And the months glided on. Winter came, and in its turn gave place to the promise of spring; that came, though, with its harsh eastern blasts that threatened to extinguish the frail lamp of life still burning opposite Richard's rooms. He had responded to Pin's letter soon after its receipt, but he had heard no more. His attempts at obtaining an engagement had proved failures still; and so he had accepted his fate, and spent his time reading hard, his sole pleasures being a visit across the road, or a dinner with Frank Pratt. Of the acts of the Rea family he knew little, save that they had wintered in Cornwall, from which a letter came occasionally from Humphrey or Mr Mervyn, both sent to the care of Frank Pratt, Esq.; and in his, Humphrey had twice over expressed a wish to divide the property with his old companion. "I don't see why you shouldn't do so," Pratt had said. "It's Quixotic not to accept his offer." "Aut Caesar, aut nullus," was Richard's reply. "No, Franky, I'm too proud. I could never go to Cornwall again but as master. Those days are gone." "But, Dick, old man!" "My dear Franky," said Richard, dropping something of the misanthropical bitterness that had come over him of late, "I am quite content as I am-- content to wait; some of these days a chance will turn up. I'll abide my time." "He's gone back to her," said Pratt, shaking his head. "Poor old Dick!--some people would misjudge him cruelly. Well, time will show." Pratt was quite right, Richard had gone back to Netta; for it promised to be a fine afternoon, and on such days it had grown to be his custom to devote the few shillings he could spare from his scanty income to the payment of Sam Jenkles. It was so this day. Sam was at the door by two, with the old horse brushed up, and every worn buckle shining. Then Richard would go upstairs, to find Netta with a bright spot in each cheek, and an eager welcome in her eye. She had gained ground during the autumn, but in the winter it had all been lost; and now the time had come when Richard raised her in his arms, and had to carry her--grown so light--down to the cab, wherein he tenderly placed her, and took her for one of the drives of which she was never weary. It seemed a strange taste, but her desire was always for the same spot-- the little wood where the fallen tree was lying. Here, on sunny days, she would sit for an hour, while he read to her; and then the quiet, slow journey was taken back, when the little ceremony had to be gone through in reverse, there was a grateful pressure of the hand, and Richard took his leave. Twenty or thirty times was this little excursion made, and always with a foreboding on Richard's part that it was to be the last. But still she lingered, brightening with the balmy April weather that came by fits, and then fading again under the chilling blasts.