"Put me down by the Storis, Victoria Street, conductor," she directed,
and handed him a penny--the correct fare.
It chanced that at about the time, within a minute or so, of the
American lady's leaving the hotel, and just as red rays, the harbingers
of dusk, came creeping in at the latticed widow of her cozy work-room,
Helen Cumberly laid down her pen with a sigh. She stood up, mechanically
rearranging her hair as she did so, and crossed the corridor to her
bedroom, the window whereof overlooked the Square.
She peered down into the central garden. A common-looking man sat upon
a bench, apparently watching the labors of the gardener, which consisted
at the moment of the spiking of scraps of paper which disfigured the
green carpet of the lawn.
Helen returned to her writing-table and reseated herself. Kindly
twilight veiled her, and a chatty sparrow who perched upon the
window-ledge pretended that he had not noticed two tears which trembled,
quivering, upon the girl's lashes. Almost unconsciously, for it was an
established custom, she sprinkled crumbs from the tea-tray beside her
upon the ledge, whilst the tears dropped upon a written page and two
more appeared in turn upon her lashes.
The sparrow supped enthusiastically, being joined in his repast by two
talkative companions.
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