"Then I suppose I'm not willing," quoth straightforward Jean.
"I wish Mr. Kennedy had sent this morning. My father will have to go all the way down to the lower end of the town again. He might just as well have done the business when he was there two hours ago. He is so busy to-day."
"I don't call that nice of Mr. Kennedy."
"He doesn't think."
"Then he ought."
"Jean, you are always half pleased to find some little fault in Mr. Kennedy," murmured Mabel.
The words had no denial. Jean looked as if she had gained a new idea.
[CHAPTER II.]
MUD AND BRAMBLES.
"I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head,
The child is a woman, the book may close ever,
For all the lessons are said."
"I wait for my story—the birds cannot sing it,
Not one as he sits on the tree;
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it,
Such as I wish it to be."
JEAN INGELOW.