onately, but her now dismal
situation lent an interest to his resurrection--a tender interest which
it is impossible to exaggerate. She went back to bed, and began
thinking. When did these market-gardeners, who travelled up to town so
regularly at one or two in the morning, come back? She dimly recollected
seeing their empty waggons, hardly noticeable amid the ordinary
day-traffic, passing down at some hour before noon.

It was only April, but that morning, after breakfast, she had the window
opened, and sat looking out, the feeble sun shining full upon her. She
affected to sew, but her eyes never left the street. Between ten and
eleven the desired waggon, now unladen, reappeared on its return journey.
But Sam was not looking round him then, and drove on in a reverie.

'Sam!' cried she.

Turning with a start, his face lighted up. He called to him a little boy
to hold the horse, alighted, and came and stood under her window.

'I can't come down easily, Sam, or I would!' she said. 'Did you know I
lived here?'

'Well, Mrs. Twycott, I knew you lived along here somewhere. I have often
looked out for 'ee.'

He briefly explained his own presence on the scene. He had long since
given up his gardening in the village near Aldbrickham, and was now
manager at a market-gardener's on the south side of London, it being part
of his duty to go up to Covent Garden with waggon-loads of produce two or
three times a week. In answer to her curious inquiry, he admitted that
he had come to this particular district because he had seen in the
Aldbrickham paper, a year or two before, the announcement of the death in
South London of the aforetime vicar of Gaymead, which had revived an
interest in her dwelling-place that he could not extinguish, leading him
to hover about the locality till his present post had been secured.

They spoke of their native village in dear old North Wessex, the spots in
which they had played together as children. She tried to feel that she
was a dignified personage now, that she must not be too confidential with
Sam. But she could not keep it up, and the tears hanging in her eyes
were indicated in her voice.

'You are not happy, Mrs. Twycott, I'm afraid?' he said.

'O, of course not! I lost my husband only the year before last.'

'Ah! I meant in another way. You'd like to be home again?'

'This is my home--for life. The house belongs to me. But I
understand'--She let it out then. 'Yes, Sam.