Now, it would never do, Susan thought, for
aunt to come back and find her an idle good-for-
nothing thing, sitting staring at the fire; so she
darted up, and, uncording her box, got out some
patchwork that she was finishing for home,
and, taking it to the window, from whence
she could see the fire, and where the plate-warmer
did not interrupt her view, she sat
down on a chair and bent herself diligently at
her work.

There was no sound but the click and jolt of
the spit, the fall of an occasional coal against
the edge of the dripping-pan, and now and then a
little voice-performance from the lark in the
outer area.

On the whitewashed wall, close to the window,
and a little to the left hand of where Susan sat
merrily at work, there hung a little square
looking-glass. All at once, as Susan's eyes glanced
upwards from her work (for her chair was turned
round almost facing the window), she saw
upon its surface the reflexion of the clock-face,
the hands of which pointed to half-past
four.

"Why, good gracious, what is aunt doing!"
thought Susan. "We dine at five, and at half-past
four master comes down to wash his hands
before he goes his walk. O dear, O dear, the
veal will be spoiled! Where is aunt?"

Then, with one look at the veal, which was
bearing its fiery martyrdom with good-natured
equanimity, she resumed her work again with
somewhat restless and troubled haste. When,
five minutes later, her eyes rose once more to
the looking-glass (not from vanity, but by mere
accident), she almost screamed, for she saw in
it the reflexion of a tall neatly-dressed old
gentleman in a blue coat and brass buttons, who
stood at the foot of the stairs and just within
the shadow of the doorway, his eyes bent upon
her.

Now, Mr. Dobbs did not turn off to the left
and go into the scullery to wash his hands at
the tap, as he might have been expected to do,
but he came slowly up to the window without
speaking.

Susan's heart beat nineteen to the dozen.
Was he going to scold her aunt for being out at
such a critical time? No; he did not speak,
but walked to the fire, looked at the veal,
hemmed twice, coughed, and then returned to
Susan's chair. The second time, he stooped,
and lifted her hand with a grave politeness.

"Susan," he said, " will you accept me as a
husband? There, don't flurry yourself! I will
come down again in ten minutes and hear your
answer. Good-by till then." And up-stairs he
went.

While Susan still sat there, red as a damask
rose, trembling, confused, astonished, frightened,
the front door creaked, and down came Mrs.
Thompson, all in a flurry.

"O, Susan! I've been kept by a poor creature
as I saw fall in a fit just by St.
Margaret-Moses. I and Mrs. Jones got him to
the door of the milkman's at the corner, and
undid his shirt-collar and waistcoat to give him
air, and what should we find under his waistcoat
but a large placard, on which was written,
' Don't bleed me; give me brandy-and-water;'
which we did, and just as he had taken it up
came a policeman, and said he was a rogue, and
had soap in his mouth to make it look like
foam; and just then the rascal gets up, leaps over
a truck, and runs off, and Mrs. Jones—"

But Susan, unable to bear the delay any
longer, burst out with her story: to which her
aunt listened with staring eyes, uplifted hands,
and open mouth.

"It was Mr. Tompkins, depend upon it, my
dear."

"No, aunt, it was master— it was indeed.
I knew him, because he spoke to me in the shop
when I came in. O, dear aunt, he'll be down
directly! What shall I do?"

"Do, dear? Do whatever your own heart
tells you to do. Think of your father and
mother, and what you gain and what you sacrifice.
O dear me, I hope master is not going
mad. I'll leave you, dear, and shut myself in
the area out of hearing, and you must call me
when he's gone. Lawks, I do think I hear him
coming. Mind you say yes or no, or he'll be
angry."

Solomon himself could not have given wiser
counsel. The good old body scuffled off to a
retired corner of the coal-hole, and Susan,
blushing and tremulous, settled again, or
pretended to settle, to her work.

In that swift moment what thousands of
kind, and generous, and self-denying thoughts
shot like express trains through Susan's little
head! Poor father, mother getting old, William
Brown her old sweetheart that wild sailor—
who had ceased to write to her, and who was
now lying at Quebec, too late repentant, crippled
and penniless, sick, and perhaps dying.
With Mr. Dobbs's fortune, what fairy dreams
of good she might realise.

A voice she knew, from behind her chair,
said:

"Susan, will you have me for a husband?"

She hardly knew how to answer, but, dropping
her patchwork, she answered naively, in a
low but firm voice:

"Yes, sir, if you please."

Then there came a calm kiss upon her
forehead, and a hand clasped hers.

"You shall never repent that word, Susan,"
said Mr. Dobbs. " I will be good and true.
You must do no more work in this place;
remember, you are to be my wife. Good-by,
dearest."

When Susan dared to look round, he was
gone. But it was no dream, for there was the
May-bough she had brought from Colchester
blooming in the great blue jug over the mantelpiece.

Susan ran and dragged Aunt Thompson out
of the coal-cellar, and told her all: not boastingly,
nor pertly, nor vainly, but with quiet
modest satisfaction; for, after all, she well
knew her heart would never break forth into
such flower as it had once done, and the good