“It’s a silly fancy, them flowers, for poor folks like we,” said Mrs. Bick, turning round when she reached the porch and confidentially addressing her visitors, “and so I’ve told Dannle times out o’ mind. If he took to anything, he might ha’ took to a pig or fowls; or even rabbits’d been better than nothing, for there’s many a good meal to be had off of them; but there’s neither vittles nor drink in flowers, and they’re here to-day and gone to-morrow, aren’t they? Such rubbidge for poor folk like we to take up wi’, ain’t it?” She saved them the trouble of replying by throwing open the door of a small and sparely furnished but exquisitely clean sitting room. The sun shone in pleasantly, the broad window seats were filled with luxuriant and choice plants, and the little parlor wore altogether such a snug, cheerful aspect that Mr. Heriton seated himself in a chintz-covered easy-chair in the sunniest corner, and smiled contentedly. The chambers above were equally neat, and Mrs. Bick’s terms so unusually moderate that Florence closed with her at once. It would be easier to begin her new life in this secluded spot than in the dense atmosphere and depressing influences of town lodgings; and even Mrs. Bick’s rustic familiarity galled her far less than the vulgar sympathy of the London landlady, who never brought up her bill or receipted it without telling Florence that she had known what it was to be better off herself, and so she could feel for other people. “Then I shall expect ye to-morrow,” said Mrs. Bick, with a nod that brought her brown curls nearly into her eyebrows. “The old gentleman don’t look very strong. Wait while I fetches him a drop o’ my currant wine to set him up afore he goes.” Mr. Heriton graciously accepted the simple refreshment. And while their hostess again strode away to cut him a slice of plain cake his daughter fondly asked: “Dear papa, do you think you can be happy here for a little while?” “Well, yes, child,” he answered briskly. “While you were looking at the rooms above I have been talking to a laborer at work in the adjoining ground, and I learn that it is the property of a building society, and that the members are willing to dispose of it on reasonable terms.” “But this is nothing to us, dear papa,” said Florence, her spirits sinking, “nothing to us, remember.” “Nonsense, child! Don’t you see what an excellent speculation it will be to take this ground on a long lease, and build a terrace of handsome houses upon it?” For a few minutes his daughter was inclined to give up all thought of coming here to reside, lest he should really attempt to carry out this new idea. But remembering that his utterly penniless condition rendered it an impossibility, she took heart again, and contented herself with observing: “This must be an after consideration, papa. Remember that we are not provided with the requisite cash for such an undertaking.” He answered her peevishly: