The other masters she had had were not likely to take nearly so much interest in her as Mr. Bell; but she was resolved to leave no stone unturned, and went to see several of them.  They gave Miss Melville very faint hopes of success.  Edinburgh was overdone with masters and mistresses, rents were very high, and classes the most uncertain things possible.  But she might apply at one of the institutions.  Thither she went, and found that her want of accomplishments prevented her from getting a good situation; and her want of experience was objected to for any situation at all.  With a few more lessons, and a little training, she might suit by-and-by.

She was glad that those long walks and many interviews occupied the whole day till the time Francis had appointed for dinner; she had not courage to face the empty house and the respectable woman-servant till she was sure her cousin would be at home to receive her.  Heartsick, weary, and footsore she felt, when she reached the cottage where Francis was standing at the door to welcome her return.

“Well, friend,” said he, “what news?”

“No good news.  I suppose I must advertise.  Perhaps there is one person in England or Scotland who would fancy I was worth employing, even though I am apparently very much at a discount.”

“Are you much disheartened?”

“I am very tired,” said she; “Rome was not built in a day.  I was a fool to expect success at once.”

“You are not too tired to go to Mrs. Rennie’s with me this evening.  I have ordered a carriage to call for us.”

“Thank you, I will need it, and my dinner, too, in spite of the wine and cake at Mrs. Dunn’s.”

Her cousin’s quiet sympathy and kindness soothed the girl’s aching and anxious heart; she told him her experiences; and though he was not very much surprised at the result, he felt keenly for her disappointment.  She had brought a little piece of needlework to fill up vacant hours, and after dinner she took it out, and soothed her excited feelings by the quiet feminine employment.  There was an hour or more to be passed before the carriage came for them, and Francis sat on the other side of the fire cutting the leaves of a new book, and occasionally reading a passage that struck him.  Had any one looked in at the time, he could not have guessed at the grief and anxiety felt by both of the cousins.  No; it was like a quiet domestic picture of no recent date, not likely to be soon ended.  Jane’s sad face lighted up with an occasional smile at something said or something read; and Francis Hogarth saw more beauty in her countenance that evening than William Dalzell had ever seen in all the days he had spent with the supposed heiress whom he meant to marry.

Chapter IV.

An Evening At Mr. Rennie’s