and blossoms, and evidently tending them with the
love of one who longs for the sweet breath of the country.

Then came a smile and a bow, and Netta shrank away from the window, and
Richard did not see her for a week.

Then she was there again, showing herself timidly, and as their eyes met
the how was given, and returned this time before the poor girl shrank
away; and as days passed on this little intercourse grew regular, till
it was a matter of course for Richard to look out at a certain hour for
his pretty neighbour, and she would be there.

This went on till she would grow bold enough to sit there close to the
flowers, her sad face just seen behind the little group of leaves and
blossoms; and, glad of the companionship, Richard got in the habit of
drawing his table to the open window, and read or wrote there, to look
up occasionally and exchange a smile.

"I don't see why I shouldn't know more of them," he said to himself, one
morning; and the next time a donkey-drawn barrow laden with Covent
Garden sweets passed, Richard bought a couple of pots of lush-blossomed
geraniums, delivered them to Mrs Jenkles, and sent them to Miss Lane,
with his hope that she was in better health.

Mrs Jenkles took the pots gladly, but shook her head at the donor.

"Is she so ill?" said Richard, anxiously.

"I'm afraid so, sir," said Mrs Jenkles. "Her cough is so bad."

As she spoke, plainly enough heard from the upper room came the painful
endorsement of the woman's words.

Richard went across the way thoughtfully; and as he looked from his
place a few minutes after, it was to see his plants placed in the best
position in the window; and he caught a grateful look directed at him by
his little neighbour, "Poor girl!" said Richard.

A very strange feeling of depression came over him as his thoughts went
from her to one he loved; and he sighed as he sat making comparisons
between them.

An hour after, Mrs Fiddison came in, with her head on one side, a
widow's cap in one hand, a crape bow in the other, and a note in her
mouth, which gave her a good deal the look of a mourning spaniel, set to
fetch and carry.

Mrs Fiddison did not speak, only dropped the note on the table, gave
Richard a very meaning look, and left the roam.

"What does the woman mean?" he said, as he took up the note. "And
what's this?"

"This" was a simple little note from Netta Lane, written in a ladylike
hand, and well worded, thanking him for the fl