fragrance of the
old-fashioned flowers beneath the mellow old walls of her cottage. A
fine array of sweet-williams and larkspurs and hollyhocks stood in a
row before them; jessamine and honeysuckle clung to the old brick and
festooned themselves over the rickety porch. Between the green
tendrils one got a glimpse of the picture within--the dresser with its
wealth of shining crockery, the log-fire leaping merrily on the
hearth, a little brown teapot winking in the glow, the table spread
with a clean white cloth and set out for two. It made a pretty
picture, yet, as has been said, Mrs. Cross perpetually turned her eyes
towards the patch of high road which climbed painfully up between the
dusty hedges. At last she was constrained to rise from her knees and
take her stand by her little gate, where, with knitted brows and
pursed-up lips, she remained on the watch, until at last her patience
was rewarded by the sight of a woman's figure, clad in deep black,
suddenly rounding the corner. She immediately smoothed her brow and
composed her features to a becoming melancholy. Mrs. Cross was ever as
ready to sympathise with her neighbours' misfortunes to their faces as
she was to declare behind their backs that they were well-deserved.
To-day, however, her countenance wore an expression of tempered woe,
and her voice was only moderately dolorous, for the trouble which she
was about to lament was a vicarious one.

"I've a-been on the look-out for you ever since tea-time, Mrs. Domeny,
my dear. Thinks I constant, 'I wonder how Mrs. Domeny be a-gettin' on,
and I wonder how the poor widow-man be a-bearin' up.' Come in an' sit
ye down, do; ye must be mortal hot and tired, walkin' so far in your
deep."

Mrs. Domeny, a chubby, buxom little woman, who found it hard to
eliminate from her rosy face all trace of a cheerfulness which,
however habitual, would have been unbecoming on the occasion of a
sister-in-law's funeral, checked the smile with which she had been
about to respond to her friend's invitation, and heaved a sigh
instead.

"Well, jist for a minute, Mrs. Cross. There, to tell 'ee the truth,
I'm fair wore out, what with a body's feelin's and a-walkin' so far i'
the sun, and the dust a-gettin' down one's throat wi' every sob, so to
speak. 'Ees, my dear, I'm terrible dry, an' I would like a cup o' tea,
jist about! They hadn't nothin' but ham," she added, "yonder at
Brother John's. 'Twas a bit salt. I always told poor Sarah as I d