's mental condition having been set at
rest, he would go on with his grocer's life as long as need be,
strengthened with the hope that shone before him.

The end of July had come. After a week of rain, the weather had turned
bright, with a coolness at morning and evening very pleasant at this
time of year in London streets. Warburton had business in the City
which he must needs see to personally; he was on the point of leaving
the shop, dressed as became a respectable citizen, silk hat and all,
when in the doorway appeared Miss Bertha Cross. A certain surprise
marked her smile of recognition; it meant, no doubt, that, never before
having seen Mr. Jollyman save bareheaded and aproned, she was struck
with the change in his aspect when thus equipped for going abroad.
Immediately Mr. Jollyman doffed his hat and stepped behind the counter.

"Please don't let me keep you," said Bertha, with a glance towards
Allchin, who was making parcels at the back of the shop. "I only want
some--some matches, and one or two trifling things."

Never had she seemed so embarrassed in making a purchase. Her eyes
fell, and she half turned away. Mr. Jollyman appeared to hesitate, he
also glancing towards Allchin; but the young lady quickly recovered
herself, and, taking up a packet of something exhibited on the counter,
asked its price. The awkwardness was at an end; Bertha made her
purchases, paid for them, and then left the shop as usual.

It was by the last post on the evening after this day that Warburton
received a letter of which the exterior puzzled him. Whose could be
this graceful, delicate hand? A woman's doubtless; yet he had no female
correspondent, save those who wrote from St. Neots. The postmark was
London. He opened, "Dear Mr. Warburton"--a glance over the leaf showed
him--"Sincerely yours, Rosamund Elvan." H'm!

"Dear Mr. Warburton,--I am settled in my lodgings here, and getting
seriously to work. It has occurred to me that you might be able to
suggest some quaint corner of old London, unknown to me, which would
make a good subject for a water-colour. London has been, I am sure, far
too much neglected by artists; if I could mark out a claim here, as the
colonists say, I should be lucky. For the present, I am just sketching
(to get my hand in) about Chelsea. To-morrow afternoon, about six
o'clock, if this exquisite mellow weather continues, I shall be on the
Embankment in Battersea Park, near the Albert Bridge, where I want t