Between Simon and herself negotiations rested where we left them last; only there was now a heartier welcome for him when he came, and often a sparkling smile, that seemed to say, he had waited well, and not in vain, she hoped,--a smile that, to the eye of his healthy spirit, was an earnest of the rose-star's reappearance; it was only behind the rusty skimped delaine, as behind a cloud. His visits were not so rare as before, nor always "upon business"; he lingered sometimes, and sometimes had _his_ way. One night, Simon was outrageously rebellious; he had cheated Sally of half an hour, and spent it in rank mutiny; he compared the rose-star to the remotest of the asteroids, as seen through Lord Rosse's telescope, and instituted facetious comparisons between Miss Wimple's honorable fund and the national debt of England. It was near closing-time; Miss Wimple said, "Now, Simon, _will_ you go?" --she had said that three times already. Some one entered. O, ho! Miss Wimple snatched away her hand:--"Now go, or never come again!" Simon glanced at the visitor,--a woman,--a stranger evidently, and poor,--a beggar, most likely, or one of those Wandering Jews of womankind, who, homeless, goalless, hopeless, tramp, tramp, tramp, unresting, till they die. She had almost burst in, quite startling Miss Wimple; but now she stood by the glass case, with averted face, and shabby shawl drawn suspiciously about her, and waited to be noticed, peering, meanwhile, through the little window into the dark street. "Good-night, little Sally!" said Simon; "put up your bars, and so put up my bars. Now there's a fine speech for you!--if my name were Philip Withers, you'd call it poetry." The strange woman actually stamped with her foot twice, and moved a step nearer to the window. Miss Wimple took it for a gesture of impatience, and at once arose to accost her. Simon eyed her curiously, and somewhat suspiciously, as he passed; but, taking her attire for his clue, he thought he recognized one of a class with whom Miss Wimple was accustomed to cope successfully; so he took his leave unconcerned. Miss Wimple approached the stranger. "What will you have?" she asked. But the woman only followed Simon with her eyes, not heeding the question. "Do you hear me?" repeated she; "I say, what will you have, Madam?" By that time, Simon had disappeared among the distant shadows of the street. The woman turned suddenly and confronted Miss Wimple. "Look at me," she said. Miss Wimple looked, and saw a pale and haggard, almost fierce, face, that had once been fair,--one that she might, she fancied, have met somewhere before. "You seem to have suffered,--to suffer now. What can I do for you?" "Look at me!" "I see; you are very wretched, and you were not always as you are now. You are cold; are you hungry also? I, too, am very poor; but I will do all I can. I will warm you and give you food." The woman walked to where the bright camphene lamp hung, and stood under it.