Home--well, one has seen places that look less like home. You can just see the low roof, the little bits of pointed gable, the small lattice-windows of the upper storey, above the thick green hawthorn hedge that closes round. A tall yew-tree looks out inquisitively over the hawthorns, pinched, and meagre, and of vigilant aspect, not quite satisfied, as it would seem, with the calm enjoyment of the cows upon this bank of grass without; but Jenny’s heart warms to the familiar kye, which might be in Dumfriesshire--they look so home-like. Jenny’s lips form into the involuntary “pruh.” Jenny’s senses are refreshed by the balmy breath of the milky mothers--and Menie’s eyes rejoice over a glorious promise of roses and jasmine on yon sunny wall, and a whole world of clear unclouded sky and sunny air embracing yonder group of elm-trees. Even Mrs Laurie’s curved brow smoothes and softens--there is good promise in the first glance of Heathbank. At the little gate in the hedge, Miss Annie Laurie’s favourite serving-maiden, in a little smart cap, collar, and embroidered apron, which completely overpower and bewilder Jenny, stands waiting to receive them. Everything looks so neat, so fresh, so unsullied, that the travellers grow flushed and heated with a sudden sense of contrast, and remember their own travel-soiled garments and fatigued faces painfully; but Menie has only cast one pleased look upon the smooth green lawn which shrines the yew-tree--made one step upon the well-kept gravel path, and still has her hand upon the carriage-door, half turning round to assist her mother, when a sudden voice comes round the projecting bow-window of Heathbank Cottage--a footstep rings on the walk, an appearance reveals itself in the bright air. Do you think it is some young companion whom your good aunt’s kindness has provided for you, Menie--some one light of heart and young of life, like your own May-time? Look again, as it comes tripping along the path in its flowing muslin and streaming ringlets. Look and cast down your head, shy Menie, abashed you know not why--for what is this? Something in a very pretty muslin gown, with very delicate lace about its throat and hands, and curls waving out from its cheeks. Look, too, what a thin slipper--what a dainty silken stocking reveals itself under the half-transparent drapery! Look at these ringing metallic toys suspended from its slender waist, at the laced kerchief in its hand, at its jubilant pace--anywhere--anywhere but at the smile that fain would make sunshine on you--the features which wear their most cordial look of welcome. Menie Laurie’s eyes seek the gravel path once more, abashed and irresponsive. Menie Laurie’s youthful cheek reddens with a brighter colour; her hand is slow to detach itself from the carriage door--though Menie Laurie’s grand-aunt flutters before her with outstretched arms of gracious hospitality, inviting her embrace.