might mind yer auld nursery window, Mattie,
an' how far a body might see roun' the orchard
out o' its wee crooked panes. Gin ye were
sittin' there instead o' here the length o' the
simmer's day, ye might see mair than the river
runnin'."

"What might I see, Elspie?" I asked, knowing
that I must speak and humour her.

"Mair than I'd like to tell ye, lass," said
Elspie, peering at me from under her shaggy
grey brows; "only I'll say ane word to ye
that's worth a score. Get yon smooth-faced
hizzie oot the Mill-house the soonest day ye can,
gin ye think o' Maister Elphinstone for yer
husband."

"Elspie!" I said, sharply, "I never knew
before that you were a cruel and unjust woman.
I know you have always had a strange dislike
to my friend, whom every one else loves, but you
ought not to let it carry you too far. If Mr.
Luke and Miss Ashenhurst are better friends
than they used to be, I am very glad of it, and
no more need be said on the subject. Why,
you silly old thing," I added, "if you only knew
how far you are astray with your ridiculous
notions!" And I smiled as I thought of the
doctor's blushes.

"Eh lass!" said Elspie, leaning her chin
upon her skinny hand, and looking at me
mournfully, "yer ower young to deal wi' a
wicked warld, an' yer ower prood an' simple to
look after yer ain rights. Gin ye were free an'
coaxing wi' yer lover yersel', ye might snap yer
fingers at a' the saft-faced strangers on airth,
but ye will not even crook yer finger to bring
him to yer side. I tell ye, bairn, that a man
likes a bonny woman that'll laugh in his eyes,
an' blush when he comes by, better than a
bonnier woman that's cauld an' sad. An' I
tell ye mair, that gin ye do not stir yersel' it's
Sylvia an' not Mattie that'll sit at Luke
Elphinstone's fireside. Wae's me! did not yer
mither pass me wi' a waft i' the gloamin' last
night. An' I spoke to her oot lood on the
lobby as she went flittin' by. 'Gang hame,
maistress,' I said, 'an' tak' yer sleep. Elspie
'll speak to the bairnie afore anither day.'"

At this point Sylvia came singing up the
stairs, and Elspie hobbled abruptly from my
room. The young woman and the old woman
exchanged glances of distrust upon the
threshold. Sylvia looked saucily after her enemy,
and, turning to me, asked me gaily what Goody
Crosspatch had been saying to make me look
so glum. I told her we had been speaking of
my mother. Sylvia sat down beside me and
talked sweetly and kindly, as she knew how to
talk. I half closed my eyes and ears, and tried
to look at her apart from her fascinations, but it
was like swimming against a current, and the
tide of her good humour bore me with it. It
seemed to strike her that I was sad, and she
exerted herself to amuse me, which proved to
me that her neglect at other times could be
owing to no deliberate unkindness. But she
soon wearied of her task and left me, and the
old state of things went on.

I began to ruminate seriously upon Elspie's
suggestions. I had felt so certain that Sylvia
was encouraging the doctor, that I had I never
thought of the possibility of her preferring
Luke. How should I, since she and Luke had
been almost at enmity when I saw them last
together? But they had been much thrown upon
each other's society since then, and must have
at least become good friends, unless Elspie
could be supposed to have gone mad. Reflection
made me uneasy for Sylvia, and I resolved
that, at all events, she should no longer be kept
in ignorance of the engagement between me
and Luke Elphinstone.

"My dear," said Miss Pollard, bursting in on
me one morning, all rosy and breathless, "I
wanted so much to come and see you, so I made
a little jelly for an excuse. I got up at four
this morning, partly to make it, and partly
because I could not sleep. If Miss Ashenhurst
is not about, I should like a little private
conversation."

I assured her that we should not be disturbed.

"Should Miss Ashenhurst come in," she
said, "promise me you will immediately change
the conversation. Miss Ashenhurst makes me
feel as if I were sitting on pins, or had my
gown hooked on crooked, or my shoes on the
wrong feet, or something else very uncomfortable
the matter with me. If she happens to
call at my house when Dr. Strong is paying me
a visit, as he often does, on the subject of broth
and petticoats, she gives way to such
extraordinary merriment that I quite blush, my dear,
besides being uneasy lest it should end in
hysterics."

I promised that if Sylvia happened to come
in, I should immediately begin to talk about
canaries. When Miss Pollard said, "I quite
blush, my dear," it was literally true, for her
cheeks had turned as red as a rose. She put off
her bonnet with trembling hands, and the
lappets of her little cap stirred with great agitation.
She had on her best black silk gown, so I knew
that a matter of importance was to be
discussed.

"It is about Dr. Strong," my dear, she said,
speaking with a quaint mixture of elation and
distress in her manner, and adding, with a slight
incoherency, "though ostensibly it was only
about broth and petticoats."

In a moment I guessed what was coming, and
in the shock of amazement I felt through my
mind for my familiar idea of Dr. Strong as a
lover of Sylvia's. But all ideas were in confusion,
and I could only listen.

"It is all notes, my dear," said Miss Pollard,
"and I put a few in the bottom of my bag,
under the jelly, for a sample. I had one from
him last year on the subject of beef-tea, but it
began, 'My dear Madam,' and ended exactly
like a circular, and that, you know, is very
different from 'My very dear Miss Pollard,' and
'My dearest Jenny.' I think it is rather free of
him," said the little lady, drawing herself up,
and making efforts to control her blushes,
"considering that I never answered any of his