He shook his head thoughtfully. The parlour window, looking to the front, was thrown up before them. A light breeze tempered the summer heat, wafting in sweetness from the homely flowers and scented shrubs. The little garden was crowded with them, as all homely gardens were then. Roses, lilies, columbines, stocks, gillyflowers, sweet peas, sweet Williams, pinks white and red, tulips, pansies (or as they were then generally called, garden-gates), mignonette, bachelor's buttons, and lots of others, sweet or not sweet, that I can't stay to recall: and clusters of marjoram and lavender and "old-man" and sweet-briar, and jessamines white and yellow, and woodbine, and sweet syringa; and the tall hollyhock, and ever true but gaudy sunflower--each and all flourished there in their respective seasons. Amidst the grand "horticulture," as it is phrased, of these modern days, it is a pleasure to lose one's self in the memories of these dear old simple gardens. Sometimes I get wondering if we shall ever meet them again--say in Heaven. They sat there at the open window enjoying the fragrance. Katrine had made a paper fan, and was gently fluttering it to and fro before her flushed young face. "I have burnt the candle at both ends," continued Mr. Reste. "That is what's the matter with me." "Y--es," hesitated she, not quite understanding. "At law business all day, and at literary work the best part of the night, year in and year out--it has told upon me, Katrine." "But why should you do both?" asked Katrine. "Why? Oh, because--because my pocket is a shallow pocket, and has, moreover, a hole in it." She laughed. "Not getting briefs showered in upon me as one might hope my merits deserve--I know not any young barrister who does--I had to supplement my earnings in that line by something else, and I took to writing. _That_ is up-hill work, too; but it brings in a few shillings now and again. One must pay one's way, you know, Katrine, if possible; and with some of us it is apt to be a rather extravagant way." "Is it with you?" she asked, earnestly. "It _was_. I squandered money too freely at first. My old uncle gave me a fair sum to set up with when my dinners were eaten and I was called; and I suppose I thought the sum would never come to an end. Ah! we buy our experience dearly." "Will not the old uncle give you more?" "Not a stiver--this long while past. He lives in India, and writing to ask him does no good. And he is the only relative left to me in the world." "Except papa." Edgar Reste lifted his eyebrows. "Your father is not my relative, young lady. His late wife was my aunt; my father's sister." "Did your father leave you no money, when he died?" "Not any. He was a clergyman with a good benefice, but he lived up to his income and did not save anything. No, I have only myself to lean on. Don't know whether it will turn out to be a broken reed." "If I could only help you!" breathed Katrine.