house; but she’s ta’en a turn that she canna bide even me; and aye for ever, night and morning, keeping up a constant wark about her son. I like Johnnie weel enough mysel--but what’s the guid o’ seeking letters as lang as we ken he’s weel?--and that’s what I’m aye saying, but she’ll no hearken to me.” “Does Johnnie write so seldom?--but I’m sure nothing ails him, or we should have heard,” said Menie. “Tell her she’s to keep up her heart--he’ll do very well yonder. You should make her cheery, Nelly, now when you’re at home the whole day.”