“The world is large,” said Jane; “there are thousands of fields of labour.  Uncle did not wish us to be governesses, I am quite sure; he did not educate us for it; and I do not think he wished us to marry either.”

“He should have left you a small competence—­not enough to tempt others, but to save you from being tempted yourself,” said Miss Thomson.

“I dare say he made a great mistake; but I think he fancied that the strong necessity for effort would stimulate us to exertion.  To vegetate on a small annuity would not be so pleasant as to earn even the same income for ourselves,” said Jane.

“Well, my dear girl, I do not fear for you, though things look so very gloomy at present.  You have got the stuff in you.  There is promise of success in your step and voice—­in your quick eye and honest smile.  Is your sister like yourself?—­no; you said she was less fit for the life that is before you; that is a pity.”

“It is; but we love each other so dearly—­we are all the world to each other.”

“Well, that is good for both of you; love is just as great a necessity as air or food.  I cannot help thinking that you should try your luck in Edinburgh; you are more likely to find what will suit you there than in a country side, like this of Swinton.  Have you any friends there?”

“None to rely upon,” said Jane.

“Your cousin that has come into such an inheritance, does he seem friendly?”

“Very much so, but he is forbidden to give us help.”

“In money, perhaps; but it would be only right if he would take some trouble to make inquiries, and speak for you to any one he thinks could employ you.  It would be a satisfaction to his own mind, besides.”

“I have a letter from him this morning, saying that he has heard of something that he fears is not good enough for me, or either of us, and urging me to come to Edinburgh, to see for myself, offering me or both of us, if we are so inclined, the hospitality of his humble home, as he calls it.  I cannot afford to go to a hotel, and we have no friend to whose house we could go uninvited, so I feel inclined to accept the invitation.”

“You had better do so, Miss Melville; and as it may be a while before you meet with work, and as travelling about to look for it costs money, you will be so good as to take this, with my best wishes,” said Miss Thomson, opening her desk and taking out a five-pound note and handing it to Jane, who, though she had fancied she never could have accepted money from a stranger, felt this to be offered so frankly and kindly, that she thanked Miss Thomson and took it.

“This is the best sign of you yet—­no foolish pride—­no flying in my face with indignant disclaiming of what people call charity, and throwing the bit of paper on the carpet for the lass to sweep out, but a sensible and reasonable way of taking from a fellow-creature what she would take as pleasantly from you if she needed it and you had it to spare.  You will do, Miss Melville; only mind, as the old Scotch proverb has it, ’You must set a stout heart to a stey brae’.”