SAMUEL TINSLEY,

10, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND.

1874.

[All rights of translation and reproduction reserved.]

251.

b. 240.

BORN TO BE A LADY.

CHAPTER I.

"Little Ellie sits alone,

And the smile she softly uses

Fills the silence like a speech,

While she thinks what shall be done,

And the sweetest pleasure chooses

For her future within reach."

MRS. BROWNING.

THE night was calm and fine, with a young moon, now peeping from behind a bank of clouds like a bride from beneath her veil, now showing its fair proportions against a background of unclouded blue, but in the staid Scottish village of Kilnaclutha at that hour of night, the beauties of nature had few admirers. The good folks were all in bed an hour ago; they were a hard-working and early-rising community, and glad enough to take their wearied bodies to rest in the fading gloaming. They never dreamt of going out of doors at ten o'clock to look at the moon, nor might have thought her much of a

spectacle had they happened to be abroad at that untimeous hour. Besides, going early to bed saved candles; there was plenty of sunlight in the mornings to do their work by, and our villagers were a thrifty people.

Kilnaclutha consisted, for the most part, of one long straggling street, the houses, as is the manner of such small places, built in an irregular though not unpicturesque fashion. Standing by itself, at some distance from the village, though still forming part of it, was a cottage quainter in style and of an earlier date than any of which the hamlet was composed. Seen in the faint light it formed a pleasing picture, nor would the glaring noonday dispel the charm, for Kilnaclutha gardens and the cottage which guarded them were really a lovely spot in any light and almost at any season. It is now bordering on autumn, the fairest summer flowers. have faded, yet enough are left to throw a sweet perfume on the night air. But in spite of the mild moon, there is a suspicion of frost in the air which makes standing still not so pleasant. We can see the place just as well in the morning; and as the ruddy, though subdued, gleam of a fire can be discerned through the diamond-shaped panes of one partially shuttered window, we will enter the cottage, author fashion, sure of a cosy corner. We are in the parlour, the "ben" end of the house, a little low-roofed room, the outline of its scant furniture alone visible in the dim light. The fire has been made up for the night by the prudent mistress of

the house, her last care before retiring. The glowing embers had been taken apart and placed at incombustible distances, and a huge "gathering coal" put on, firmly embedded in ashes. This was to smoulder all night, and be ready to break up for the family breakfast in the morning; therefore the only light and heat that is allowed to escape comes through the wide tall bars of the grate, but these glow brightly enough.

Directly in front of them, on a low stool-a creepie, she would call it-is seated a child, Jeanie Monroe, the youngest daughter of the house, a wee little auld-farrand wifie. She looks a mere child; you would think that ten years or so had only passed over her curly head, but really she is older, twelve, and a month or two more-in her teens, she would tell you, with an assumption of womanliness amusing to behold in one so child-like. Is she pretty? Why, yes, most children are, and yet . Jeanie is not quite like other children. She has delicate, clearly-cut features, merry bright blue eyes, and brown hair, curling about a broad white brow and shapely neck. Perhaps the finest feature of her face is the mouth; though not wanting in sweetness, the lips display a firmness and decision of character quite remarkable in one so young. Her figure is chubby, but has in it the beauty of promise, sometimes more lovely than the promise's fulfilment.

What is she doing? Leaning her head on her hand, looking in the fire, and soliloquizing, pussy on