"Jenny, my dear maid, thou wilt never fetch white meal out of a sack of sea-coal." Jenny tossed her head. It would have been a nice little brown head, if it had not been quite so fond of tossing itself. But Jenny was just sixteen, and laboured under a delusion which besets young folks of that age--namely, that half the brains in the world had got into her head, and very few had been left in her grandmother's. "I don't know what you mean, Grandmother," said Jenny, as an accompaniment to that toss
