“Is she so ill?” said Richard, anxiously.
“I’m afraid so, sir,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Her cough is so bad.”
As she spoke, plainly enough heard from the upper room came the painful endorsement of the woman’s words.
Richard went across the way thoughtfully; and as he looked from his place a few minutes after, it was to see his plants placed in the best position in the window; and he caught a grateful look directed at him by his little neighbour, “Poor girl!” said Richard.
A very strange feeling of depression came over him as his thoughts went from her to one he loved; and he sighed as he sat making comparisons between them.
An hour after, Mrs Fiddison came in, with her head on one side, a widow’s cap in one hand, a crape bow in the other, and a note in her mouth, which gave her a good deal the look of a mourning spaniel, set to fetch and carry.
Mrs Fiddison did not speak, only dropped the note on the table, gave Richard a very meaning look, and left the roam.
“What does the woman mean?” he said, as he took up the note. “And what’s this?”
“This” was a simple little note from Netta Lane, written in a ladylike hand, and well worded, thanking him for the flowers, and telling him that “mamma” was very grateful to him for the attention.
A week after, and Richard had called upon them; and again before a week had elapsed, he was visiting regularly, and sitting reading to mother and daughter as they plied their needles.