hopeless. Occasionally I take told of a
golden thread that runs from a good and
a happy life. Such a thread I caught three
years ago, and the tissue into which I
wrought it is completed at last. This
is it:—

I have mentioned my bay window
overhanging the street; in this window is a
luxuriously cushioned old-fashioned red
settee. By this settee, a solid-limbed table,
on which my landlady every morning
lays my breakfast, and the newly-come-in
newspaper. It was while leisurely enjoying
my coffee and unconsciously watching the
tremulous motion of the acacias which
overtop the low garden wall of a house
a little higher up the street, that I first laid
my hand upon the gleaming thread which
shines athwart this grey cobweb romance
—cobweb, I say, because so slight is it, so
altogether fancy-spun, that perhaps the
knowledge of one actual fact of the case
would sweep it down as ruthlessly and
entirely as a housemaid's brush destroys the
diligent labours of arachne.

Perhaps it was the quivering green of
the light acacia leaves, with the sunshine
flitting through and lying upon the pavement
like net–work of gold, that began my
romance.

Every Thursday and every Saturday morning,
for some months, I had seen a girl come
round the street corner, without much
observing her. I could have certified that
she was tall and lissome in figure, and that
she was scrupulously neat in her dress, but
nothing further. That morning to which I
refer in particular was early in June. The
sun was shining in our quiet street; the
birds were singing blithely in that overgrown
London garden beyond the wall; the
acacias were shivering and showering the
broken beams upon the white stones as
cheerily, as gaily, as if the roar of the vast
city were a hundred miles away, instead of
floating down on every breeze, filling every
ear, chiming in like a softened bass to the
whisper of the leaves and twitter of the birds.
My window was open, and I was gazing
dreamily on the branches above the wall,
when a figure stopped beneath it and looked
up; it was the young girl who passed every
Thursday and Saturday morning. I observed
her more closely than I had yet done, and
saw that she was good and intelligent in
face—pretty, even, for she had a clear,
steadfast brow, fine eyes, and a fresh complexion.
As she stood for a minute gazing up into the
trees there was a curious, wistful, far-away
look upon her countenance, which brightened
into a smile as she came on more quickly for
having lost a minute watching the acacia
leaves. She carried in her hand a roll
covered with dark-red morocco, and walked
with a decisive step—light yet regular—as if
her foot kept time to a march ringing in her
memory. "She is a music-teacher, going to
one of her pupils," I said to myself; and when
she was gone by, I fell into my mood, and
sought an interpretation of that thoughtful
upcast look that I had seen upon her face
under the trees.

"She was born in the country," I made
out, "in some soft, balmy, sheltered spot,
where all was pretty in the summer weather.
There were acacias there, and these reminded
her of them. Perhaps some one she knew
and dearly loved had loved those trees, and
she saw in the rippling shadows a long train
of reminiscences that I could not see—things
past because her expression was tender, yet
things not sad altogether, because a smile
succeeded the little wistful look."

After that Thursday morning I watched
for her coming twice in the week, each time
with increased interest. I always give my
dream-folk names, such as their apperance
and general air suggest. I gave her the
name of Georgie. She seemed to have a
certain stability and independence of
character which speing out of an early—possibly
an enforced—habit of self-reliance. This I
deduced from externals, such as that though
her dress was always neat and appropriate,
it was never fashionable. She looked what
women among themselves call nice. I should
say her tastes were nice in the more correct
acceptation of the word, and by no means
capricious. She wore usually a grey shade of
some soft material for her dress; and, that
summer, she wore a plain silky white shawl,
which clung to her figure, a straw-bonnet
with white ribbon, and a kerchief of bright
rose or blue. Her shoes and her gloves
were dainty; and, from the habitual
pleasantness of her countenance, I knew that
if she were, as my familiar suggested, music
and singing-mistress, the times went well
with her. She had plenty to do, and was well
paid.

Her coming was as good as a happy thought
to me. Her punctuality was extraordinary.
I could have set my watch by her movements
those two mornings in each week. I
watched for her as regularly as I watched
for my breakfast, and should have missed
her much more. By whatever way she
returned home, it was not by my street. For
two full months she came round the corner
at ten minutes before nine, and, glancing
up at the garden-trees, passed down the
opposite side of the pavement, and out of
sight. All this time I could not add another
chapter to my romance. She had ever the
same cheerful brow, and quiet, placid,
undisturbed mouth; the same dauntless, straight-
looking, well-opened eyes; the same even,
girlish step, as regular and calm as the beat
of her own young heart. I could but work
out the details of the country home where the
rose on her cheek blooked, and where the
erect lithe shape developed; where the honest
disposition grew into strength and principle,
and where loving training had encouraged