le 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 gaine