It was a wet, unpleasant evening in February, and little Miss Hicks, hurrying homeward with her chop for to-morrow's dinner, felt wet and unpleasant, too. Her jacket was too thin for such weather, and her worn shoes, splashing over the muddy pavement, made her dread the twinges of rheumatism which would surely follow. She paused a moment for breath beneath the sheltering awning of a book-store, and, as she shook her dripping skirts, she glanced into the gaily lighted windows. It happened to be the evening before Valentine's day, and the windows of the shop were filled with the usual "tokens of affection"; riotous cupids with garlands of roses and forget-me-nots, reposing on beds of celluloid; lovely scrolls in delicate pinks and blues with amorous, gilded verses inscribed on them; wonderful creations in silks of brilliant hue, at which all the small girls of the neighborhood gazed covetously. On one side lay a heap of comic valentines in ugly, staring reds and yellows, but Miss Hicks never noticed them, for she had eyes only for the gorgeous visions on the other side. As she looked at them, a flood of suddenly-released memories came into her head which made her cheeks for a moment grow youthfully pink and her faded eyes glow like stars. The door of the shop closed with a final bang, and the lights went out suddenly. But Miss Hicks only smiled happily to herself, as she hurried through the remaining squares to her own dingy little house in dingy little Lombard street. The dim street lamp showed a sign, battered and discolored, of "Miss M. Hicks, Fashionable Milliner," and as the owner of the shop opened the creaking door, stepped inside, and lighted a lamp, a few old-fashioned hats and bonnets could be faintly discerned on the narrow counter, while in the one small showcase were sundry faded ribbons and drooping birds. "It's a wonder to me," her nearest neighbors would often say, "how that Miss Hicks manages to get along; kith nor kin she don't seem to have none, and the customers she's got ain't enough to keep body and soul together. But I've heard as how she gets an annuity from some dead relatives and that probably helps her out, if she's real good at scrimping and saving." But in spite Of the solicitude of her neighbors, they never found out any certain facts about the little woman in rusty black, who was always either sitting at her window, sewing on the hats of her few customers, or else taking a solitary stroll through the dingy, narrow streets. She went walking usually when the daylight was nearly gone, for in a timid, childish way she shrank from observation, and preferred to commune with herself rather than join her neighbors in friendly gossip.