il, and
throw a halo of romance about them."

"Yet Peggy is above the average--far above the average," said Jane,
thoughtfully; "these children are better taught and better mannered
than three-fourths of the peasantry in Scotland, but yet it is a great
change to us, a very great change."

"I am sure they might be a great deal better than they are. Oh, Jane, I
really can eat nothing served up as it is done here; and that grumbling
old man's Kilmarnock nightcap, and his snuff, are enough to disgust
one. Even at tea did you notice Peggy stirring the teacup with such
vigour, and balancing her saucer in the palm of her hand?"

"I never fancied there was so much in little things," said Jane; "but
we must get over our fastidiousness--we must indeed. It is a pity we
were brought up so softly and delicately, though we thought we were so
remarkably hardened by our uncle's training."

"I cannot even write to-night," said Elsie. "Everything looks so sordid
and miserable, and the town here is so dirty and mean."

"We must walk out to-morrow a good long way--you know what beautiful
walks we used to have all around Edinburgh. We must breathe fresh air
and poetical inspiration."

"I wish I could write," said Elsie, turning over her sheets of
manuscript. "I have been able to write a little every day since I
began, no matter how grieved or anxious I have been. Who is it says
that genius is nothing but industry? and I have been so industrious! I
must try to write to-night; we are settled as far as we can expect to
be settled for some time, and I ought to begin as I mean to go on."

"No, my dear, you feel disappointed and disenchanted to-night; do not
think of writing. Your work ought to be done at your best moments.
To-morrow is a new day, and I believe it will be a fine one: sleep till
to-morrow."

"But I cannot sleep either."

"Rest, then, as I mean to do."

A little tap at the door announced Peggy.

"Is there anything I can do for you, young ladies?"

"Nothing, thank you, Peggy, but come in," said Jane.

She entered, and found Elsie hurriedly gathering together her
manuscript, with a heightened colour and some agitation. Love letters
were the only conceivable cause of a girl's blushing over anything she
had been writing, to Peggy's unsophisticated mind. "I should not
interrupt you, Miss Elsie; I did not know you had letters to write."

"It is not letters," said Jane; "she is writing a book."

"A book! Well, that is n