"And hasn't she told you anything more as to why she tramped out of London?"
"No, nothing more," said his wife, "except that she couldn't bear the crowds. I haven't asked her either, John. She's a good girl, you can see that; and penniless as well as homeless. I should hate to send her to the workhouse, or perhaps worse," she half whispered. "If she's got a secret in her heart, we'll let her keep it, dear. Perhaps we all have a little corner in our hearts marked 'Private,'" she added in a low voice.
"Excepting you and me, my dear!" said John, wiping his mouth as he rose from the table, and coming round to kiss her.
She started again and paled a little.
"Of course, dear," she said; "I wasn't thinking of us."
"We've no secrets," said the good-natured grocer, as he took down his hat and coat from behind the door. "Our hearts are open like them clocks, with all the works outside, eh, Lucy, my dear?" Laughing at his own simile, he kissed her again.
"If you'll take care of the shop," he went on, as he opened the door, "I'll just run over to Richmond for those jams and things. Old Tucker's cart is going over, and he'll lend me a hand."
"Get along, then," replied his wife, "and don't forget we want some more spices."
"Right you are," said the husband, and with a wave of his hand to her he went down the path, the two children running to meet him.
Lucy Ashford stood at the door and looked after him wistfully.