The Gold That Glitters

"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.