Mr. Hogarth’s Will by Catherine Helen Spence (page 3)

as much to him, but he would not hear of a refusal.

“‘You never can manage to do much for the children at service, for all your wages, except your own necessary expenses, goes home and is spent; but by having a little business, you may save more than you could send to them now, and get them a better education, and give them a better start. No doubt we will miss you here; but Mrs. Bennett is a very excellent person, and now I hear that Dr. Grant is going to buy Mr. McDougall’s station, only fifteen miles off, we can get him to come on an emergency, though he says he would rather not practise. I will not say that we can do very easily without you, but we must not keep you always here.’

“The kindness of Mr. Phillips I will never forget. Well, it was done all as he planned it. I went to Melbourne and saw Sandy Lowrie, and he gave me good accounts of the bairns, as growing in stature, and Tam and Jamie keen of their learning, but the old woman, their grandmother, he said was sore failed, and no likely to be long spared.

“I took a little shop at a low rent, in a little village, a bit out of the town, for I was frightened to incur much risk, and I set up on my own footing, with ‘M. Walker, general store,’ over my door-cheek.

“I was doing a decent business, in a small way, among poor people mostly; and I set my face very steady against giving credit, for two reasons–first, that I was not clever enough to keep accounts; and besides that, it just does working folk harm to let them take on. At a time of sickness I might break through my rule, but at no other time. All the folk about me called me Miss Walker, very much to my surprise; and as I was thought to be making money, I had no want of sweethearts. After I had gone on for some years the diggings broke out, and there was an awful overturn of everything in Melbourne. I made a lot of money, and I bought the shop from the landlord, and was very proud to get my title-deed written out on parchment, and to see myself a woman of landed heritable property; and then I made my will, too, for I had something to leave. I never was doing better in business in my life than when Robbie Lowrie, a brother of Sandy’s, came out to go to the diggings, and maybe with an eye to make up to myself; but the news he brought me made me change all my plans and return to Scotland. He told me that the grandmother was dead, and that the old man, who never had half the gumption of his wife, was not able to control the five youngsters; so that they were getting out their heads at no allowance. Tam, in particular, he said, was a most camsteery callant; but the old man, he said, was fairly off all work, and not one of his own bairns were either able or willing to help him, and I knew that he had an awful horror of the sea. So I let my shop, and sold the stock for time; and indeed the payments have no been owre regular, and the man that took it is still in my debt. I found the grandfather and the bairns were really as Robbie had said, and I have had my own work to set things to rights. They were in debt, too, though I had sent them double the money after I had the shop than before; but they just thought that a rich auntie in Australia was a mine of wealth, and the folk very unwisely gave them trust whenever they asked it. But they were doing very weel at the school, and I find it a hantle cheaper to give them learning here than in Melbourne; so it answers me better to bide here than to take them out, even if grandfather would agree. He was good to me and mine in my straits, and I cannot think to leave the old man now.

“But what with the rent and the schooling, and one thing and another, I found that the rent of my bit shop would not pay all expenses, so I took in washing and dressing for the folk about Swinton. I was aye clever at it, and I got a great inkling about clear-starching and fine dressing from that Mrs. Bennett, at Mr. Phillips’s station, for she was a particular good laundress. A body learns at all hands if one has only the will. And ye see, now, it seemed better for Tam and the rest that I should try my luck in a bigger place, and I hope I may not repent of it.

“That’s all my story. It’s no much tell; but yet, ye see that none of my brothers have been burdened with my bairns. I have done it all myself.”

Jane sat silent a few moments after Peggy had finished her narrative, and then thanked her gravely and earnestly for it. Elsie, too, had been much interested in the adventures of this clever, upright woman, and was only sorry it could not be available–neither incident nor sentiment–for her poetry.

“Now, I have kept you up long enough, young ladies. If what I have said gives you any heart, I will be glad. I hope you will sleep well, and have lucky dreams; so good-night.”

Chapter X.

Elsie’s Literary Venture, and Its Success

Elsie Melville found the second day in —– Street better than the first. An early walk with Jane restored her to her equilibrium, and she sat down to write in her own room with more rapidity than before; while Jane went out and made inquiries at registry offices, or anywhere else that was likely to lead to employment; but day after day passed without success. Rather than do nothing, she assisted Peggy in the lighter parts of her work, made clothes for the children, and helped them with their lessons in the evening. Peggy was astonished at the progress which they all made with such assistance, and particularly delighted with the great influence Jane had over Tom. As she grew accustomed to the ways of the house, she learned to endure the noise patiently, and she found these five young Lowries really interesting and remarkably intelligent. Tom especially was eager for knowledge, and his trade, which he entered into with all his heart, was calling out all his abilities and all his ambition. There were many things that he had difficulty in getting information about, for he was but a young apprentice, and the journeymen and older apprentices wanted him to wait on them rather than to learn the business. But he was not to be kept back in that way; he was determined to find things out for himself, and in every difficulty he found help and sympathy from Jane Melville. Her out-of-the-way knowledge made her a most useful auxiliary, and she rejoiced that there was one person in the world that she could assist with it. She did not forget Peggy’s wish about the quick writing, and taught those peasant children to express themselves fluently on paper. Their manners were improved under her influence, and what was still uncouth or clumsy she learned to bear with.

Another resource to lighten the weight of anxiety and disappointment was found in Peggy’s extraordinary gift in finding out distressed people, which even in her new residence, did not desert her. Jane, who had been accustomed to put her hand in her purse for the benefit of Peggy’s proteges, felt at first very grieved that she had nothing to give, but she learned that a great deal of good can be done with very little money, and satisfied herself by giving sympathy, personal services, and advice. It was astonishing what good advice she gave to other people for bettering their prospects, while she seemed quite unable to do anything for herself. But so long as Elsie was busy and hopeful with her poems, Jane could not bear to leave her; if they failed, they must try what they could do separately. In the meantime, she was more disposed to try classes than anything else, for her experience with the Lowries proved to her that she could teach clever children, at any rate, with success; but as she could not get the promise of any pupils of the rank and circumstances that could make them pay, she hesitated about incurring any risk.

Elsie had completed poems sufficient to fill a small volume before her sister had seen any opening for herself. It was with some strong agitation on Jane’s part, and still stronger on Elsie’s, that they presented themselves to the publisher who had said he would give a good price for a good book written by a woman, and offered him the manuscript for publication. Alas! tastes differ as to what is a good book, and in nothing is there so much disparity of opinion as in the article of poetry. He did not give much encouragement to the sisters, but said he would read over the manuscript and give an answer in ten days. Any one who has ever written with the hope of publishing can fancy Elsie’s feeling during these ten days. Her own verses rang in her ears; she recollected passages she might have altered and improved, and wondered if they would strike the critic as faulty; then again she recalled passages which she fancied could not be improved, and hoped he would not skip them; now she would sit idle in the thought that, until she saw there was a market for her productions, there was no necessity for multiplying them; then again she would work with redoubled industry to see if she had not quite exhausted her fancy and her powers.

The final verdict was unfavourable:–“There is some sweetness of versification and of expression in Miss Melville’s poems, but they are unequal, and want force and interest. They never would become popular, so that I feel obliged to decline the publication. Poetry is at all times heavy stock, unless by authors of established reputation.”

Elsie sat sad and dispirited at this her first failure, but her sister comforted her by saying that Edinburgh was not the best market for anything new–London was the place where a new author had some chance. Elsie easily caught at the hope, and retouched some of her most imperfect pieces before sending them to a great London house. To publisher after publisher the manuscript was sent, and after due time occupied in reading it, the parcel returned with the disappointing note—-

“Mr. B—-‘s compliments, and he begs to decline with thanks Miss Melville’s poems, as, in the opinion of his literary adviser, they could not answer the purpose of publication.”

Or—-

“Messrs. H—-, B—-, & Co.’s compliments, and though they are overstocked with poetry, they have read carefully Miss Melville’s poems, but find them of the most unmarketable kind, so beg to decline publication.”

Or—-

“Messrs. S—-, E—-, & Co.’s compliments, and they regret that the subjective character of all Miss Melville’s poems will make them uninteresting to the general reader. They therefore regret that they cannot bring them out.”

When the notes were as brief as the foregoing samples, the pain was not so severe as in the last which Elsie received, in which a careful but most cutting criticism accompanied the refusal. There is no doubt that Elsie’s poems were crude, but she had both fancy and feeling. With more knowledge of life and more time, she was capable of producing something really worth reading and publishing. If there had been no talent in her verses, she would not have had a reading from so many good publishing houses; but she did not know enough of the trade to know this, and her humiliation at her repeated disappointments was exceedingly bitter.

There is no species of composition that should be less hurried than poetry. Even if it is struck off in a moment of inspiration, it should not be published then, but laid aside for alteration and polishing after a considerable time has elapsed; and much of our best poetry has been very slowly composed, even at first. Our poor little Elsie had prepared by great industry her volume of poems in less than four months, and had not taken time to reconsider them. They were not narrative pieces, in which the interest of the story carries you along in reading, whether the diction is perfected or not, but mostly short lyrical poems, and contemplative pieces, which are always much more effective when found amongst other descriptions of poetry or in a magazine, than when collected together in a volume. They were generally sad, a common fault with poetesses; but poor Elsie had more excuse for taking that tone than many others who have done so.

She had to mourn the loss of fortune and the coldness of friends; the conduct of William Dalzell to her sister had made a deeper impression on her mind than on that of Jane. She had more capacity of suffering than Jane had, and when she took the pen in her hand, she felt that her life–and all life–was full of sorrow. Jane had induced Elsie to accompany her to the chapel, where she herself had learned her first lesson of submission and of Christian hope; but even in religion Elsie inclined to the contemplative and the tender rather than to the active and the cheerful side of it. She looked with far more intense longing to the Heaven beyond the earth than Jane did, and had not the interest in the things about her to make the dreariness of her daily life endurable. Her poetry had been her one resource; and that appeared to be very weak and contemptible in the opinion of those who ought to know.

Whether the literary taster for the publisher last applied to was less engrossed with business than the others, or whether he thought it would do the aspiring poetess good to show her her faults, I cannot tell, but he wrote a long letter of critical remarks. There was one ballad–an idealization of the incident in Jane’s life which had so much impressed Elsie, in which William Dalzell was made more fascinating and more faithless, and Jane much more attached to him than in reality–which this correspondent said was good, though the subject was hackneyed, but on all the others the sweeping scythe of censure fell unsparingly. “Her poems,” he said, “were very tolerable, and not to be endured;” mediocrity was insufferable in poetry. The tone of them was unhealthy, and would feed the sentimentalism of the age, which was only another name for discontent. If poetesses went on as they were doing now-a-days, and only extracted a wail from life, the sooner they gave up their lays the better. The public wanted healthy, cheerful, breezy poetry, with a touch of humour here and there, and a varied human interest running through it–a fit companion to the spirited novels of Charles Kingsley, then at the height of his fame. If poets were to teach the world, as they boasted that they were, they should not shut themselves up, and practise variations on the one poor tune, “I am miserable; I am not appreciated; the world is not worthy of me;” but go forth to the world and learn that there are nobler subjects for poetry than themselves. Then, with regard to Elsie’s diction and rhymes, this critic selected a number of the most faulty and imperfect verses for censure, and Elsie had the miserable satisfaction of having to acknowledge that they deserved it. I have little doubt that the critic thought he was giving the poetess a good lesson; but if he had seen the suffering that his letter caused, and the youth and inexperience, and the sad circumstances of the poor girl who received it, he would have repented somewhat of his very clever and satirical letter.

Heartsick and humbled, Elsie lost hope, and health, and spirits. She wrapped the rejected manuscript in brown paper, and put it in the farthest corner of one of her drawers. She was only prevented from committing it to the flames by Jane’s interference.

“Now,” said she, “I must be as busy as you. Peggy must teach me to iron–surely I can learn to do that–and let me make Nancy’s frock. But, after all, Jane, this will not do for a continuance; we must seek for employment somewhere. I have spent a good deal of time over this useless work, and postages have come heavy on our small means. I must try to earn something.”

The heavy tears fell fast on the frock as the girl worked at it; the listless hands dropped their hold of it occasionally, and she was lost in bitter thoughts. She however finished it, and then busied herself with a new bonnet for Peggy, which was to be made not at all fashionable, but big and rather dowdy. Elsie’s taste rebelled a little at the uncongenial task; but she was doing her best to please Peggy when the postman delivered two letters to Jane–one from Francis, and the other from Mrs. Rennie. Francis’ letters had been frequent, and had been a little interesting even to Elsie, and this one was more so than usual. He was coming to Edinburgh for a week or two, and meant to see them as much as possible during his stay. He was to be at a party at the Rennies’ on New Year’s Day, and his cousins were to be invited also; he trusted to meet them there. The Rennies had occasionally called, and shown the girls more kindness than any of their Swinton friends, or their other Edinburgh acquaintances. They had spent a fortnight, in autumn, at Cross Hall, and had enjoyed it very much.

The note from Mrs. Rennie contained an invitation for both sisters to this party; and to girls who had been shut up so many months with no society but that of Peggy and her relations, the prospect of spending one evening among their equals in social position was very pleasant. Jane anticipated pleasure, besides, from seeing and talking with her cousin about everything and everybody in and about Cross Hall, as well as about a tour on the Continent which he had taken. Even Elsie’s face brightened a little as she gave the last loving touches to her sister’s dress, and said that she had never seen her look better, though she was a little thinner and paler than she used to be–to Elsie’s eyes she was quite as pretty.

Chapter XI.

Some Grave Talk In Gay Company

Francis had hoped to see his cousins before he met them at the party, but when he called at Peggy Walker’s he found that they were out taking their customary long walk, so he met them in Mrs. Rennie’s drawing-room for the first time. Certainly the two girls in mourning were not the plainest-looking in the room. Neither sister was beautiful, but Elsie was very nearly so, and her recent suffering had thrown more intensity into her expression, and made her look more lovely than ever. But it was to Jane that Francis’ eyes turned affectionately and anxiously, and he grieved to see the traces of weariness, of care, and he even thought, of tears, on the face which to him was the most interesting in the world. He shook hands with her warmly, and looked inquiringly in her face, and then drew her into a quiet corner in a window-seat, where they could talk without being much observed. Elsie did not sit beside them, but left them to their own conversation, assured that she would hear all that she cared to know by-and-by; yet she was not neglected, for Miss Rennie had taken a great fancy to her, and was determined, if possible, to get her partners. At Mrs. Rennie’s parties there never was any scarcity of gentlemen, for they had an extensive family connection, and Mr. Rennie was a kind and hospitable man, who had a large acquaintance in the city. Miss Rennie had judged hardly of Jane’s personal appearance at first sight, but she thought Elsie a most elegant and interesting creature.

“We have written so often and so fully to each other that I fancy that we have little to say now we meet,” said Jane, smiling.

“We have written so much to each other that we have all the more to say, Jane,” said her cousin. “I never get a letter from you without its making me wish to talk over it with you. You have no news, however, I suppose?”

“No news,” said Jane. “I wrote to you of Elsie’s last bitter disappointment. It was a cruel letter; she felt it all the more, because she says it is all true. But, really, Francis, I think her poetry did not deserve it. She has never mentioned her verses since.”

“And for yourself, you can see no prospect?”

“It seems impossible to get up the classes that I hoped for. I think I must take to Mrs. Dunn’s and the dressmaking, for we cannot go on as we are doing.”

“Ah! Jane, my cup of prosperity has very many bitter drops in it.”

“And mine of adversity has much that is salutary and even sweet in it. Do not think me so very unhappy. If any one had told me beforehand of these months that I have passed since my uncle’s death, I should have thought them absolutely intolerable, and would have preferred death. But there is no human lot without its mitigations and ameliorations. God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. I am not happy, perhaps; but I am not miserable. I have not to live with people whom I despise, for there never was a more estimable woman than Peggy Walker, or more promising children than her nephews and nieces. You cannot fancy what interest I feel in Tom, and how I am ambitious for him. He will make a figure in the world, and I will help him to do so. We women have no career for ourselves, and we must find room for ambition somewhere. I have no brother and no husband, and I find myself building castles in the air for Tom Lowrie and for you, Francis; for you are proving yourself the good master, the conscientious steward of the bounties of Providence that I hoped you would be; and is that nothing to be glad of? I know I look sad, but do not fancy me always in this mood; if you saw me in the evenings with Tom, and Nancy, and Jamie, and Jessie, and Willie, you would see how cheerful I can be. Here, I am reminded too painfully of what I have lost; there, I feel that I have gained somewhat.”

“You want to relieve my mind, my generous cousin, by making the best of your very hard lot.”

“Every lot has its best side,” said Jane, “and it is only by looking steadily at it that one can obtain courage to bear the worst. I see this in visiting the very poor people whom I wrote to you about. Some people are querulous in comparative comfort; others have the most astonishing powers of cheerful endurance. I have learned upon how very little the human soul can be kept in working order from a poor rheumatic and bed-ridden old woman, who is so grateful for the use of one hand while she is helpless otherwise, and who has had a very bad husband, and several very careless and cold-hearted children; but she has one son who comes to see her regularly once every three months, and brings her the scanty pittance on which she subsists; and surely I, with youth, and health, and work to do, should try to be cheerful, even though the work is not such as I could prefer.—–And you have been in France as well as England since I saw you last in August. I want to hear further particulars of your travels, since you say that you have more to give. They interested you very much, particularly those in France.”

“Very much, indeed; all the more as I acquired the language. I wrote to you that I met with Clemence de Vericourt, now Madame Lenoir.”

“Is she handsome?” asked Jane.

“No; I thought her almost ugly till she opened her mouth, and then I forgot it, and felt the charm of the most winning manner and the most brilliant conversational power in the world. Frenchwomen are not to compare with Englishwomen for beauty, but they can be irresistible without it.”

“How did you get an introduction to her?” asked Jane.

“French society is more accessible than it is here; but I met with a French gentleman in a CAFE who had known my father, and who recognized my name, who introduced me to a good many very pleasant salons, and to Madame Lenoir’s among others. Arnauld is dead; he fell in Algeria. His sister speaks of him with the tenderest affection.”

“Is she happily married? After all her mother’s solicitude, it would be hard if she too were sacrificed.”

“So far as I can see, she appears to be happy. The husband is of suitable years and good character; not so brilliant as his wife. But really what Madame de Girardin says appears to me to be true, that French women are superior to their so-called lords and masters. It is strange to me, who have been always so shy, and so shut out from society, to be introduced–or rather plunged–into so much of it.”

“Had you not society of your own when you were in the bank–your fellow-clerks and their wives and sisters?”

“I had little intimacy with any of them, and was particularly in want of acquaintances among the other sex. A man with no relations who recognized his existence, and who is conscious of the doubtfulness of his birth, as I was, does not like to push himself into society in a country like this of Scotland, where family connections are overrated. Now, every one seems to think that being owned by my father in his will quite sufficient, while I am more ashamed in my secret soul of my birth than I ever was.”

“Indeed!” said Jane, “I thought it would have pleased you to be acknowledged.”

“YOU should see, if the world does not, that if one party has juggled the other into a marriage, without any love on either side, it may involve legal succession to property, but does not make the birth a whit more respectable. I had a mother who did not care for me, and a father who did his duty, as he fancied, by me, but who disliked me, and they appear to have hated one another.”

“You extorted respect and regard from your father, and you have cause to be proud of that. If mutual love between parents is to be the great cause of pride of birth, I, too, have reason to be ashamed of mine, for I think my mother’s love was worn out before many years of married life were over, and my father’s never was anything but self-love and self-will. But whatever our birth may be, we are all God’s children, and equal in His eyes, in that respect at least.—-Did Madame Lenoir speak to you of her mother?”

“Yes, she did, and recollected that my name was the name of an old and dear friend of her mother’s; so she was especially kind to me for my father’s sake. I saw Madame de Vericourt’s portrait, too. She was prettier than her daughter, at least in repose; but neither of them were at all like my ideal; for I forgot the French class of face, and embodied my fancy portraits in an English type.”

“You enjoyed French society, then?”

“Very much, indeed. The art of conversing these French people carry to great perfection. It is not frivolous, though it is light and sparkling; it is still less argumentative, but it has the knack of bringing out different opinions and different views of them. We pity the French for their want of political liberty, but the social. freedom they enjoy is some compensation.—–But what interested me still more than these brilliant salons, was the tour that I took through the country, and the careful observation of the condition and prospect of the small proprietors so numerous in France and Flanders. The contrast between the French small landowner and the English agricultural labourer is very great. Nothing has struck me as so pathetic as the condition of the English farm labourer–so hopeless, so cheerless. Our Scottish peasants have more education, more energy, and are more disposed to emigrate. Their wages are fixed more by custom than by competition, and their independence has not been sapped by centuries of a most pernicious poor law system; yet, though I think their condition very much better than those of the same class south of the Tweed, it is nothing like that of the peasant proprietor.”

“They say that small holdings are incompatible with high farming,” said Jane, “and that such a crowded country as Britain must be cultivated with every advantage of capital, machinery, and intelligence.”

“So they say here; but the small proprietors of France and Flanders will tell another story, for they will give a higher price for land than the capitalist, and make it pay. The astonishing industry of the Flemish farmers in reclaiming the worst soil of Europe, and making it produce the most abundant crops, shows me the fallacy of our insular notions on that head. I cannot but regret the decrease of the yeomanry class in Great Britain, and the accumulation of large estates in few hands. Scotland, for instance, is held by 8000 proprietors or thereabouts, of whom I am one. I should like to try an experiment. You know that sand flat, that is worth very little but for scanty pasture, at the back of the Black Hill, as it is called. I would divide it into allotments among the most industrious and energetic of my farm-labourers, and show them the method pursued by the Flemish farmers, and see if in the course of ten years they are not growing as good crops as in the most favoured spots on the estate. ‘Give a man a seven years’ lease of a garden, he will convert it into a desert; give him a perpetuity of a rock, he will change it into a garden.’ Your uncle did not think it would pay to reclaim that piece of land; I will try if our peasants have not the stuff in them to make the most of the land.”

“What an excellent idea!” said Jane.

“I knew you would sympathize with this plan, and with another which I have also in my head–to build new cottages for all the agricultural labourers on the estate. It is shameful that while the proprietors’ houses, and the farmers’ houses, have been enlarged and improved so much during the last century, the cottage of the hind and the cotter should still be of the same miserable description; the partitions to be made at the labourer’s own expense, and too generally done by the enclosed beds, which are not right things in a sanitary point of view. The money value of the rent is increased, too, for so many weeks of reaping in harvest time is worth more now than a century back. I have got plans for the cottages which I wanted you to look at this morning; I think they will do.”

“You must let Peggy see them; she was brought up in one of those cottages you speak of, and will know all their deficiencies. It will set a good example to the neighbourhood,” said Jane.

“And, after all, it will not cost me more to build these cottages, and make thirty families more comfortable and more self-respecting, than it would to enlarge Cross Hall, as Mr. Chalmers advises me strongly to do–by building a new wing and adding a conservatory in the place of your modest little greenhouse. Every one knows I have come to the estate with money in hand instead of encumbrances to clear off, as so many proprietors have, so they can think of my spending it in nothing but in increasing my own comfort or importance. Another reason for my trying these experiments and improvements is to see if we cannot keep some of our best people in Scotland. Our picked men, and many of our picked women, emigrate to America and Australia. The recent emigration to Australia since the gold-diggings were discovered has been enormous. It must hurt the general character of the nation that we lose our best and our ablest as they grow up. I confess that if I were in their place I should do the same; but let my experiment succeed, it may be imitated.”

“Whether it is imitated or not, it is right to try it. I will watch the result with the greatest interest. You know nothing could give me greater pleasure than your success in such a noble work,” said Jane, with sparkling eyes. “My uncle’s will is to turn out no mistake.”

“We must go over together the names of those I mean to give the allotments to. You know the people better than I do,” said Francis.

“It is not fair that the commonages should be enclosed to enlarge great estates; the waste lands should belong to the nation, and be given to the class that needs them most, and that could, perhaps, make most of them,” said Jane. “You are bringing my uncle’s theories into practice. If it were not for Elsie I should have nothing to regret in the settlement that my uncle made; and, perhaps, there is something brighter in store for her.”

“Has she none of the alleviations that you are so good as to make the very most of?” asked Francis.

“She has more pleasure naturally in books and in nature than I have, but at the present time she appears to have to have lost her relish for both. She has felt that her estimate of her powers has been too great, and now it is far too humble. For myself, I think just as highly of my own abilities and acquirements as ever I did. I am sorry that your minister has left his church, for I hoped to become acquainted with him; and he looked so cheerful that I thought he might do Elsie good. This new clergyman does not strike me as being so genial or kindly, though I certainly like his sermons and his devotional services very much. It is certainly not the least of the blessings of my adversity that I have learned to place myself in God’s hands, and to feel that he will do all things well for me.”

“Can you not place your sister in the same care?” asked Francis.

“It is easier to trust God for yourself than to trust Him for those whom we love,” said Jane; “but I try hard for that amount of faith. Elsie is so weary of her life sometimes, it is difficult to give her courage. This is grave conversation for a dancing party; but you do not see the incongruity. If we cannot carry our religion into our amusements, and into our business, it will not be of much use to us.”

The sound of a well-known voice arrested Jane’s attention: it was that of William Dalzell, who was shaking hands with Mr., Mrs., and Miss Rennie very cordially, and then, in an embarrassed manner, doing the same with Elsie.

“How did our friends get acquainted with Mr. Dalzell?” said Jane.

“When they were visiting me at Cross Hall, we had a gathering of the neighbouring families, and Mrs. Rennie did the honours for me. Mr. Dalzell, with his mother, and two young lady cousins, were of the party. I thought the county people would have held themselves aloof from the more plebeian society of an Edinburgh banker, but he at least has condescended to accept Mrs. Rennie’s invitation to her own house. The exclusiveness of classes, and sects, and cliques, is extremely amusing to me. But I am engaged to dance this dance with Miss Rennie, so you must excuse me.”

As Francis went up to claim Miss Rennie’s hand, a gentleman was in the act of asking it–“I am engaged to Mr. Hogarth–see my card–but as you are a stranger in Edinburgh, you will be obliged to me for introducing you to his cousin, one of the sweetest girls in the world, and one whose story is the most interesting and the most romantic I ever heard. Oh! Mr. Dalzell, I forgot you.”

“This is sad, to be so easily forgotten. I had hoped that my requests had made more impression,” said he.

“I do not think Laura is engaged for this dance. Excuse me a moment till I ascertain.” Miss Rennie walked across the room, leaving William Dalzell and the stranger together, but she presently returned, with the assurance that Miss Wilson was disengaged, and would be happy to be introduced to Mr. Dalzell. Miss Wilson was ward of Mrs. Rennie’s, as Jane had heard, a West Indian heiress, somewhat stupid, and very much impressed with her own wealth and importance. Miss Rennie had a pitying sort of liking for her, though sometimes Laura’s airs were too much for her, and they would not speak to each other for a week at a time. She had just left school, having made all the progress which money without natural ability or any of the usual incentives to application could attain, and was to live at the Rennies’, which she thought a very dull place. This large party was the brightest thing in her horizon at present, and she was looking her best, and took her place in the dance with one of the handsomest men in the room, with much more animation than was usual with her.

“Now,” said Miss Rennie, “I have done my best for Mr. Dalzell. I must attend to my other stranger before I fulfil my engagement to you, Mr. Hogarth, and I hope you will excuse me, when it is to get a partner for Alice. Miss Melville, I suppose, does not care about dancing, she is so dreadfully matter-of-fact. I know you have been talking politics, or something as bad, in that corner all this evening.”

So Miss Rennie led the stranger across the room, and introduced Miss Alice Melville to Mr. Brandon, from Australia.

Chapter XII.

Mr. Brandon In Edinburgh

“You must excuse any blunders I may make in my dancing, Miss Melville, for I am an old bushman, and have been out of practice for many years,” said Mr. Brandon.

In spite of Elsie’s being an admirable dancer, she was too much excited to do her best, and the stranger made no great figure in his first debut in that line. Miss Rennie was inwardly rejoicing that she had herself got rid of him.

“What part of Australia do you come from?” asked Elsie, in the first pause.

“From Victoria, as it is called now. It was called Port Phillip when I went there.”

“Have you been long in the colony?”

“A long time–long enough for all my friends to forget me. But yet I need make no complaint; they have all been very kind; but I think I am entitled to a spell now.”

“To a what?” asked Elsie, to whom the term was new.

“To a rest, or rather a fling–a holiday. Ah! Miss Melville, you can have no idea what a rough life I have led for many years. You cannot fancy how delightful, how perfectly beautiful it is to me to be in such society as this after the Australian bush.”

Miss Melville had a better idea than he fancied. It is curious to meet people as strangers of whom you know a great deal, and when Elsie looked at the very gentlemanly man beside her, whose dress was perfectly fashionable, whose air and mien were rather distinguished, and whose language, in spite of a few colonial colloquialisms, had the clear, sharp tone and accent which agreeably marks out an educated Englishman among an assembly of Scotchmen, and recollected the description of his dress and habitation which Peggy had given, and the scenes and conversation which she had narrated, she was almost afraid of betraying her knowledge by her countenance.

“Have you been long home from Australia?” she asked, as a safe question.

“A few months, and am enjoying it intensely.”

“And what brings you to Scotland? I suppose your relations are all English?”

“Oh, an Australian thinks he ought to see the whole of Britain, when he can visit it so seldom. A man is treated with contempt on his return if he has not seen the Cumberland lakes and the Scottish Highlands. But I have relations in Scotland besides;–the old lady sitting by Mrs. Rennie in black MOIRE (is it that you call it?) is a sort of aunt of mine, and is connected in some inexplicable way with the Rennies. Your Scotch cousinships are an absolute mystery to me; it is a pity I cannot understand them, for I am indebted to them for a great deal of hospitality and kindness, of which this is one of the most agreeable instances;”–and Mr. Brandon looked at Elsie as if he meant what he said.

“It does one good to see a man enjoying a party; our fashionable style is for the indifferent and the done up,” said Elsie, with a smile. “I do not know if gentlemen enjoy life in spite of that nonchalant or dismal manner; but I know it is not pleasant for the lookers on.”

“I cannot see why they should assume such a disagreeable style of conduct. To me, you English and Scotch people seem the most enviable in existence–amusement after amusement, and education, elegance, and refinement to heighten every enjoyment. I often say to myself, ‘Walter Brandon, my good fellow, this will not last; you must go back to your stations and your troubles in a few months;’ but for the present I am in Elysium.”

By this time they had finished their dance, and were standing beside Jane. She looked up at him with her steady eyes–“The happiness is in yourself–not in the country, in the amusements, or in the society. You have earned a holiday, and you enjoy it.”

“All Australians feel the drawbacks of the colonies when they come to visit England,” said Mr. Brandon.

“It depends on their circumstances, whether they do or not. I often wish that I were there,” said Jane.

“And so do I,” said Miss Rennie, who with Francis had just joined them. “There must be a grandeur and a freshness about a new country that we cannot find here; and those wonderful gold diggings, too, must be the most interesting objects in nature.”

“The very ugliest things you ever saw–and as for grandeur or freshness, I never saw or felt it. The finest prospect I could see in Victoria is the prospect of getting out of it, particularly now that the diggings have spoiled the colony. We cannot forget Old England.”

“Oh! of course I like patriotism,” said Miss Rennie; “no country can be to us like the land of our birth.”

“But I think we should try to like the land of adoption also,” said Jane. “The Anglo-Saxons have been called the best of colonists, because they have adapted themselves so well to all sorts of climates and all sorts of circumstances.”

“True–true enough,” said Mr. Brandon. “The Adelaide men who came across to the diggings used to talk with the greatest enthusiasm about their colony, their farms, their gardens, their houses, their society. I fancied that it was because they left it for a rougher life, and that Adelaide was like a little England to them; but, perhaps, the poor fellows really liked the place. At any rate, almost all of them returned, though Victoria appeared to be by far the most prosperous colony. But I made an excellent colonist, in spite of my never becoming much attached to the place. I adapted myself to sheep wonderfully, and to black pipes and cabbage-tree hats, and all the other amenities of bush life; and now, Miss Rennie, will you be good enough to adapt yourself to me for a quadrille?”

Miss Rennie was not engaged, so she could not refuse. Elsie saw that her cousin wished to talk to her; she feared it was to be on the subject which was the most painful of all–her unfortunate poems. She fancied that he must think her presumptuous in her old ambition, and dreaded his condolences; so she made some pretext to move away out of hearing of his conversation with Jane, and stood by the hired musicians, who were the most unlikely persons in the room to know anything about her or her disappointment. Standing there, with her slight and graceful form stooping slightly, and her face cast down, Miss Rennie again pointed her out to Mr. Brandon, of whose dancing she was tired, and to whom she wished to talk, asking him if he did not think her a lovely creature, and explaining the very peculiar circumstances in which the two girls were placed.

“They have been well educated, papa says, but very peculiarly, so that their prospects are not the better for it. We live in a frivolous age, Mr. Brandon. I do not take much interest in Jane, but Elsie is a very sweet girl.”

The Australian settler looked again more closely at Elsie, and acknowledged to himself, as well as to Miss Rennie, that she was certainly elegant.

“Shall we go to her now? she looks so deserted, Mr. Brandon. Oh! Mr. Malcolm, I must introduce you to Miss Melville’s sister.”

“And co-heiress in misfortune,” said the young lawyer, shrugging his shoulder.

“She is lovely–come,” said Miss Rennie. She took both gentlemen across the room. Elsie started when she saw them coming close up to her.

“Miss Alice Melville–Mr. Malcolm–a successful author. Your sister saw him here some months ago.”

The sight of a successful author was rather too much for Elsie’s present feelings. Her eyes filled with tears, but yet she must speak.

“Yes, Jane told me she had that pleasure,” said she.

“Miss Melville is here also, I hope,” said Mr. Malcolm.

“Yes, she is talking to–to Mr. Hogarth.”

“To Mr. Hogarth? Yes, I see–very good friends they appear to be, in spite of circumstances. Two superior minds, you see.”

“He takes such care of your horses and dogs, Miss Alice; and as for your room, when mama proposed making it into a card-room, as it was larger than the library, he looked as black as thunder, and said he never would have cards played there. It was a Blue Beard’s room, so we got no access to it.”

“I thought he would be kind to the animals; he promised as much to Jane.”

“Oh! indeed, he is as good as his word, then,” said Miss Rennie. Then, recollecting that this talk must be painful to the girl, she turned to Mr. Malcolm, and asked how his evangelical novel was getting on.

“Finished, and in the press by this time.”

“Will it be a success? But everything you write is a success, so I need not ask,” said Miss Rennie.

“The pub. says it has not exactly the genuine twang, but I hope no one will observe that but himself. I have more incidents in it than usual in works of the class–an elopement, a divorce, a duel, a murder, and a shipwreck.”

“I must have a first reading, recollect. It must be so interesting,” said Miss Rennie.

“Thrilling, I should say,” said Mr. Brandon. “Well, to me there is a deep mystery in bookmaking. How one thing is to follow another–and another to lead to another–how everything is to culminate in marriage or a broken heart, and not a bit of the whole to be true, I cannot conceive; and as for poetry, it seems to me an absolute impossibility to make verses rhyme. Can you tell me how it is done, Miss Melville?”

Elsie started. “No, I cannot–I cannot tell.”

“You must ask Miss Rennie about poetry,” said Mr. Malcolm; “she does some very excellent things in that way.”

“You perfidious creature, I see I must never tell you anything, for you are sure to come out with it at all times and all places,” said Miss Rennie.

“It is a true bill then,” said Mr. Brandon, bowing to the tenth muse. “I cannot help wondering at you. I must not approach so near you, for you are so far removed from my everyday prosaic sphere. I must take shelter with Miss Melville, who knows nothing about the matter. I cannot comprehend how people can make verses; it cannot be easy at any time.”

“It is sometimes easier than at other,” said Miss Rennie. “If the subject is good the words flow correspondingly fast.”

“And what do you consider the best subject,–marrying or burying, love or despair? I suppose you have tried them all.”

“Oh, no. Do not imagine me to be a real author–only an occasional scribbler. Mr. Malcolm can tell you that I do not write much.”

“You must show Mr. Brandon your album,” said Mr. Malcolm, “and let him judge for himself.”

“Will you let me see it too?” said Elsie eagerly; “do let me see it.”

“You may look over it together,” said Miss Rennie good-naturedly, “though I do not show it to every one. It will perhaps convince Mr. Brandon that it is nothing so wonderful to write verses, and make him less distant in his manner. My own pieces are signed Ella.”

Miss Rennie’s album contained a number of selections from her favourite poets, but except her own there were no original verses in it. Her friends preferred copying to composing, and among a very large circle she was the only one who had tried any independent flight into the regions of poetry; so that it was natural she should think a good deal of herself, for every one begged for something of her own to put into their albums, though they could not reciprocate in kind. Mr. Malcolm contributed some smart prose pieces; Herbert Watson was clever at caricatures; Eleanor painted flowers sweetly; while Laura Wilson, ambitious to have something to show in Miss Rennie’s album, had copied a number of riddles in a very angular hand, which was illegible to an unpractised eye.

Elsie and Mr. Brandon, however, had got the album to see Ella’s verses, and they turned to them with curiosity and interest. Her quicker eye and greater experience, both in poetry and in ladies’ handwriting, made her read each piece in less than half the time taken by Mr. Brandon, and she re-read and scanned every line and weighed every sentiment and simile while he was making his way to the end.

“Well, really this is remarkably good,” said he. “I wonder Miss Rennie does not publish: she could fill a nice little volume. I am sure I have seen far worse verses printed. Have not you?”

“Yes,” said Elsie. “I believe Miss Rennie has had pieces published in periodicals, but it is not so easy to get a volume printed.”

“Of course, there is a risk; but then the pleasure, the fame, should count for something. To have one’s name on the title-page of a pretty little volume must be very gratifying to the feelings.”

“Oh no, not at all. I do not think so; but I do not know anything about it. I should not speak.”

“You shrink from any publicity; well, I suppose that is very natural, too, yet I should not think that Miss Rennie does so; and as she is the author, I am imagining her feelings. What is this other piece called?–‘Life’s Journey.’ What can Miss Rennie know of life’s journey–staying at home with her father and mother all her short life?”

“If she had been to Australia and back again, she would have been entitled to speak on the subject,” said Elsie.

“But really it is a very pretty piece, after all,” said Mr. Brandon, after he had read it.

“Though written by one who has never been further from home than Glasgow in her life,” said Elsie.

“I do not mean that Miss Rennie’s never being out of Scotland should make her know little; but you young ladies are taken such care of, that you know very little of what life really is.”

“It must be a disadvantage to all female authors,” said Elsie, “to know so little of business and so little of the world. I do not wonder at men despising women’s books.”

“Now, Miss Melville, have I really said anything that you should put such a construction on? If I have, I must ask pardon. I am only astonished at the extraordinary talent which your sex show in turning to account their few opportunities; and for my part, I should not like them to have greater means of knowing the world. I am not a reading man, by any means. My remarks about books are perfectly worthless, but I can only say that I think these verses very pretty. I don’t know whether they are subjective or objective–transcendental or sentimental. In fact, between ourselves, I do not know what the three first words mean. I can give no reason for my liking them.”

“But they please you,” said Elsie; “and that is all a poet can wish.”

“Oh, I thought the poets of this age gave themselves out as the teachers of the world; but you take a lower view. I am glad to meet with some one who is reasonable. The young ladies have all got so clever, so accomplished, and so scientific since I left England, that I am a little afraid of them. I hope you are not very accomplished.”

“Not at all,” said Elsie.

“Don’t you play the most brilliant music with great execution?”

“I do not play at all.”

“Nor sketch from nature–nor draw from the round–nor paint flowers?”

“Nothing of the kind.”

“Then you must have gone in for science, and you are more formidable than any of the sex.”

“My uncle wished me to go in for science, but unluckily I came out without acquiring it.”

“How glad I am to hear it! I can talk to you without being tripped up at an incorrect date, or an inaccurate scientific or historical fact. You can warrant yourself safe to let me blunder on?”

“Is it not very good of the young ladies to set you right if you are wrong, and if they are able to do so?”

“It may be very good for me, but it is not at all agreeable. I cannot help wondering very much at the industry and perseverance that young ladies show in becoming so very accomplished. I am sure that many a lady spends as much time and energy in learning music as would, directed otherwise, realize a fortune in Australia.”

“Yes, many men in Australia have got rich with very little toil,” said Elsie; “but women cannot make fortunes either here or there, I suppose.”

“So they content themselves with making a noise,” said Mr. Brandon. “I like some music, Miss Melville; but not the brilliant style. It shows wonderful powers of manual dexterity, but it does not please me.”

“My sister says, she wonders why so many women spend so much time over the one art in which they have shown their deficiency–that is, music.”

“Their deficiency? I think they show their proficiency, only that I do not care about it; that is probably my fault, and not theirs.”

“But Jane says, that as so many thousands–and even millions–of women are taught music, and not one has been anything but a fourth-rate composer, it shows a natural incapacity for the highest branch of the art. In poetry and painting, where the cultivation is far rarer, greater excellence has been attained by many women. Their inferiority is certainly not so marked as in music.”

“That is rather striking, Miss Melville; but I did not expect such an admission from such a quarter. I see you are not strong-minded My aunt, Mrs. Rutherford, and her daughters, have rather been boring me with their theory of the equality of the sexes: this is a first-rate argument. Will you take it very much amiss if I borrow your idea, or rather your sister’s, without acknowledgement? I have felt so very small, because they were always bringing up some instance or other out of books which I had never read, that to bring forward something as good as this, might make them have a better opinion of me.”

“I am sure neither Jane nor I would care about the appropriation of the idea, though it seems rather treacherous to put ours into our enemy’s hands.”

“Your enemy’s!–that is hard language for me. I trusted to your being friendly.”

In spite of Mr. Brandon’s expressed admiration for Miss Rennie’s verses, he got soon tired of reading them, and preferred the intervals of conversation between the pieces. Before they had looked through more than half of the album, which was a very large one, he proposed to return to the dancing-room, and Elsie reluctantly left the book on the library table, hoping to snatch another half-hour to finish it. Miss Rennie’s verses were decidedly inferior to her own;–even her recent humiliation could not prevent her from seeing this, and she felt a good deal inspirited.

Several times during the evening, she was on the point of mentioning Peggy Walker’s name to her old master, but she knew too much about them to be able to do it with ease; she, however, ascertained that he was to be some time in and about Edinburgh, and learned from Miss Rennie where Mrs. Rutherford lived, so that she could tell Peggy where she might find him, if she wished to see him.

In the quadrille which Elsie danced with Mr. Brandon, William Dalzell and Laura Wilson were at first placed as vis-a-vis, but they moved to the side, and Elsie had the pleasure of seeing her sister and cousin instead. But both sisters could not but hear the familiar voice making the same sort of speeches to Miss Wilson that he had done a few months ago to Jane. How very poor and hollow they appeared now! Elsie thought Miss Wilson would just suit him. She was rich enough to make him overlook her defects of understanding and temper, and what was even harder to manage, her very ordinary face and figure. There was an easy solution of Mr. Dalzell’s cultivating the acquaintance of the Rennies in this wished-for introduction to the wealthy ward

Mr. Dalzell thought he ought to ask Jane to dance once, just to show that he did not quite forget his old friends. He tried Elsie first, but she was fortunately engaged to Mr. Malcolm, so he walked slowly to Miss Melville, and asked her hand in an impressive manner. She willingly accepted, and spoke to him as she would to any ordinary acquaintance. He was piqued; he had hoped to have made her a little jealous of his attentions to Miss Wilson, and tried to get up a little sentimental conversation about old times, and the rides they used to have, and the romantic scenery about Cross Hall and Moss Tower, but not the slightest sigh of regret could his ear catch. He apologized for not having been to see her, and said his mother regretted that her last visit to Edinburgh had been so hurried that she had no time. Jane said quietly that she had not expected to see either of them. Had she not found it dull living in the Old Town with Peggy Walker?–No, she had never felt it dull; she had always plenty to do. Was Peggy as much of a character as ever?–Yes; she was glad to say, Peggy was the same admirable woman she had always been, and on nearer acquaintance her character became still more appreciated. The children must be a nuisance?–The children were particularly fine children, and a great resource to her. He thought Miss Alice was not looking well. Had she felt the want of the fresh country air?–For a moment this arrow struck her; a painful expression passed over her face, but she subdued her feelings quickly.–Yes, perhaps Alice did suffer from the change; but they were going to have a week’s amusement while their cousin was in town, and she hoped her sister would be the better for it.

Neither Mr. Dalzell nor Jane were sorry when the dance was ended and they were relieved of each other’s company; and he returned to Miss Wilson, while she joined Elsie in the library, where she was finishing her critical reading of Miss Rennie’s album, with a better coadjutor than the Australian settler, in the person of her cousin. She was rather afraid of him at first, but she found that in general their opinions were the same as to merits and demerits, and she could not help owning that it would have been well to have taken him into her counsels before she tried the public.

“I have been telling Francis,” said Jane, “that I am making up my mind to go to Mrs. Dunn’s.”

“Then I will go with you, Jane; we must go together; you are not to have all the drudgery.”

“I say I am only making up my mind; it is not made up yet. I will wait another week before I decide. You are to be in town for a few days, Francis, and you will see us every day before we go. I wish to have a little amusement before I settle; so, Elsie, let us arrange. The theatre to-morrow night, the exhibition on Thursday morning, a concert on Thursday evening, and on Friday an excursion to Roslin; Saturday I am not sure about, but we will see when the time comes.”

Elsie stared at her sister; it was so unlike Jane to be pining for amusement. “I do not care for going out, I am so unfit for it. I would rather stay at home till the time comes to go to Mrs Dunn’s.”

“No, we will not let you stay and mope at home. If it has somewhat unsettled my strong nerves to be living as we have done, so that I feel I must have a change, what will be its effect on you to stay at Peggy’s without me?”

“Your sister would rather not go out with me,” said Francis.

“No; I have been unjust and uncharitable to you, but I hope I will not be so again. Forgive me for the past, and I will promise good behaviour for the future.”

“If you are not too tired in the morning, would not a walk be pleasant?” said Francis. “I want to show you what strikes me as the finest view of Edinburgh. I do not expect Jane to appreciate it; but from your remarks on these verses, I am sure you have an eye for nature, and a soul for it.”

Elsie was pleased, and felt more kindly to her cousin than she had ever done before. There are times when a little praise, particularly if it is felt to be deserved, does a sad heart incalculable good. She agreed to the walk with eagerness, and looked forward to it with hope.

Chapter XIII.

Peggy’s Visitors, And Francis’ Resolution

The girls were somewhat later in rising on the morning after the party than usual, and when they got up, they found that Peggy was out on one of those errands that Jane and Elsie had been accustomed to do for her. She had got into very good custom, from her real skill and punctuality, even in the short time that she had tried her luck in Edinburgh; and this week she had had more work than she could manage. On these occasions she used to get the assistance of a very poor woman who lived at a considerable distance, who had once been a neighbour of her sister Bessie’s, and had been kind to Willie when he was in his last illness. Jane, sometimes with and sometimes without Elsie, had always gone to tell this woman about the work, but on this occasion Peggy had to take the long walk herself–not that she grudged it–for to put half-a-crown in poor Lizzie Marr’s pocket was worth a good deal of trouble and fatigue.

She had returned about twelve o’clock, when the girls were getting ready to join their cousin in their promised walk, and just as she got to the top of the stairs, a man’s foot was heard at the bottom. They were going for their bonnets, when a sharp tap was heard at the door, and Peggy opened it, and they beheld, not Francis, but Mr. Brandon.

“Well, Peggy,” said he, “how are you? I thought I could not be mistaken in those elbows. I have followed you from Prince’s Street all this long way, but you would never turn round, and I could not outstrip you, for you know we bushmen are no great walkers, and you always were a wonderful ‘Walker’ in every sense of the word. And how are you again, Peggy?”

Peggy shook hands with her old master, and gazed at him with great surprise.

“Surely, these are not the bairns you used to speak of?” said Mr. Brandon, looking at the Misses Melville with astonishment quite equal to hers.

“No; the bairns are all at the school–all but Tam–and he’s at his trade, but they will be here for their dinners directly. These are two young ladies that have taken a room off me. They are no so well off as they should be, more’s the pity,” said Peggy, lowering her voice.

“I met them last night at a party. How do you do, Miss Melville?” said he, shaking hands with Elsie first, and then with Jane.

“But what brought you here on this day?” said Peggy.

“Just your elbows, Peggy. I was coming to see you at any rate, but I did not think you were here. You must have shifted your quarters. Here is your address,” said Mr. Brandon, taking out his pocket-book–“‘Peggy Walker, at Mr. Thomas Lowrie’s, Swinton, —– shire.’ I was going to see you to-morrow, but you have saved me a journey to no purpose.”

“I brought the bairns into the town for better schooling, and on account of Tam; and grandfather finds it agrees brawly with him, too. Grandfather,” said Peggy, raising her voice, “this is Master Brandon that you have heard me speak about whiles–the first master I had in Australia.”

Grandfather expressed his sense of the politeness of Mr. Brandon in coming all that way to see Peggy. Not but what she was a good lass, and worth going a long journey to have a crack with.

“Well, Peggy,” said Mr. Brandon, taking a seat near the fire, “and how do you like this cold country after so many years in a hot one?”

“The winters are not so bad, but the springs are worse to stand. But if a body’s moving and stirring about they can aye keep heat in them.”

“If moving and stirring can keep you warm you will never be cold. But, Peggy, you will want to hear the news.”

“Indeed do I,” said Peggy; “the diggings are going on as brisk as ever, I suppose?”

“Just as brisk, and sheep as dear, and wool steady; so, you see, I’ve taken a holiday.”

“But you’re going back again?”

“I must go back, for I have not made my fortune yet. But, by-the-by, it is a great pity that you left Melbourne when you did. You would have been a wealthy woman if you had stayed. There’s Powell–was he married before you went?”

“Ay, he was. I heard word of it in Melbourne.”

“Well, he’s as flourishing as possible; he will soon be richer than me. On his own account now. Bought a flock and run, for an old song; cured the sheep; and is now on the highway to wealth. Ah! Peggy, why were you not Mrs Powell?”

“It was not to be,” said Peggy, calmly; “but has he any bairns?”

“Two, Peggy; and he is very proud of them.”

“Ay, ay; a man has need to be proud and pleased with his own. And the wife?”

“Oh, she’s a nice enough person. Getting a little uppish now; but not the manager you are,” said Mr. Brandon. “More given to dress and show, and that sort of thing. But I have a message for you from Mr. Talbot, the lawyer, you know, though I dare say he has written to you on the same subject.”

“My man of business,” said Peggy, with a little pride. “I have not heard from him for a long time.”

“He is very sorry indeed, that you let the tenant have a right of purchase to your shop.”

“Oh, it is not of much consequence–he never was a saving body; I don’t think he will ever raise the 250 pounds.”

“Will he not?–when the place is worth 2,500 pounds now; if he borrows the money, he will carry out the purchase, and thus you lose the chance of making a little fortune. He, of course, will keep it on till the end of the lease, at the low rent he has it at, and then take it up for the price specified. You cannot think how vexed I felt to hear you had let this property slip through your fingers.”

“It is a pity,” said Peggy. “It would really have been a providing for the bairns; but they must just provide for themselves. I am, at least, putting them in the way of doing it. The rent comes in regular enough, and is a help; and the 250 pounds will come in some time, and set us up in some way of doing.”

“250 pounds is not the sum it used to be,” said Mr. Brandon; “but, in your hands, I have no doubt it will be turned to good account.”

“Here come the bairns now,” said Peggy, as the quick, noisy steps of the heavily-shod children were heard clattering up the stairs.

“I will now see what you have made so many sacrifices for. Name them as they come in.”

“Tom, Jamie, Nancy, Jessie, Willie.”

“A fine lot of youngsters, upon my word, and sure to make good colonists.” And, as he said this, Mr. Brandon saw a tear stand in the eye of the devoted aunt at his praises of her orphan charge.

“God be praised, they have their health; and on the whole they are good bairns, though a thought noisy whiles,” said she.

“There’s a gentleman at the stairfoot,” said Tom. “He says he has come for you and your sister, Miss Melville, and as it was our dinner-time, he would not come up.”

“Bid him walk upstairs, for the dinner’s no ready. Mr. Brandon was aye rather an off-put to work, and ye’ll no get your dinner for a good quarter of an hour yet.”

“We are quite ready,” said Jane; “We will go at once. It is our cousin, who was to call for us.”

“We may go out to play then for a bit?” said Willie.

“If ye’ll no go far, and be sure to be in time for the school.”

Francis came up, to be surprised at the sight of Mr. Brandon, and to receive a hurried explanation of his presence at Peggy Walker’s, and then they went for a walk. By daylight he was struck more with the change that had shown itself in both of his cousins, and with the poor home they had to live in. Jane’s proposal on the previous night to go to Mrs. Dunn’s had distressed him more than any other of her projects, and yet he could do nothing to prevent it, unless by making the sacrifice which my young lady readers think he should have made long ago, and given up the estate to marry his cousin. “All for love, and the world well lost,” is a fascinating course of procedure in books and on the stage, but in real life there are a good many things to be considered. It was only lately that Francis had discovered how very dear Jane was to him. If such a woman had come across his path when he was in the bank with his 250 pounds a-year, with any reasonable chance of obtaining her, he would have exerted every effort and made every sacrifice to gain such a companion for life. He would have given up all his more expensive bachelor habits–his book-buying, and his public amusements, and thought domestic happiness cheaply purchased by such privations. And if Jane could have shared his brighter fortune, he would have offered his hand and heart long before. But now, even supposing that he had contracted no expensive habits, and he found that he had–that he liked the handsome fortune, and the luxuries annexed to it–it was not his own personal gratification that he was required to give up, but the duties, and the opportunities for usefulness that Jane so highly prized for him. He could not even expect to take as good a position in the world as he had quitted. His place at the Bank of Scotland was filled up, and the quixotic step he thought of taking was not likely to recommend him to business people. And he must prepare not only for providing for a wife and family, but for Elsie, too; and until this day Elsie had shrunk from him, and he had rather despised her; but during their walk he saw the affectionate and sincere nature of Jane’s sister. He thought that he could not only offer her a home, but that he had some prospect of making it a happy one, which is by far the most important thing in such matters, and he gradually brought himself to believe that it was right he should make the sacrifice. Other opportunities of usefulness might open themselves in some other sphere; he would give up Cross Hall to the benevolent societies if Jane would only consent to be his wife. The cousinship he thought no objection; they were both very healthy in body and in mind, and as unlike each other in temperament and constitution as if they were not related. Neither Jane nor Elsie was likely to keep her health at a sedentary employment; it was the daily long walk that had kept them so well as they were. It was not right to undervalue private happiness, after all, for any public object whatever. Here was the best and dearest woman in the world suffering daily, both in herself and through her sister, and he could make her happy; he knew that he could do that. If she refused, however, it would interfere with the warm friendship that he knew to be her greatest comfort and his own most precious possession; but she could not, she would not refuse him. He saw the kind look of her eyes; and felt convinced that though Jane believed it was only friendship, the knowledge that she was all the world to him would change it into love. And then to begin life afresh; no longer solitary; no longer unloved; could he not conquer difficulties even greater than he had ever to contend with? He did not pay proper attention at the theatre that night. Jane and her sister were delighted with the performance, and forgot their daily life in the mimic world before them; but he was building such castles in the air all the time that he was not able to criticise the play or the acting, but left that to Elsie, who certainly did it very well.

Chapter XIV.

Good News For Francis

When the children went out, and the young ladies had gone with their cousin, Mr. Brandon took the opportunity of asking how it happened that the Misses Melville were staying with her. She explained their position in a more matter-of-fact way than Miss Rennie had done on the preceding night, and then dilated on their virtues, particularly on Jane’s.

“So clever, and so sensible, and so willing! There’s nothing she does not understand, and yet, poor thing, she says she must go to the dressmaking, for with all her by-ordinary talents and her by-ordinary education, there is not another hand’s turn she can get to do. I’m sure the pains she takes with the bairns at night, I just marvel at it. There’s Tam, she can make him do anything she likes. It is a grand thing for a laddie when he is just growing to be a man to have such a woman as Miss Melville to look up to–it makes him have a respect for women.”

“He need look no higher than you, Peggy,” said Mr. Brandon.

“Ah! but you see I am not quick at the book learning. I’ll no complain of Tam for want of respect to myself, for he is a good lad, take him altogether; but then, Miss Jean, she helps him with his problems and his squares, and runs up whole columns of figures like a lang-legged spider, and tells him why things should be so and so, and seems as keen to learn all about the engineering as himself; and she helps Jamie with the Latin, that he craikit on so lang to let him learn, though for my part I see little good it will do him, and him only to follow the joinering and cabinet-making trade; and Tam, he will no be behind, and he must needs learn it too; and as for her writing, ye could read it at the other end of the room. And in her uncle’s house there was such order and such government under her eye as there was not to be seen in another gentleman’s house in the country. And yet, poor lassie, she says there’s nothing but the dressmaking for her. And Miss Elsie, too, writing day and night, and cannot get a bode for her bit poems and verses, till now she is like to greet her een out over every letter she gets from London about them. I can see Miss Jean has been egging up Mr. Hogarth, as they call him–I’m no wishing him any ill, but I wish the auld laird had made a fairer disposition of his possessions–well, Miss Jean has been stirring up this Mr. Francis to take them out for the sake of Elsie, for she is just fading away.”

“I like her the best of the two, and she is certainly far the prettiest. The eldest one is a little too clever for me, and too much disposed to preach, even in a ball-room.”

“Well, I dare say she saw you had had rather little preaching in the bush, and I am sure you were none the worse of all said to you. But it makes us the more vexed at losing the real value of my bit property, for if I had had the twenty-five hundred pounds you speak about we could have begun business in Melbourne together. She can keep books, and Miss Elsie has a clever hand at the millinery;–we could have got on famously. I must let you see the bairns’ writingbooks, and the letters she learns them to write, and their counting-books, too.”

Mr. Brandon looked and admired quite to Peggy’s satisfaction; and then he spoke to the old man in a kindly way, calling him Mr. Lowrie, and saying he had often heard Peggy speak of him at Barragong. How much pleasure little courtesies like this give to poverty and old age! The old man’s face brightened when he heard that he was known at such a distance by such a gentleman as this, and he answered Mr. Brandon’s inquiries as to his health and his hearing with eager garrulity.

“Well,” said Peggy, “I am no poorer than I was if I had not known about the bit shop being worth so much; but when I think on Miss Jean and her sister, and the lift it might have been to them, I think more of it than I would otherwise do. And now, Mr. Brandon, I’ll trouble you to move from the fireside; I must put out the kail. But you were aye fond of being in a body’s way.”

“I have it,” said Mr. Brandon; “it will do.”

“What will do?”

“You remember the Phillipses?”

“What should ail me to remember them? But I have such a poor head, I forget to ask the thing I care most about. How’s Mr. Phillips, and how’s Emily?”

“All well, and the other four, too.”

“And Mrs. Phillips?”

“As well as ever, and handsomer than ever, I think.”

“Oh! her looks were never her worst fault. But what did you mean by saying it would do?”

“The Phillipses came home in the vessel with me, and are settled in London for good. I think the eldest Miss Melville would be exactly the sort of person they want to superintend the household, for Mrs. Phillips has as little turn for management as ever, and there is a considerable establishment. And, also, she might make Miss Emily and Miss Harriett attend to their lessons, for, though they have masters or some such things, they are too much the mistresses of the house to be controlled by anybody.”

“Their father was always very much taken up with these lassies–Emily used to be like the apple of his eye; and the mistress is too lazy to cross them either, I’m thinking,” said Peggy.

“Just so. If Miss Melville’s preaching in season or out of season can give her a little more sense, I think Phillips will be all the better for it. She can keep house, admirably, you say; and that she is able to teach, these children’s books testify. Tell Miss Melville to delay her resolution about the dressmaking till I communicate with Phillips, which I will do by to-day’s post. He is talking of coming up to the north shortly, principally to visit you, I think, so he may see her, and can judge for himself. Your account of the young lady seems everything that can be desired, and Mr. Phillips has such a high opinion of your judgment that your recommendation will carry great weight.”

“He’ll bring Emily with him to see me,” said Peggy. “Tell him to be sure and bring Emily with him. I cannot ask you to take pot-luck with us.”

“No, I thank you; I have just breakfasted. I do not keep such early hours as I did at Barragong. We turn night into day in these lands of civilization, and for a change it is remarkably pleasant. But how do you take to Scotch fare after Australia?” asked Mr. Brandon, eyeing with astonishment the infinitesimal piece of meat which made the family broth.

“I did not take quite kindly to the porridge at first, and missed the meat that we used to have in such abundance; but use is second nature, and though I whiles look back with regret to the flesh-pots of Egypt, I have my strength, and I have some prospect of getting back to the land of wastrie and extravagance, as I aye used to say it was at Barragong; and Mr. Phillips’s place, at Wiriwilta, was worse still. And Mr. Phillips has made his fortune with all that waste, and with all his liberality, and a foolish wife, and an expensive family, and is living in London like a gentleman as he is,” said Peggy. “And you really think he would be glad to have Miss Jean?”

“I have not a doubt of it; but good-bye for the present. I hear your youngsters rattling upstairs. I will see you again ere long, and must get better acquainted with them. Good-bye, sir,” said Mr. Brandon, to Thomas Lowrie, who having never been called either Mr. or Sir in his life before, was lost in astonishment at the remarkably fine manners of Peggy’s old master.

“A very civil-spoken gentleman, Peggy,” said he. “It must have been a pleasure to serve a gentleman of such politeness.”

“What a pity,” said Peggy to herself, “that I ever should have told the young ladies that daft-like story about me and the master. I wish I had bitten my tongue out first. But who was to think of him turning up like this? And he’s just the man for Miss Elsie; but I have made her laugh at him, and I misdoubt if her proud spirit will bend to him. And after all, what the worse is he, if she had known nothing about it. And I dare say all young men are alike; and he’s better than the most half of them. There was Elsie so taken up with that lad Dalzell, that came courting Miss Jean, and if she had heard half that was said about him, poor Mr. Brandon would have been a saint in comparison. But an opening for Miss Jane is aye worth something. To think of her being put under the like of Mrs. Phillips; and it’s like I’ll see Emily–a spoiled bairn, no doubt–but she had naturally a fine disposition, at least humanly speaking.”

It was not in human nature, however, that Peggy should quite lose sight of her own concerns in her pleasure at the thought of Miss Melville having something better to do than dressmaking. The recollection of the years of hard work that had converted her little shop into a freehold, her old pride in having her title made out on parchment, the hurry she had been in to get it let, to go home by a particular ship, and the obstinate way in which her tenant’s wife insisted on a right of purchase, and her own reluctant admission of the clause, thinking that as the house was not new, 250 pounds was an outside value for it, and now to think of its being such a kingdom. The town had run up to her little suburban shop, and far past it; on every side the monster, Melbourne, had been adding to his extent, and now, on account of the bit of garden and large yard, that she had thought would be so nice for the children, when she had them out, and that she had bought very cheap, the value of her property was increased tenfold–but she was none the richer. The sacrifice she had made had turned out even greater than she had expected, and now she could not help thinking of how she would miss Miss Melville, and what a loss it would be to her bairns; and how she was to keep Miss Elsie in tolerable spirits without her sister was another perplexity.

The duties of the day were gone through as usual, however; but when the children and the old man had gone to bed, Peggy made up her mind to make a martyr of herself, and to sit up for the young ladies, who had not been home all day, and with a piece of mending in her hands, which got on but slowly, she mused on her ill luck. Very tired and sleepy, and a little out of humour, she was when she opened the door for Jane and Elsie.

“Well, well! I just hope you’re the better of your late hours, though they are not just what I approve of.”

“Only once in a way, Peggy; our holiday will soon be over. But you should not have sat up for us–promise not to do it again. We have enjoyed the theatre to-night, have we not, Elsie?”

“Yes, but the disenchantment comes so soon again.”

“I have no great opinion of theatres and play-acting, and such like. I was once in a theatre in Melbourne, though,” said Peggy.

“With one of your sweethearts, Peggy?” asked Jane.

“Whisht with your nonsense, Miss Jean; don’t be talking of sweethearts to a douce woman like me,” said Peggy, who, nevertheless was rather proud of her Australian conquests, and liked to hear them alluded to now and then.

“But how did you like the play?”

“I cannot say I did. To see folk dressed up and painted, rampaging about and talking havers, just making fools of themselves. A wee insignificant-looking body setting up to be a king! and the sogers–you should have seen the sogers, as if they could ever fight.”

“It is likely there was nothing very first-rate on the Melbourne boards at that time, but our play to-night was perfectly well got up,” said Elsie, “and the acting was admirable.”

“I’m no clear that at its best the theatre is a fit place for Christian men and women to frequent,” said Peggy.

“You prefer the stern realities of life to its most brilliant illusions,” said Jane.

“Speaking of the realities of life, Mr. Brandon says he knows of something likely to suit you, Miss Jane,” said Peggy.

“Indeed!” said Jane, with an incredulous smile.

“At least, he says you must resolve on nothing till you hear from him. He is going to write to London to Mr. Phillips.”

“Your Mr. Phillips–is he in London?”

“Yes; and Mr. Brandon says they are sorely in need of somebody to keep the house–for I fancy everything is at rack and manger if Mrs. Phillips has the management–and to make Emily and Harriett mind their books, for they are such spoiled bairns. I was showing Mr. Brandon what you could do with Tam and Nancy and the others, and he says you are exactly the person that they need; and I can see that it is wondrous feasible.”

“What salary should I ask?” said Jane; “or should I leave it to Mr. Phillips?”

“You had better leave it to him; he is not such a skinflint as our benevolent associations. I always found both him and Mr. Brandon open-handed and willing to pay well for all that was done for them. To me, Mr. Phillips was most extraordinary liberal.”

“Then you think it likely I will get this situation at a respectable salary?”

“I think you are almost sure of it.”

“What good news for Francis, to-morrow!” said Jane.

Volume II.

Chapter I.

How Francis Received The Good News

When Francis, after a night’s rest disturbed by thoughts and calculations as to ways and means, had arrived at the definite resolution to ask Jane Melville to marry him, he recalled a thousand signs of her affectionate regard for him–of her understanding his character as no one ever cared to understand it before–of her sympathy with all his past life and his present position, which left him no doubt that she would return his love and accept of him. The home and the welcome he was prepared to offer to Elsie would plead with her own heart in his favour. All her theoretical objections as to cousins marrying (which after all is a very doubtful point, and has much to be said on both sides); all her ambition for himself would melt away before the warmth of the truest love and the hope of the happiest home in the world. And yet she was not to be won entirely, or even chiefly, by personal pleadings for happiness, or by the feeling that her life and Elsie’s might go on smoothly and cheerfully with him. She was to be convinced that it was right that she should marry him, and then the whole of her affectionate and ardent nature would abandon itself to the pleasure of loving and being beloved. It was because she had no husband to occupy her heart that she dwelt so fondly on those abstractions of public duty and social progress, and he would convince her that out of an aggregate of happy homes a happy people is composed. She had found opportunities both of gaining knowledge and of doing good in the most unfavourable circumstances, and she would have more chances as his wife, with his co-operation and sympathy.

She was not the sort of woman his poetical and artistic dreams had been wont to draw as the partner of his life; not the lovely, clinging, dependent girl who would look up to him for counsel and support, but something better, both in herself and for him, than his fancy had ever painted. Her powers of sympathy had been increased by her knowledge; she was as just as she was generous. There was no corner of his heart he could not lay bare to her; no passage of his past life that he could not trust to her judging fairly and charitably. Whether he rose or fell in the world; whether he gained social influence or lost it in the career that he had again to begin, her foot would be planted firmly beside his; her insight and sympathy would heighten every enjoyment and fortify him for every trial. That he felt her to be beautiful, perhaps, was more in his powers of seeing than in her positive charm of countenance; but so far as the soul looked through her eyes and breathed from her lips, she had a sort of beauty that did not weary any intelligent gazer, and at all events, which could never weary Francis Hogarth. After all the flattery he had met with since his accession to fortune, and the conventionalisms of society in which he had been plunged, he felt the transparent sincerity of Jane’s character something to rest in with perfect confidence and perfect satisfaction. The most brilliant Frenchwomen had not her earnestness or her power, though they had far more vivacity, and made their interlocutors more satisfied with themselves. And Francis felt that he ought to be married; and how could he ever attach himself sufficiently to any other woman and not draw comparisons between her and the woman whom his interest–his worldly interest alone–forbade him to make his wife? He must learn to love Jane less, or obtain from herself leave to love her more.

Jane’s joyous greeting, when he came to Peggy’s for his cousins, to take them to the Exhibition, startled him not a little; and when she eagerly told him of Mr. Brandon’s views for her future advancement; and that both he and Peggy had no doubt that she would suit the Phillipses; and that an answer was sure to be had in a few days, and demanded his congratulations on her altered prospects; then asked him to submit his plans for cottages to Peggy’s inspection, as she was by far the most competent judge as to their merits or deficiencies. Old Thomas Lowrie was also taken into council, and his wondering admiration of the bonny slated houses was something worth seeing. Peggy’s suggestion of the addition of a little storeroom, in which milk and meal and potatoes could be kept, was put and carried unanimously. They then went into the allotment questions, and Jane, Elsie, and Peggy, offered their opinions as to the fittest persons for the boon, and then began to wonder how many years it would be before they could make the land pay. All this, which ought to have gratified Francis–for every man should be glad when people take an interest in his plans–struck a chill to his heart, for it boded no good to his new visions.

“You seem to be in great spirits altogether, to-day, Jane,” said he.

“How can I help it? The prospect of a situation of fifty or sixty pounds a year is something overpoweringly delightful to me. If I had heard of such a thing six months ago, I should have been glad, but now that I have felt the difficulty of getting any employment whatever, and feel quite sure that I am fit for this, my only dread is lest Mr. Phillips may have got another person, or may not like my appearance; but if he is satisfied to engage me I am determined to save money to start in business. By and by we are going to join Peggy in Melbourne.”

“But your sister–how do you feel about leaving her?”

“I was quite aware that I must leave her if I meant to do anything of any value for myself.”

“I am never going to stand in Jane’s light any more,” said Elsie. “I am not so selfish as to regret any piece of good fortune that comes to her alone.”

“And I think of inquiring a little further as to her poems,” said Jane.

“Oh, no! that is altogether useless,” said Elsie.

“You promised yesterday to let Francis see them to-day, Elsie. We must have his opinion on this subject. I certainly think I could do more personally, than by letter, to get them published.”

“And Jane always wished so much to see London,” said Elsie. “I am so glad to think she has such a prospect, and from all Peggy’s accounts of Mr. Phillips, he is everything that could be wished. How little we thought when we listened to her long tale about her taking such care of Emily and Harriett Phillips, the first night we came to live here, that she was saving pupils for Jane. It seems like a fate.”

“Then what are YOU going to do?” said Francis, who did not seem so much delighted with Jane’s good news as she had expected. “Are you to live here with Peggy, as before?”

“Not just as before. I am going to Mrs. Dunn’s through the day, and Peggy is good enough to say she will be glad to keep me, though I lose my better half in Jane. I think I really have some taste and talent for millinery, and I mean to try to cultivate it; for if we begin business together in Melbourne, it may be very useful. Jane and I lay awake half the night, talking over our plans, and I do not see why we should not make our way in time.”

“Then, you are going to forget the Muses altogether, and give your whole soul to business?”

“Did you not do that every day, cousin Francis, when you were at the Bank?” said Elsie.

“Perhaps you may write better poetry when you do not make it your day’s work. Do you not think she may, Francis?” said Jane.

“Very probably–very probably she may;” said Francis, thoughtfully, as if he were weighing the advantages of literature being a staff, over its being a crutch, but in reality he was not thinking of Elsie or her verses, at all.

He had prepared himself to make a great sacrifice–to do something very generous and Quixotic–not altogether uninfluenced by the wish for personal happiness of the highest kind; but yet he believed that his chief motives for taking the resolution were the forlorn and hopeless situation of the two girls. Now they were no longer forlorn or hopeless. If this situation for Jane was obtained, and Elsie persevered in her determination to work hard at the perfecting of her taste for making caps and bonnets, they had a definite plan of life, likely to be as prosperous as that he could offer to them. And Jane would not accept of him to-day, though she would probably have done so yesterday. His plans, his ambitions, were too dear to her to be thrown away lightly, and he could see nothing but sisterly affection in her eyes. If she took the position she was entitled to at Mr. Phillips’s, she was likely to meet with some society there, and Mr. Brandon, or some other Australian settler, not so shy of matrimony without a fortune on the lady’s part, as the middle-class Englishman of this century is, might see some of the virtues and attractions which he had learned to love–no one could see so many of them as himself–and might win the best wife in the world, without being fully conscious of the blessing. He knew the real strength of his love, when he tried to fancy Jane the wife of any one else. He almost wished she might fail in her object, and that Mr. Phillips would decide that she would not suit. He was selfish enough to hope that she might not be happy there. They must continue to correspond as frequently and as openly as hitherto. He would watch for any turn that might offer him hope, and he must be all the more careful to disguise his real feelings, lest it might prevent her from expressing herself as frankly as she had done. When a blessing appears to be lost its value is greatly enhanced, and all the comforts, and privileges, and opportunities, of his present situation, that he had made such an effort to give up, seemed to shrink into insignificance, compared with the domestic happiness that was now eluding his grasp.

“There was great lamentation among the bairns this morning when I said something about Miss Jean maybe leaving us; but they took great comfort from the recollection that they had learned to write so well that they might send real post letters to her–not mere make-believes–and she promised to answer them. Tam says if she goes to London she must keep on the look-out for anything that is in his line, and indeed Miss Jean said she would. It is a real blessing that penny post. In my young days, to think of writing back and fore to London about anything ye wanted to know would have been out of the question for poor folk,” said Peggy.

“You must write to me, too,” said Francis, “about all the things and all the people you see, and how you like them, and if you tire of London or of teaching–just every mood as you feel it. I do not think it was quite fair in you always showing me the brightest side of your life. I do not mean to show you always mine.”

“When you are disappointed because the workmen will not build the cottages fast enough, or because the inhabitants do not keep them as clean as your fastidious taste thinks necessary, or because the dull Scottish brain will not readily take up the Flemish or French ideas you want to engraft in them, you will write all your indignant or disgusted expressions to me, rather than lose patience with the people themselves–it is safer. I am prepared for some disappointments, but I will wait patiently and in hope for the end.”

“Did you always have this large amount of public spirit, Jane? It struck me very forcibly the first evening you spent with me at my house.”

“I think it lay dormant for a few months before my uncle’s death,” said Jane, laughing; “but it came out stronger than ever afterwards. Francis is very grave to-day. I would not trust him with your verses, Elsie; his criticisms will be far too severe in his present mood.”

“But I will trust him just at this very time,” said Elsie; “for if this dull morning has made him a little depressed, perhaps he may feel a little for me sitting in my cheerless room, without hope and without society. I beg your pardon, Jane, you are always good and kind, and so was Peggy, and every one; but it was so dull–so very dull. But what I mean is, that if Francis is moody and dispirited, as a great many people are at times, my verses will not seem to him such a wail as to the busy, merry world we live in. I never saw a more favourable-looking critic.”

Elsie then went to her drawer, and for the first time since she had tied up her manuscript touched it without a sick pang at her heart. The very sight of the enveloping brown paper had been odious to her: but to-day she felt courage enough to untie it, and to select a few of what she considered her best pieces for her cousin’s perusal.

Much depends on the mood of the reader of poetry. Francis did not find Elsie’s sad views of life at all overdrawn, and he pointed out both to her and to Jane many fine passages, and what he considered to be pretty images. Here and there he found fault; but, on the whole, he said Elsie’s verses were full of promise, and she only had to wait patiently for awhile–to observe as well as to reflect, and not to be quite so subjective–to attain to excellence.

At the Exhibition and at the concert in the evening, Francis had again to admire the naturally fine taste of his younger cousin, and to lament with her that none of her talents had been cultivated. According to all his preconceived fancies, he should have fallen in love with Elsie; but it was not so. She was a sweet, amiable girl, with a great deal of quickness and undeveloped talent, but she was chiefly dear to him as Jane’s sister. Elsie felt for the time restored to a better opinion of herself, and was grateful to the person who thought well of what the world seemed to despise. She was disposed now to do Francis justice, and more than justice. Never had she talked with a man of finer taste or more admirable judgment. She caught another glimpse of William Dalzell, who was at the concert with the Rennies and Miss Wilson, and contrasted her old favourite with her new, very much to the disadvantage of the former.

Francis was aware that this was the person from whose attentions Jane had been in such danger. He could scarcely conceive the possibility of a woman of such admirable sense and such penetration as Jane forming an attachment to one so shallow and so unheroic. He felt himself scarcely worthy of Jane Melville, and he would never compare himself with the Laird of Mosstower. But the young people had been thrown together, and had spent much of their time of meeting in the open air. William Dalzell was a good rider and a fearless sportsman; he rode a beautiful horse, and was very careful of it. He appeared to have a good temper, and his mother worshipped him, while Elsie was never weary of sounding his praises. Mr. Hogarth was in indifferent health, and was somewhat exacting at all times. He had not the sympathy with the high spirits of youth that he had had in former years, so that Jane had enjoyed the animated rides, where she did most of the talking to a listener, young, handsome, and determined to be pleased with everything she said and did. She thought she interested him in her favourite subjects; he had said that she improved him, and his mother said the same; so that she rejoined in her influence, which seemed to bear such good results.

Miss Rennie, who had heard when in—–shire, a somewhat exaggerated account of young Dalzell’s attachment to Miss Melville, was very much disgusted with his conduct, and though his attentions to Laura Wilson amused her very much, she had a grudge at him for their mercenary motives. Laura was evidently captivated at first sight; she could speak of nobody but Mr. Dalzell, and Mr. Rennie as her guardian was a little alarmed, but on inquiry he found that Moss Tower was not very deeply dipped after all; Mrs. Dalzell had her jointure off it, but he was an only son, and any little wildness or extravagance of youth was likely to be put an end to by marriage. Laura was a somewhat troublesome ward, so passionate and so self-willed that even at school she had carried her point against him by sheer determination over and over again, and he wished heartily to be well freed of her by marriage with a tolerably respectable man. Her fortune he would secure her future husband from making ducks and drakes of by settlements, which are generally in Britain framed as if the future husband was an enemy to be dreaded, and not a friend to be trusted. For the law as it stands puts such enormous power, not only over happiness (which is inevitable), but over property and liberty, into the hands of the husband, to be used against as well as for the advantage of the wife, that it is only by taking power from both, and vesting it in trustees, that money can be saved for the wife and children. In the cases where the marriage is a happy one, the settlement is a hindrance and a nuisance; but in such cases as that of William Dalzell and Laura Wilson, it would be prudent to evade the law of the land, and to preserve the property of the heiress by such means.

Chapter II.

Jane’s Situation

In an almost incredibly short time, Mr. Brandon called at Peggy Walker’s to say that he had had a letter from Mr. Phillips, who thought very favourably of Miss Melville from his description, but who would come to Edinburgh himself in a day or two and see the young lady, so as to judge for himself.

He came accordingly, but, to Peggy’s great disappointment, without Emily or Harriett. They had both bad colds, and he could not make them travel in the depth of winter even to see Peggy. Jane and Elsie could not but admire the kindly greeting to gave to his old and faithful servant, and the interest he took in her affairs and her children, which was even more strongly expressed than Mr. Brandon’s; and as for grandfather, he could not tell which of the two Australian gentlemen was the most polite.

The manners of the younger sister took Mr. Phillips’s fancy more than those of the elder, but he saw that Jane would suit him best; so, in a much shorter time than she could have conceived possible, she found herself engaged to accompany him on his return to London, as housekeeper and governess, at a salary of 70 pounds a year.

“We mean to come to Edinburgh next summer, when we will probably take a tour in the Highlands, so that you have a prospect of seeing your sister then,” said Mr. Phillips: “but I must have you with us as soon as possible, so I hope you will be ready the day after to-morrow.”

“Yes, I will be quite ready then,” said Jane. “I have not much to do, except to part from Elsie, and that will be hard to do at last as at first.”

While Mr. Phillips talked to Peggy about his children, and especially of Emily, the girls both examined his countenance and drew their conclusions as to his character. He was not so handsome as Mr. Brandon, being smaller and more insignificant-looking, and his fair complexion had not stood so well the constant exposure to the weather under an Australian sun as Mr. Brandon’s dark one, but his smile was remarkably bright, and though his manner was very gentle and pleasing, he did not seem to want for decision of character.

“I doubt Emily is changed out of my knowledge. I have not seen her since she was four years and a half old, when you brought her to Melbourne for me to see, and when she coaxed me out of far more lollies than were good for her.”

“I will bring her up in summer, and you will acknowledge that you would know her anywhere. As for you, she will know you quite well, for