and ripened the kindly spirit that looked out
at her eyes. Two or three little traits that
showed her goodness, I did observe. Never a
beggar asked of her in the street whom she
did not either relieve or speak to with
infinite goodness. I have seen her stop to
comfort a crying child, and look after a
half-starved masterless dog picking about
the kennel for a bone, with a look on her
face that reminded me of my lost one—
so tender, so compassionate, so true, pure
womanly.

One evening at the commencement of
August—it was about half-past six, and all
the sun was out of our street—I saw Georgie,
as I called her in my own mind, come down
the pavement, still carrying the music roll;
but not alone. There was with her a young
man. He might be a clerk, or a doctor, or
a lawyer, or any other profession almost,
from his appearance; I could not tell
what. He was tall, and certainly well-looking;
but his face was rather feeble, and its
complexion too delicate for a man. Georgie
seemed his superior, in mind even more than
in person. There was a suggestive slouch in
his gait, a trail of the foot, that I did
not like. He carried his head down, and
walked slowly; but that might be from ill
health, or that he wanted to keep Georgie's
company longer, or a thousand things rather
than the weakness of character with which,
from the first glance, I felt disposed to charge
him. He was perhaps Georgie's brother, I
said at first; afterwards I felt sure he was
her lover, and that she loved him.

Three weeks passed. Georgie's morning
transits continued as regularly as the clock-
stroke; but I had not seen her any more in
the evenings, when I became aware that I
had the young man, her companion, for an
opposite neighbour. From the time of his
daily exits and returns, I made out that he
must be employed as clerk somewhere. He
used to watch at the window for Georgie;
and, as soon as he saw her turn the corner,
he would rush out. They always met with a
smile and a hand-shake, and walked away
together. In about a quarter of an hour he
came back alone, and left the house again at
ten. This continued until the chilly autumn
days set in, and there was always a whirl of
the acacia leaves on the pavement under the
wall. Georgie did not often look up in
passing them now. Perhaps she was thinking
of the meeting close at hand.

The young clerk I called Arthur. Now
that I had him as a daily subject of study,
I began to approve of him more. I do
not imagine that he was a man of any
great energy of character; and even, what
little he might have possessed, originally,
must have been sapped by ill-health
long since; but there was a certain intellectual
expression on his pale, large brow
that overbalanced the feebleness of the
lower part of his face. I could fancy Georgie,
in her womanly faith and love, idealising
him until his face was as that of an angel to
her—mild as St. John's, and as beautiful.
Indolent and weak, myself, what I approve
is strength of will, power to turn and bend
circumstances to our profit; in Arthur, I
detected only a gentle goodness; therefore he
did not satisfy me for Georgie who, I said to
myself, could live a great, a noble life, and
bear as well the strivings of adversity as she
now bore the sunshine of young happiness.
If I could have chosen Georgie's lover he
should have been a hero; but truth placed
him before my eyes too gravely for
misconception.

The winter was very harsh, very cold, very
bitter indeed; but all the long months I
never missed the bi-weekly transits of
that brave-eyed girl. She had a thick and
coarse maud of shepherd's plaid, and a
dark dress now; but that was the only
change. She seemed healthy-proof against
the cruel blasts that appeared almost to
kill poor Arthur. He was always enveloped
in coat upon coat; and, round his throat, he
wore a comforter of scarlet and white
wool, rather gaudy and rather uncommon;
but I did not wonder why he was so
constant to its use, when I remembered that
it was a bit of woman's work, and that
Georgie's fingers had knitted it, most
probably.

Ill or well, the winter got over, and the
more trying east-winds of spring began.
Arthur did not often issue forth to meet
Georgie then, and I believe he had been
obliged to give up his situation; for, I used to
see him at all times of the day in the
parlour of the opposite house; occasionally,
when the sun was out, he would come and
saunter wearily up and down the flags for half
an hour, and then drag himself feebly indoors
again. He sometimes had a companion in
these walks, on whose stalwart arm he
leaned—a good friend, he seemed to be.

"Ah! if Georgie had only loved him!" I
thought, foolishly.

He was older than Arthur, and totally different:
a tall, strong young fellow with a bronzed
face, a brisk blue eye, and a great brown
beard. The other looked boyish and simple
beside him; especially now that he was so
ill. The two seemed to have a great affection
for each other. Perhaps they had been
school-fellows and playmates; but, at any
rate, there was a strong bond between them,
and Georgie must have known it.

I remember one warm afternoon, at the
beginning of June, I saw Arthur and Robert
(that was my gift-name to the brown
stranger) come out and begin walking and
talking together up and down the pavement.
They were going from the corner when
Georgie, quite at an unusual hour, came hurrying
round it. She had in her hand one of
those unwieldy bunches of moss-roses with
stalks a foot long, which you can buy in London