," a firm belt of leather,
cut into strips at one end--by no means the least important of the
educational helps of the time and place--was hung in its usual
conspicuous position, and then the school-room, which was also the whole
house, was supposed to be in order for the night.

It was a dismal little place, having a small window on the side next the
street, and a still smaller one on the other. There was the inevitable
box-bed on the side opposite the fireplace, and the equally inevitable
big brown chest for clothing, and bedding, and all other household
valuables that needed a touch of "the smith's fingers" for safety.
There was the meal-chest, and a tiny cupboard for dishes and food, and
on a high dresser, suggestive of more extensive housekeeping operations
than the mistress had needed for many a year and day, were piled a
number of chairs and other articles not needed in the school.

A dismal place, but it was her own, till morning should bring the bairns
again. So she mended the peat fire into a brighter glow, and seated
herself beside it, to take the solace of her pipe, after the worries and
weariness of the day.

A pleasant sound put an end to her meditations. From under the chair
which stood near the little window at the head of the box-bed, came,
with stately step, a big, black hen, announcing, with triumphant cackle,
that _her_ duty was done for the day also. The mistress rose and took
the warm egg from the nest.

"Weel dane, Tappie! Ye'se get your supper as ye deserve, and then I
maun awa' to the manse." So she scattered her scanty supply of crumbs
about the door, and then prepared herself for her visit.

If she had been going to the manse by special invitation, she would have
put on her Sabbath-day's gown and shawl, and all the folk would have
known it as she went up the street. But as she was going on business,
she only changed her mutch, and her kerchief and apron, and putting her
key in its accustomed hole in the thatch, she went slowly down the
street, knitting, or, as she would have called it, "weaving," as she
went.

She had not very far to go, but two or three greetings she got and
returned as she passed. "Mistress Jamieson," the neighbours called her
to her face, but she knew quite well that behind her back she was just
called Bell Cummin, her maiden name, as was the way among the humbler
class of folk in these parts. They all paid her a certain measure of
respect, but she was not a