Richard felt very sanguine of success during the first weeks of his stay in London. He was young, ardent, active, and a good sailor. Some employment would be easily obtained, he thought, in the merchant service; and he only stipulated mentally for one thing--no matter how low was his beginning, he must have something to look forward to in the future--he must be able to rise. But as the days glided into weeks, and the weeks into months, he was obliged to own that it was not so easy to find an opening as he had expected, and night after night he returned to his solitary lodgings weary and disheartened. Mrs Fiddison sighed, and said he was very nice--so quiet; her place did not seem the same. And certainly the young fellow was very quiet, spending a great deal of his time in writing and thinking; and more than once he caught himself watching the opposite window, and wondering what connexion there could be between Vanleigh and his neighbours. This watching led to his meeting the soft dark eyes of Netta, as she busied herself at times over her flowers, watering them carefully, removing dead leaves and blossoms, and evidently tending them with the love of one who longs for the sweet breath of the country. Then came a smile and a bow, and Netta shrank away from the window, and Richard did not see her for a week. Then she was there again, showing herself timidly, and as their eyes met the how was given, and returned this time before the poor girl shrank away; and as days passed on this little intercourse grew regular, till it was a matter of course for Richard to look out at a certain hour for his pretty neighbour, and she would be there. This went on till she would grow bold enough to sit there close to the flowers, her sad face just seen behind the little group of leaves and blossoms; and, glad of the companionship, Richard got in the habit of drawing his table to the open window, and read or wrote there, to look up occasionally and exchange a smile. "I don't see why I shouldn't know more of them," he said to himself, one morning; and the next time a donkey-drawn barrow laden with Covent Garden sweets passed, Richard bought a couple of pots of lush-blossomed geraniums, delivered them to Mrs Jenkles, and sent them to Miss Lane, with his hope that she was in better health. Mrs Jenkles took the pots gladly, but shook her head at the donor. "Is she so ill?" said Richard, anxiously. "I'm afraid so, sir," said Mrs Jenkles. "Her cough is so bad." As she spoke, plainly enough heard from the upper room came the painful endorsement of the woman's words. Richard went across the way thoughtfully; and as he looked from his place a few minutes after, it was to see his plants placed in the best position in the window; and he caught a grateful look directed at him by his little neighbour, "Poor girl!" said Richard.