E— at the time at which my story commences, was little more than one narrow street, on each side of which small shops offered the necessaries of life, and in spring, on the upper windows of most of them the words, "Lodgings to let," announced their preparation to receive visitors. Of these small shops, one of the smallest and poorest in appearance was that on which was seen the name of Viner. It had a little wooden gate instead of door, and it seemed that its owner could not entirely depend upon his profits from the rows of onions, bunches of carrots, or baskets of beans which covered his board, for little bottles of sweetmeats as well as of nuts were ranged along a shelf in his shop, with a string of balls of twine hanging from the top, and a small supply of writing-paper in one corner, which was usually sold by the sheet, not the quire. So small and unpretending was the shop—such a contrast to Goldie's large one opposite—that visitors seldom thought of entering to buy, and it was chiefly frequented by the people of the village, who knew the character of the man who kept it, and who never doubted, when they purchased a basket of fruit from Viner, that the lower ones were as good as those at the top. In this shop now stood Nelly with her father, awaiting the arrival of their expected guest. Viner was a man still in the prime of life, though care and poverty had made him look older than he really was, and had streaked his hair with many a bright silver line. But the expression of his face was serene, even happy, especially when he looked upon his darling only child, the image of a wife whom he had tenderly loved, and for whom he had mourned—but not as one without hope. "And now remember one thing, my darling," he said, laying his hand gently upon her head, "you must never speak to Walter about his father." "But you love to speak about mother, and to take me to her grave, and to show me all the places that she marked in her Bible; if Walter's father has died and gone to heaven, he will like to speak about him too." "You must not ask my reasons, Nelly, but obey my wishes. Ah!" thought the bereaved husband, as he recalled his own heavy loss, "How much sadder a thing is sin than death!" Nelly stood thoughtfully for a moment, as if pondering over the words of her parent, then looked up with a grave expression on her usually merry little face as she said, "Oh! I remember now what I heard at Mrs. Winter's." "What did you hear, my child?" "Something about Walter's father—something very bad; it was Mr. Goldie who said it; you know when he spoke aloud, I could not help hearing; but Mrs. Winter put her finger to her lips." "I am very sorry that Mr. Goldie should say anything, or know anything about the matter. You, at any rate, must take no notice of it. It is no fault of poor Walter's that he has been unhappy in his parent."