s. Dennistoun, not able
to refrain from that small piece of self-assertion. "It is not a time
that it would be easy for him to leave town; but at least you could
write and lay your difficulties before him, and suggest----"

"Oh, you may be sure, mother," cried Elinor, "I know what I have to
say."

"I never doubted it, my dear," said Mrs. Dennistoun, gently.

And then there was a little pause. They sat and worked, the elder lady
stumbling a little over her knitting, her thoughts being so much engaged;
the younger one plying a flying needle, the passion and impetus of her
thoughts lending only additional swiftness and vigour to everything she
did. And for ten minutes or more there was nothing to be heard in the
room but the little drop of ashes from the fire, the sudden burst of a
little gas-flame from the coals, the rustle of Elinor's arm as it moved.
The cat sat with her tail curled round her before the fire, the image of
dignified repose, winking at the flames. The two human inhabitants, save
for the movements of their hands, might have been in wax, they were so
still. Suddenly, however, the quietness was broken by an energetic
movement. Elinor threw her work down on the table and rose from her
chair. She went to the window and drew the curtain aside, and looked
out upon the night. She shut it carefully again, and going to the
writing-table, struck a match and lighted the candles there, and sat
down and began, or appeared to begin, to write. Then she rose quickly
again and returned to the table at which Mrs. Dennistoun was still
seated, knitting on, but watching every movement of her restless
companion. "Mother," she said, "I can't write, I have far too much to
say. I will run up to town to-morrow myself and see John."

"To town, Elinor, by yourself? My dear, you forget it is not an hour's
journey, as it was to Windyhill."

"I know that very well, mother. But even the journey will be an
advantage. The movement will do me good, and I can tell John much better
than I could write. Who could write about a complicated business like
this? He will understand me when he sees me at half a word; whereas in
writing one can never explain. Don't oppose me, please, mother! I feel
that to do something, to get myself in motion, is the only thing for me
now."

"I will not oppose you, Elinor. I have done so, perhaps, too little, my
dear; but we will not speak of that. No doubt, as you say, you will
understand each other better if