There were no children; for some time no other lodgers; and
the place was as quiet as the grave. All this suited me very well. I
wanted rest, and I was getting it.
"I had been at Brighton about a month, when the drawing-room floor over
my head was taken by a lady, and her little girl of about five years old.
I used to hear the child's feet pattering about the room; but she was not
a noisy child by any means; and when I did happen to hear her voice, it
had a very pleasant sound to me. The lady was an invalid, and was a good
deal of trouble, my landlady took occasion to tell me, as she had no
maid of her own. Her name was Nowell.
"Soon after this I encountered her on the cliff one afternoon with her
little girl. The child and I had met once or twice before in the hall;
and her recognition of me led to a little friendly talk between me and
the mother. She was a fragile delicate-looking woman, who had once been
very pretty, but whose beauty had for the most part been worn away,
either by ill-health or trouble. She was very young, five-and-twenty at
the utmost. She told me that the little girl was her only child, and that
her husband was away from England, but that she expected his return
before long.
"After this we met almost every afternoon; and I began to look out for
these meetings, and our quiet talk upon the solitary cliff, as the
pleasantest part of my day.
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