“I don’t know what it is, mother--no, no, he did not vex me. I suppose I am glad to hear you speak of him so,” said the shy Menie, ashamed of her tears. The mother and daughter were in their own room preparing for rest, and Menie let down her hair over her face, and played with it in her fingers, that there might be no more remark or notice of this unwilling emotion. It was strange--never all her life before had Menie wept for anything indefinite: for childish provocations--for little vexations of early youth--for pity--she had shed bright transitory tears, but she had never “cried for nothing” until now. “Yes, I am pleased,” said Mrs Laurie, as she tied her muslin cap over her ears: “what did you say, Menie? I thought this coming to London would satisfy me on the one point which is likely to be more important than all others, and I was right. Yes, Menie, lie down, like a good girl; you must be wearied--and lie down with a good heart--you have a fair prospect, as fair as woman could wish. I am quite satisfied myself.” But how it came about that Menie only slept in broken snatches--that Menie dreamt uncomfortable dreams of harassment and annoyance--dangers in which Randall forsook her--cares of which he had no part--Menie did not know. A day ago, and Mrs Laurie’s unsolicited avowal of “satisfaction” had lifted Menie into the purest glow of joy, but to-night she cannot tell what makes her so restless and uneasy--what prompts her now and then to fall a-weeping, all unwillingly, and “for nothing.” Alas for Menie Laurie’s quiet heart!--something has come to trouble the waters, but in other guise than an angel’s. The grass is soft and mossy under the elm trees, and the morning air--a world of sweetness--beatifies their every branch and stem. Down yonder in the hollow, low at your feet, Menie Laurie, the great slave Titan has wakened to his daily toil. Is that the sweep of his mighty arm stirring the heavy mist which hangs above him? Is this the clang of his ponderous tools ringing up faintly into the quiet skies? The children are not astir yet, to seek their pleasure in these precincts. Nothing seems awake in this composed and sober place; but yonder, with many a conflict in his heart, with many a throbbing purpose in his brain, with life and strength tingling to his finger-points, with sighs and laughter swelling in his breath--yonder great vassal of the world is up and doing, holding the fate of a new day undeveloped in his busy hand.