Mrs Laurie sits very thoughtful and still by the window. Menie’s mother, in her undisturbed and quiet life, had never found out before how proud she was. Now she feels it in her nervous shrinking from speech of her misfortune--in the involuntary haughtiness with which she starts and recoils from sympathy. Without a word of comment or lamentation, the mere bare facts, and nothing more, she has communicated to Miss Annie; and Mrs Laurie had much difficulty in restraining outward evidence of the burst of indignant impatience with which, in her heart, she received Miss Annie’s effusive pity and real kindness. Miss Annie, thinking it best not to trouble her kinswoman in the present mood of her mind, has very discreetly carried her pity to some one who will receive it better, and waits till “poor dear Mrs Laurie” shall recover her composure; while even July, repelled by the absorbed look, and indeed by an abrupt short answer, too, withdraws, and hangs about the other end of the room, like a little shadow, ever and anon gliding across the window with her noiseless step, and her stream of falling hair. Mrs Laurie’s face is full of thought--what is she to do? But, harder far than that, what is Menie to do?--Menie, who vows never to leave her--who will not permit her to meet the chill fellowship of poverty alone. A little earthen-floored Dumfriesshire cottage, with its kailyard and its one apartment, is not a very pleasant anticipation to Mrs Laurie herself, who has lived the most part of her life, and had her share of the gifts of fortune; but what will it be to Menie, whose life has to be made yet, and whose noontide and prime must all be influenced by such a cloud upon her dawning day? The mother’s brow is knitted with heavy thought--the mother’s heart is pondering with strong anxiety. Herself must suffer largely from this change of fortune, but she cannot see herself for Menie--Menie: what is Menie to do? Will it be better to see her married to Randall Home, and then to go away solitary to the cot-house in Kirklands, to spend out this weary life--these lingering days? But Mrs Laurie’s heart swells at the thought. Perhaps it will be best; perhaps it is what we must make up our mind to, and even urge upon her; but alas and alas! how heavily the words, the very thought, rings in to Mrs Laurie’s heart.