The course of our story, however, does not carry us very far from London's centre; and although the house at which we stop is in a pretty and quiet neighbourhood, and is old-fashioned and delightfully irregular in its outlines, the shriek of the iron horse is heard within its walls a dozen times an hour. It is a small house in one of the suburbs, with garden all round it, just such a house (or at least she says it is) as Lizzie saw among the flowers when Muzzy proposed that they should live together. Lizzie is bustling about the house now, singing as she runs up and down-stairs, and old Muzzy--henceforth to be dignified by the name of Musgrave--looks up from the table, upon which are a number of letters and circulars, and listens to her blithe voice. He has discovered already that Lizzie is a capital little housewife; that she can cook and market without the slightest fuss, and without taking any particular merit to herself for those accomplishments. Lizzie, indeed, is fond of work; she is busy all day long, and it is evident that her sewing-machine is not allowed to rust. It is the day after the excursion to Hampton Court. It was quite eleven o'clock of the previous night when Mr. Musgrave, sitting in the parlour waiting anxiously for Lizzie's return, heard voices at the garden gate in front of the house. He went to the street-door, and stood quietly with the handle in his hand. "Good-night," he heard Lizzie cry; "and don't forget--on Thursday!" A low voice replied in words that Mr. Musgrave did not hear, and then there was pleasant laughter, and "Good-night!" "Good-night!" a dozen times repeated. After that Mr. Musgrave, opening the street-door, saw Lizzie standing by the gate waving her handkerchief. When they were in the house, Lizzie declared that she was too tired to tell him the day's adventures; that she had spent a very happy day, and that she was sleepy, and wanted to go to bed and think. "I will tell you all about it to-morrow, daddy," she said, and kissed him and wished him good-night. Now, sitting in what may be termed the back parlour, he is waiting to hear Lizzie's account of her adventures the previous day. The window in this room looks out on the garden at the rear of the house. At the end of the garden is a cozy little summer-house, with just sufficient room for four persons to sit embowered "in mossy shade." Lizzie, coming into the room, tells him what there is for dinner and that it will soon be ready, and asks him for the twentieth time if all this isn't delightful. "But," she adds, "do you think it will last, daddy?" "Why shouldn't it, Lizzie?" he asks in return. "I don't know," she replies, with somewhat of a serious look in her face. "It seems strange when you come to think of it. I couldn't help wondering about it last night in bed." "Wondering in what way, Lizzie?" "Just tell me if I am wrong in something you once said to me. You said you hadn't known Mr. Sheldrake very long."