Here, between seven and eight o’clock, Mr. Hossack used to smoke his after-dinner cigar, despairing yet deriving a dismal pleasure from the sense of his vicinity to the beloved, like those who, in the gloaming, pace a churchyard within whose pale their treasure lies. The twinkling light shining palely athwart the white blind cheered him a little. Her hand had perhaps kindled it. She was there alone—for Geoffrey, in whom the parental instinct was unawakened, did not count a child as company—amidst those humble surroundings, she whose loveliness would enhance the splendour of a palace. Thus, with all love’s exaggeration, he thought of her. One evening he was bold enough to penetrate the little shop. ‘Had they any gloves that would fit him?—eights or nines he believed he required.’ As he had supposed, the shopkeeper was a widow. She emerged from the little parlour at the back, dressed in rusty weeds, to assist a young woman with a small pinched visage and corkscrew ringlets, who was feebly groping among the shelves and little paper packets with hieroglyphical labels. ‘Lor, Matilda Jane, you never know where to find anything! There’s a parcel of drab men’s on that top shelf. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, sir. We have a large selection of cloth and lisle-thread gloves. You’d like lisle-thread, perhaps, as the weather’s setting in so warm?’ ‘Yes, lisle-thread will do,’ answered Geoffrey, who had never worn anything but Jouvin’s best, at five shillings a pair. He seated himself, and looked round the stuffy little shop. Above this gloomy den Mrs. Bertram lived. He listened for her light step while the drab men’s were being hunted for. ‘I think you have one of the ladies who sang at the concert lodging with you?’ said this hypocrite, while he made believe to try on the thread gloves. ‘Yes, sir; Mrs. Bertram: a very sweet young person; so mild and affable.’ ‘But not chatty, mother,’ interjected the damsel in ringlets. ‘It’s as much as one can do to get half-a-dozen words out of her; and it’s my belief she’s as proud as she can be, in spite of her soft voice.’ ‘Hold your tongue, Matilda Jane; you’re always running people down,’ remonstrated the matron. ‘I think that pair will fit you nicely, sir,’ as Geoffrey thrust his strong fingers into the limp thread. ‘Poor dear lady, there wasn’t much pride left in her this morning, when she spoke to me about her little girl.’ ‘Her little girl! There is nothing the matter, I hope?’