le; and
in her bleak little nest, for it was now winter, a thin and scanty
shawl but coldly did the office of a blanket.

But Miss Wimple partook of her tea and dry toast with a cheerful
heart, and shivered in her nest with illustrious patience,--regaled
by satisfied honor, and warmed by the smiles of courage and of hope.

Between Simon and herself negotiations rested where we left them last;
only there was now a heartier welcome for him when he came, and
often a sparkling smile, that seemed to say, he had waited well, and
not in vain, she hoped,--a smile that, to the eye of his healthy
spirit, was an earnest of the rose-star's reappearance; it was only
behind the rusty skimped delaine, as behind a cloud. His visits were
not so rare as before, nor always "upon business"; he lingered
sometimes, and sometimes had _his_ way.

One night, Simon was outrageously rebellious; he had cheated Sally
of half an hour, and spent it in rank mutiny; he compared the
rose-star to the remotest of the asteroids, as seen through Lord
Rosse's telescope, and instituted facetious comparisons between
Miss Wimple's honorable fund and the national debt of England. It
was near closing-time; Miss Wimple said, "Now, Simon, _will_ you go?"
--she had said that three times already. Some one entered. O, ho!
Miss Wimple snatched away her hand:--"Now go, or never come again!"
Simon glanced at the visitor,--a woman,--a stranger evidently, and
poor,--a beggar, most likely, or one of those Wandering Jews of
womankind, who, homeless, goalless, hopeless, tramp, tramp, tramp,
unresting, till they die. She had almost burst in, quite startling
Miss Wimple; but now she stood by the glass case, with averted face,
and shabby shawl drawn suspiciously about her, and waited to be
noticed, peering, meanwhile, through the little window into the dark
street.

"Good-night, little Sally!" said Simon; "put up your bars, and so
put up my bars. Now there's a fine speech for you!--if my name were
Philip Withers, you'd call it poetry."

The strange woman actually stamped with her foot twice, and moved a step
nearer to the window. Miss Wimple took it for a gesture of impatience,
and at once arose to accost her. Simon eyed her curiously, and somewhat
suspiciously, as he passed; but, taking her attire for his clue, he
thought he recognized one of a class with whom Miss Wimple was
accustomed to cope successfully; so he took his leave unconcerned.

Miss Wimple approached the