About six months later, after a journey to Scotland, which made me lose sight of Maria, I drove up the streets of C----, after my return to my native Greenwich, which, with its beautiful park, its Blackheath, its splendid and glorious monument of English greatness, its historic associations, I dearly love, and eager to see the dear girl, never stopped until I was in her arms. "How you have grown," said she, with a sweet and happy smile. "Grown! indeed; do you take me for a child?" cried I, laughing. "And you! how well and pleased you look; always at the bow-window, too; I saw you as I came up." "I am very seldom there now," said she, with a strange smile. "Why?" "Because I live over the way," replied she, still smiling. "Over the way?" said I. "Yes, my dear girl; alas! for the mutability of human things--Maria Walker is now Mrs. Radstock." I could not help it; I laughed heartily. I was very glad. I had been interested in the young man, and the _dénoûement_ was delightful. The firm of Walker and Radstock prospered remarkably without rivalry, despite a great increase in the neighborhood; but the experience of the old man, and the perseverance of the young, frightened away all opposition. They proved satisfactorily that union is indeed strength. Young Radstock was a very good husband. He told me privately that he had fallen in love with Maria the very first day he saw her; and every time I hear from them I am told of a fresh accession to the number of faces that stare across for grandpapa, who generally, when about to pay them a visit, shows himself first at the Bow-window. THE FRENCH FLOWER GIRL. I was lingering listlessly over a cup of coffee on the Boulevard des Italiens, in June. At that moment I had neither profound nor useful resources of thought. I sate simply conscious of the cool air, the blue sky, the white houses, the lights, and the lions, which combine to render that universally pleasant period known as "after dinner," so peculiarly agreeable in Paris. In this mood my eyes fell upon a pair of orbs fixed intently upon me. Whether the process was effected by the eyes, or by some pretty little fingers, simply, I can not say; but, at the same moment, a rose was insinuated into my button-hole, a gentle voice addressed me, and I beheld, in connection with the eyes, the fingers, and the voice, a girl. She carried on her arm a basket of flowers, and was, literally, nothing more nor less than one of the _Bouquetières_ who fly along the Boulevards like butterflies, with the difference that they turn their favorite flowers to a more practical account.