“Jane, this is dreadful!  How different from what I imagined poor people’s lives to be!  Nothing beautiful or graceful about it.  Poets and novelists write such fine things about poverty and honest toil, 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 not much in my line; but no doubt books are things that are wanted in the world, or there would not be such printing-houses and grand shops for making and selling them.  And you are expecting to get a price for that, Miss Elsie?”