“I’ve been hearing something from Miss Menie, mem,” said Jenny, entering the parlour of Burnside with a determined air, and planting herself firmly behind the door. Jenny was very short, very much of one thickness from the shoulders to the edge of the full round skirts under which pattered her hasty feet—and had a slight deformity, variously estimated by herself and her rustic equals according to the humour of the moment—being no more than “a high shouther” in Jenny’s sunshiny weather, but reaching the length of a desperate “thraw” when Jenny’s temper had come to be as “thrawn” as her frame. A full circle, bunchy, substantial, and comfortable, were Jenny’s woollen skirts, striped in cheerful colours; and you had no warrant for supposing that any slovenly superfluous bulk increased the natural dimensions of the round, considerable waist, or stiff, well-tightened boddice, of which Jenny’s clean short gown and firmly tied apron-strings defined the shape so well. Very scanty was Jenny’s hair, and very little of it appeared under her white muslin cap; and Jenny’s complexion was nothing to boast of, though some withered bloom remained upon her cheeks. Her lips closed upon each other firmly; her brow was marked with sundry horizontal lines, which it was by no means difficult to deepen into a frown; and Jenny’s eyes, grey, keen, and active, were at this present moment set in fierce steadiness and gravity; while the little snort of her “fuff,” and the little nod of her cap, with its full, well-ironed borders, gave timely intimation of the mood in which Jenny came.

“Yes, Jenny,” said Mrs Laurie, laying down her work on her knee, and sitting back into her chair. Mrs Laurie knew the signs and premonitions well, and lost no time in setting her back against the rock, and taking up her weapons of defence.

“I say I’ve been hearing something from Miss Menie, mem,” repeated Jenny still more emphatically; “things are come a gey length, to my puir thought, when it’s the youngest of the house that brings word of a great change to me!—and I’m thinking the best thing we can do is to part friends as lang as we can keep up decent appearances; so maybe ye’ll take the trouble, mem, if it’s no owre muckle freedom of me asking you, to look out for a new lass afore the term.”

“Indeed, Jenny, I’ll do no such thing,” said Mrs Laurie quietly. Jenny heeded not, but went on with a little nervous motion of her head, half shake, half nod, and many a snort and half-drawn breath interposed between.

“There’s been waur folk than Jenny serving in this house, I reckon. I’ve kent women mysel that did less wark with mair slaistry—and aye as muckle concerned for the credit of the house; but I’m no gaun to sound my ain praise; and I would like to ken whether I’m to be held to the six months’ warning, or if I may put up my kist and make my flitting like other folk at the term?”

“You can make your flitting, Jenny, when we make ours; that is soon enough, surely,” said Mrs Laurie with a half smile. Jenny had not roused her mistress yet to anything but defence, so with a louder fuff than ever she rushed to the attack again.

“For a smooth-spoken lass—believe hersel, she wouldna raise the stour without pardon craved—I would recommend Nelly Panton. There’s no muckle love lost atween her and me—but she’ll say ony ill of Jenny—and aye have a curtsy ready for a lady’s ca’, and her een on the grund, and neither mind nor heart o’ her ain, if the mistress says no. Na, I wouldna say but Nelly Panton’s the very ane to answer, for she’ll never take twa thoughts about casting off father and mother, kin and country, whenever ye like to bid—though ye’ll mind, mem, it’s for sake of the wage, and no for sake of you.”

“Dear me, Jenny,” said Mrs Laurie impatiently, “when did I ask for such a sacrifice? What makes ye such a crabbed body, woman? Did I ever bid a servant of mine give up father or mother for me? You have been about Burnside ten years now, Jenny—when did you know me do anything like that?”

“A lady mayna mean ony ill—I’m no saying’t,” said Jenny; “but ane may make a bonnie lock of mischief without kenning. I’ve been ten years about Burnside—ay, and mair siller!—and to think the mistress should be laying her odds and ends thegither—a woman at her time of life—to flit away to a strange country, and never letting on a word to Jenny, till the puir body’s either forced into a ship upon the sea, or thrown on the cauld world to find her drap parritch at ony doorstep where there’s charity! Eh, sirs, what’s the favour of this world to trust to! But I’m no gaun to break my heart about it, for Jenny has twa guid hands o’ her ain—nae thanks to some folk—to make her bread by yet!”

“Jenny’s an unreasonable body,” said her mistress, with half-amused annoyance: “and if you were not spoken to before, it was just because my mind was unsettled, and it’s only since yesterday I have thought of it at all. If I make up my mind to go, it’s for anything but pleasure to myself—so you have no occasion to upbraid me, Jenny, for doing this at my time of life.”

“Me!” exclaimed Jenny, lifting her hands in appeal, “me upbraid the mistress! Eh, sirs, the like of that! But, mem, will you tell me, if it’s no for your ain pleasure, you that’s an independent lady, what for would you leave Burnside?”

Mrs Laurie hesitated; but Mrs Laurie knew very well that nothing could be more unprofitable than any resentment of Jenny’s fuff—and her own transitory displeasure had already died away.

“You may say we’re independent at this present time,” she said with a little sigh; “but did it never occur to you, Jenny—if anything happened to me—my poor lassie!—what’s to become of Menie then?”

“Havers!” cried Jenny loudly. “I mean—I ask your pardon—but what’s gaun to happen to you this twenty years and mair?”

“Twenty years is a lifetime of itself,” said her mistress; “it might not be twenty days nor twenty hours. The like of us have no right to reckon our time.”

“It’s time for me to buckle my shoon to my feet, and my cloak to my shouthers, if you’re thinking upon your call,” said Jenny. “But, no to be ill-mannered, putting my forbears in ae word with yours, we’re baith come of a lang-lived race—and you’re just in your prime, as weel as ever ye was; and ’deed, I canna think it onything but a reflection upon myself, that maybe might get to the kirk mair constant if I was to try, when I hear ye speaking like that to puir auld wizened Jenny, that’s six and fifty guid, no to speak of the thraw she’s had a’ her days.”

And a single hot tear of petulant distress fell upon Jenny’s arm.

“Well, Jenny,” said Mrs Laurie, “one thing we’ll agree in, I know—you could not wish so ill a wish to Menie, poor thing, as that she might leave this world before her mother. You would think it in the course of nature that Menie should see both you and me in our graves. Now, if I was taken away next week, or next year,—what is my poor bairn to do?”

And Jenny vainly fuffed to conceal the little fit of sobbing which this idea brought upon her. “Do! She’ll be married upon her ain gudeman lang years afore that time comes; and Randall Home’s a decent lad, though I’ll no say he would have just taken my fancy, if onybody had askit me; and she’ll hae a hunder pound or twa to keep her pocket, of what you’re aye saving for her; and I have twa-three bawbees laid up in the bank mysel.”

“Ay, Jenny, so have I,” said her mistress; “but two or three hundred pounds is a poor provision for a young friendless thing like Menie; and I have nothing but a liferent in Burnside; and my annuity, you know, ends with me. No doubt there’s Randall Home to take into consideration; but the two of them are very young, Jenny, and many a thing may come in the way. I would like Menie to have something else to depend on than Randall Home.”

“Bless me, mem, you’ve a mote in your een the day,” said Jenny impatiently. “What’s the puir callant done now? They tell me he’s as weel-doing a lad as can be, and what would onybody have mair?”

“Hush, Jenny,” said Mrs Laurie, “and hear me to an end. This lady has a better income than I have, and she says we may lay our savings together for Menie—a very good offer; and Menie can get better education, whatever may happen to her; and we can see with our own eyes how Randall Home is coming on in the world; for you see, Jenny, I have a kind of right to be selfish on Menie’s account. I’ve tried poverty myself in my day; and Menie is my only bairn.”

The tears came into the mother’s eyes. Menie had not always been her only bairn; and visions of a bold brother, two years older than her little girl, and natural protector and champion of Menie, flashed up before her in the bright air of this home room, where ten years ago her first-born paled and sickened to his early death.

“I wouldna gang—no a fit,” exclaimed Jenny, breaking into a little passion of anger and tears. “Wha’s trusting in Providence now—wha’s leaving the ane out of the question that has a’ in His hands—and making plans like as if He didna remain when we were a’ away? I didna think there had been sae little mense—I couldna have believed there was sae little grace in a house like this—and I wouldna gang a fit—no me—as if I thought Providence was owre puir an inheritance for the bairn!”

And Jenny hurried away to her kitchen, to expend both tears and anger; but Jenny’s opposition to the London “flitting,” in spite of her indignant protest, died from that hour.