suburban main thoroughfare.

Somehow, her boy, with his aristocratic school-knowledge, his grammars, and his aversions, was losing those wide infantine sympathies, extending as far as to the sun and moon themselves, with which he, like other children, had been born, and which his mother, a child of nature herself, had loved in him; he was reducing their compass to a population of a few thousand wealthy and titled people, the mere veneer of a thousand million or so of others who did not interest him at all.  He drifted further and further away from her.  Sophy’s milieu being a suburb of minor tradesmen and under-clerks, and her almost only companions the two servants of her own house, it was not surprising that after her husband’s death she soon lost the little artificial tastes she had acquired from him, and became—in her son’s eyes—a mother whose mistakes and origin it was his painful lot as a gentleman to blush for.  As yet he was far from being man enough—if he ever would be—to rate these sins of hers at their true infinitesimal value beside the yearning fondness that welled up and remained penned in her heart till it should be more fully accepted by him, or by some other person or thing.  If he had lived at home with her he would have had all of it; but he seemed to require so very little in present circumstances, and it remained stored.

Her life became insupportably dreary; she could not take walks, and had no interest in going for drives, or, indeed, in travelling anywhere.  Nearly two years passed without an event, and still she looked on that suburban road, thinking of the village in which she had been born, and whither she would have gone back—O how gladly!—even to work in the fields.

Taking no exercise, she often could not sleep, and would rise in the night or early morning and look out upon the then vacant thoroughfare, where the lamps stood like sentinels waiting for some procession to go by.  An approximation to such a procession was indeed made early every morning about one o’clock, when the country vehicles passed up with loads of vegetables for Covent Garden market.  She often saw them creeping along at this silent and dusky hour—waggon after waggon, bearing green bastions of cabbages nodding to their fall, yet never falling, walls of baskets enclosing masses of beans and peas, pyramids of snow-white turnips, swaying howdahs of mixed produce—creeping along behind aged night-horses, who seemed ever patiently wondering between their hollow coughs why they had always to work at that still hour when all other sentient creatures were privileged to rest.  Wrapped in a cloak, it was soothing to watch and sympathize with them when depression and nervousness hindered sleep, and to see how the fresh green-stuff brightened to life as it came opposite the lamp, and how the sweating animals steamed and shone with their miles of travel.

They had an interest, almost a charm, for Sophy, these semirural people and vehicles moving in an urban atmosphere, leading a life quite distinct from that of the daytime toilers on the same road.  One morning a man who accompanied a waggon-load of potatoes gazed rather hard at the house-fronts as he passed, and with a curious emotion she thought his form was familiar to her.  She looked out for him again.  His being an old-fashioned conveyance, with a yellow front, it was easily recognizable, and on the third night after she saw it a second time.  The man alongside was, as she had fancied, Sam Hobson, formerly gardener at Gaymead, who would at one time have married her.

She had occasionally thought of him, and wondered if life in a cottage with him would not have been a happier lot than the life she had accepted.  She had not thought of him passionately, but her now dismal situation lent an interest to his resurrection—a tender interest which it is impossible to exaggerate.  She went back to bed, and began thinking.  When did these market-gardeners, who travelled up to town so regularly at one or two in the morning, come back?  She dimly recollected seeing their empty waggons, hardly noticeable amid the ordinary day-traffic, passing down at some hour before noon.

It was only April, but that morning, after breakfast, she had the window opened, and sat looking out, the feeble sun shining full upon her.  She affected to sew, but her eyes never left the street.  Between ten and eleven the desired waggon, now unladen, reappeared on its return journey.  But Sam was not looking round him then, and drove on in a reverie.

‘Sam!’ cried she.

Turning with a start, his face lighted up.  He called to him a little boy to hold the horse, alighted, and came and stood under her window.

‘I can’t come down easily, Sam, or I would!’ she said.  ‘Did you know I lived here?’

‘Well, Mrs. Twycott, I knew you lived along here somewhere.  I have often looked out for ’ee.’

He briefly explained his own presence on the scene.  He had long since given up his gardening in the village near Aldbrickham, and was now manager at a market-gardener’s on the south side of London, it being part of his duty to go up to Covent Garden with waggon-loads of produce two or three times a week.  In answer to her curious inquiry, he admitted that he had come to this particular district because he had seen in the Aldbrickham paper, a year or two before, the announcement of the death in South London of the aforetime vicar of Gaymead, which had revived an interest in her dwelling-place that he could not extinguish, leading him to hover about the locality till his present post had been secured.

They spoke of their native village in dear old North Wessex, the spots in which they had played together as children.  She tried to feel that she was a dignified personage now, that she must not be too confidential with Sam.  But she could not keep it up, and the tears hanging in her eyes were indicated in her voice.

‘You are not happy, Mrs. Twycott, I’m afraid?’ he said.

‘O, of course not!  I lost my husband only the year before last.’

‘Ah!  I meant in another way.  You’d like to be home again?’

‘This is my home—for life.  The house belongs to me.  But I understand’—She let it out then.  ‘Yes, Sam.  I long for home—our home!  I should like to be there, and never leave it, and die there.’  But she remembered herself.  ‘That’s only a momentary feeling.  I have a son, you know, a dear boy.  He’s at school now.’

‘Somewhere handy, I suppose?  I see there’s lots on ’em along this road.’

‘O no!  Not in one of these wretched holes!  At a public school—one of the most distinguished in England.’

‘Chok’ it all! of course!  I forget, ma’am, that you’ve been a lady for so many years.’

‘No, I am not a lady,’ she said sadly.  ‘I never shall be.  But he’s a gentleman, and that—makes it—O how difficult for me!’

CHAPTER III

The acquaintance thus oddly reopened proceeded apace.  She often looked out to get a few words with him, by night or by day.  Her sorrow was that she could not accompany her one old friend on foot a little way, and talk more freely than she could do while he paused before the house.  One night, at the beginning of June, when she was again on the watch after an absence of some days from the window, he entered the gate and said softly, ‘Now, wouldn’t some air do you good?  I’ve only half a load this morning.  Why not ride up to Covent Garden with me?  There’s a nice seat on the cabbages, where I’ve spread a sack.  You can be home again in a cab before anybody is up.’

She refused at first, and then, trembling with excitement, hastily finished her dressing, and wrapped herself up in cloak and veil, afterwards sidling downstairs by the aid of the handrail, in a way she could adopt on an emergency.  When she had opened the door she found Sam on the step, and he lifted her bodily on his