“I wouldna hae come hame as I gaed away, if I had been you, Jenny.” The speaker stands at the door of Jenny’s little byre, looking on, while Jenny milks her favourite cow. “Ye see what Nelly Panton’s done for hersel; there’s naething like making up folk’s mind to gang through wi’ a’thing; and you see Nelly’s gotten a man away in yon weary London.”

“I wouldna gang to seek a misfortune—no me,” said Jenny; “ill enough when it comes; and I wonder how a woman like you, wi’ twelve bairns for a handsel, could gie sic an advice to ony decent lass; and weel I wat Nelly Panton’s gotten a man. Puir laddie! it’s the greatest mercy ever was laid to his hands to make him a packman—he’ll no be sae muckle at hame; but you’ll make nae divert o’ Jenny. If naebody ever speered my price, I’m no to hang my head for that. I’ve aye keepit my fancy free, and nae man can say that Jenny ever lookit owre her shouther after him. A’ the house is fu’ ’enow, Marget; we’ve scarcely done wi’ our flitting; I canna ask you to come in.”

So saying, Jenny rose with her pail, and closed the byre door upon Brockie and her black companion. The wind came down keen from the hills; the frosty wintry heavens had not quite lost the glow of sunset, though the pale East began to glitter with stars. Sullen Criffel has a purple glory upon his cap of cloud, and securely, shoulder to shoulder, this band of mountain marshals keep the border; but the shadows are dark about their feet, and night falls, clear and cold, upon the darkened grass, and trees that stir their branches faintly in the wind.

The scene is strangely changed. Heaths of other nature than the peaceful heath of Hampstead lie dark under the paling skies, not very far away; and the heather is brown on the low-lying pasture hills, standing out in patches from the close-cropped grass. Yonder glow upon the road is the glow of fire-light from an open cottage door, and on the window ledge within stand basins of comfortable Dumfriesshire “parritch,” cooling for the use of those eager urchins, with their fair exuberant locks and merry faces, and waiting the milk which their loitering girl sister brings slowly in from the byre. It is cold, and she breathes upon her fingers as she shifts her pail from one hand to the other; yet bareheaded Jeanie lingers, wondering vaguely at the “bonnie” sky and deep evening calm.

Another cottage here is close at hand, faintly throwing out from this back-window a little light into the gathering gloom. Brockie and Blackie are comfortable for the night; good homely sages, they make no account of the key turned upon them in the byre door; and Jenny, in her original dress, her beloved shortgown and warm striped skirts, stands a moment, drawing in, with keen relish, the sweep of cold air which comes full upon us over the free countryside.

“I’m waiting for Nelly’s mother,” says Jenny’s companion, who is Marget Panton from Kirklands, Nelly’s aunt; “she’s gane in to speak to your mistress. You’ll no be for ca’ing her mistress now, Jenny, and her sae muckle come down in the world. I’m sure you’re real kind to them; they’ll no be able now to pay you your fee.”

“Me kind to them! My patience! But it’s because ye dinna ken ony better,” said Jenny, with a little snort. “I just wish, for my part, folk would haud by what concerns themselves, and let me abee. I would like to ken what’s a’ the world’s business if Jenny has a guid mistress, and nae need to seek anither service frae ae year’s end to the ither—and it canna advantage the like o’ you grudging at Jenny’s fee. It’s gey dark, and the road’s lanesome; if I was you, I would think o’ gaun hame.”

“I wouldna be sae crabbed if I got a pension for’t,” returned Marget, sharply; “and ye needna think to gar folk believe lees; it’s weel kent your house is awfu’ come down. ‘Pride gangs before a fa’,’ the Scripture says. Ye’ll no ca’ that a lee; and I hear that Miss Menie’s joe just heard it, and broke off in time.”

“I’m like to be driven daft wi’ ane and anither,” exclaimed Jenny furiously. “If Miss Menie hadna been a thrawart creature hersel, I wouldna have had to listen to the like o’ this. Na, that might have been a reason—but it was nane o’ the siller; she kens best hersel what it was. I’m sure I wouldna hae cast away a bonnie lad like yon if it had been me; but the like o’ her, a young leddy, behoves to hae her ain way.”

“Weel, it’s aye best to put a guid face on’t,” said Jenny’s tormentor. “I’m no saying onything at my ain hand; it’s a’ Nelly’s story, and Johnnie being to marry July Home—it’s a grand marriage for auld Crofthill’s daughter, sic a bit wee useless thing—we’re the likest to ken. Ye needna take it ill, Jenny. I’m meaning nae reproach to you.”

“I’m no canny when I’m angered,” said Jenny, setting down her pail in the road; “ye’ll gang your ways hame, if you take my counsel; there’s naething for you here. Pity me for Kirklands parish, grit and sma’l wi’ Nelly at the Brokenrig, and you at the Brigend; but I canna thole a lee—it makes my heart sick; and I tell ye I’m no canny when I’m angered. Guid night to you, Marget Panton; when I want to see you I’ll send you word. You can wait here, if you maun get yon puir decent woman hame wi’ you. I reckon I would get mony thanks if I set her free; but I dinna meddle wi’ ither folk’s business; you can wait for her here.”

And, taking up her pail again rapidly, Jenny pattered away, leaving Marget somewhat astonished, standing in the middle of the road, where this energetic speech had been addressed to her. With many mutterings Jenny pursued her wrathful way.

“Ye’ve your ainsel to thank, no anither creature, Menie Laurie; and now this painting business is begun, they’ll be waur and waur. Whatfor could she no have keepit in wi’ him? A bonnie ane, to hae a’ her ain way, and slaving and working a’ day on her feet, as if Jenny was na worth the bread she eats; and the next thing I’ll hear is sure to be that she’s painting for siller. Pity me!”

Full of her afflictions, very petulant and resentful, Jenny entered the cottage door. It was a but and a ben—that is to say, it had two apartments, one on each side of the entrance. The larger of the two was boarded—Mrs Laurie had ventured to do this at her own expense—and had been furnished in an extremely moderate and simple fashion. It was a very humble room; but still it was a kind of parlour, and, with the ruddy fire-light reddening its further corners, and blinking on the uncovered window, it looked comfortable, and even cheerful, both from without and within. Mrs Laurie, with her never-failing work, sat by a little table; Menie, whose day’s labour was done, bent over the fire, with her flushed cheeks supported in her hands; the conflict and the sullen glow had gone out of Menie’s face, but a heavy cloud oppressed it still.

Conscious that she is an intruder, divided between her old habitual deference and her new sense of equality, as Johnnie Lithgow’s mother, with any Mrs Laurie under the sun, Mrs Lithgow sits upon the edge of a chair, talking of Nelly, and Nelly’s marriage.

“Nelly says you were real kind. I’m sure naething could be kinder than the like o’ you taking notice o’ her, when she was in a strange place her lane, though nae doubt, being Johnnie’s sister made a great difference. I can scarcely believe my ainsel whiles, the awfu’ odds it’s made on me. I have naething ado but look out the best house in Kirklands, and I can get it bought for me, and an income regular, and nae need to do a thing, but be thankful to Providence and Johnnie. It’s a great blessing a guid son.”

As there was only a murmur of assent in answer to this, Mrs Lithgow proceeded:—

“I’m sure it’s naething but neighbourlike—you’ll no take it amiss, being in a kindly spirit—to say if there’s onything ane can do.—There’s Nelly gotten her ain house now, and wonderful weel off in the world; and for me, I’m just a miracle. If there was ought you wanted, no being used to a sma’ house, or ony help in ae way or anither, from a day’s darg wi’ Jenny, to——”

But Mrs Lithgow did not dare to go any further. The slight elevation of Mrs Laurie’s head, the sudden erectness of that stooping figure by the fireside, warned the good woman in time; so, after a hurried breathless pause, she resumed:—

“I would be real glad—it would be naething but a pleasure; and I’ll ne’er forget how guid you were to me when I was in trouble about Johnnie, and aye gied me hope. Puir laddie! next month he’s coming down to be married—and I’m sure I hope he’ll be weel off in a guid wife, for he canna but be a guid man, considering what a son he’s been to me.”

“He will be very well off,” said Mrs Laurie; “and poor little July goes away next month, does she? Has Jenny come in yet, Menie? We have scarcely had time to settle in our new house, Mrs Lithgow; but I will remember your kind offer, and thank you. How dark the night grows—and it looks like snow.”

“I’ll have to be gaun my ways,” said the visitor, rising; “it’s a lanesome road, and I’m no heeding about leaving my house, and a’ the grand new things Johnnie’s sent me, their lane in the dark. I’ll bid you good night, ladies, kindly, and I’m real blithe to see you in the countryside again.”

She was gone, and the room fell into a sudden hush of silence, broken by nothing but the faint rustling of a moved hand, or the fall, now and then, of ashes on the hearth. The bustle and excitement of the “flitting” were over—the first pleasure of being home in their own country was past. Grey and calm their changed fate came down upon them, with no ideal softening of its everyday realities. This sliding panel here opens upon their bed; this little table serves all purposes of living; these four dim walls, and heavy raftered roof, shut in their existence. Now, through the clear frosty air without, a merry din breaks into the stillness. It is little Davie from the cot-house over the way, who has just escaped from the hands which were preparing him for rest, and dares brothers and sisters in a most willing race after him, their heavy shoes ringing upon the beaten way. Now, you hear them coming back again, leading the truant home, and by-and-by all the urchins are asleep, and the mother closes the ever-open door. So good night to life and human fellowship. Now—none within sight or hearing of us, save Jenny humming a broken song, on the other side of the wooden partition, which, sooth to say, is Jenny’s bed—we are left alone.

Menie, bending, in her despondent attitude, over the fire, which throws down, now and then, these ashy flakes upon the hearth—our mother, pausing from her work, to bend her weary brow upon her hand. So very still, so chill and forsaken. Not one heart in all the world, except the three which beat under this thatched roof, to give anything but a passing thought to us or our fate; and nothing to look to but this even path, winding away over the desolate lands of poverty into the skies.

Into the skies!—woe for us, and our dreary human ways, if it were not for that blessed continual horizon line; so we do what we have not been used to do before—we read a sad devout chapter together, and have a faltering prayer; and then for silence and darkness and rest.

Say nothing to your child, good mother, of the bitter thoughts that crowd upon you, as you close your eyes upon the wavering fire-light, and listen, in this stillness, to all the stealthy steps and touches of the wakeful night. Say nothing to your mother, Menie, of the tears which steal down between your cheek and your pillow, as you turn your face to the wall. What might have been—what might have been; is it not possible to keep from thinking of that? for even Jenny mutters to herself, as she lies wakefully contemplating the glow of her gathered fire—mutters to herself, with an indignant fuff, and hard-drawn breath, “I wish her muckle pleasure of her will: she’s gotten her will: and I wouldna say but she minds him now—a bonnie lad like yon!”