Their route took them past the little town-hall, the Black-Bull Hotel, and onward to the junction of a small street on the right, consisting of a row of those two-and-two windowed brick residences of no particular age, which are exactly alike wherever found, except in the people they contain.
'Wait--I'll drive you up to your door,' said Barnet, when Downe prepared to alight at the corner.

He thereupon turned into the narrow street, when the faces of three little girls could be discerned close to the panes of a lighted window a few yards ahead, surmounted by that of a young matron, the gaze of all four being directed eagerly up the empty street.

'You are a fortunate fellow, Downe,' Barnet continued, as mother and children disappeared from the window to run to the door.

'You must be happy if any man is.

I would give a hundred such houses as my new one to have a home like yours.' 'Well--yes, we get along pretty comfortably,' replied Downe complacently.
'That house, Downe, is none of my ordering,' Barnet broke out, revealing a bitterness hitherto suppressed, and checking the horse a moment to finish his speech before delivering up his passenger.