For many a long hour Lawrence Newt stood at the window of the loft in the rear of his office, and looked up at the window where he had seen Amy Waring that summer morning.  He was certainly quite as curious about that room as Hope about his early knowledge of her home.

“I’ll just run round and settle this matter,” said the merchant to himself.

But he did not stir.  His hands were in his pockets.  He was standing as firmly in one spot as if he had taken root.

“Yes—­upon the whole, I’ll just run round,” thought Lawrence, without the remotest approach to motion of any kind.  But his fancy was running round all the time, and the fancies of men who watch windows, as Lawrence Newt watched this window, are strangely fantastic.  He imagined every thing in that room.  It was a woman with innumerable children, of course—­some old nurse of Amy’s—­who had a kind of respectability to preserve, which intrusion would injure.  No, no, by Heaven! it was Mrs. Tom Witchet, old Van Boozenberg’s daughter!  Of course it was.  An old friend of Amy’s, half-starving in that miserable lodging, and Amy her guardian angel.  Lawrence Newt mentally vowed that Mrs. Tom Witchet should never want any thing.  He would speak to Amy at the next meeting of the Round Table.

Or there were other strange fancies.  What will not an India merchant dream as he gazes from his window?  It was some old teacher of Amy’s—­some music-master, some French teacher—­dying alone and in poverty, or with a large family.  No, upon the whole, thought Lawrence Newt, he’s not old enough to have a large family—­he is not married—­he has too delicate a nature to struggle with the world—­he was a gentleman in his own country; and he has, of course, it’s only natural—­how could he possibly help it?—­he has fallen in love with Miss Waring.  These music-masters and Italian teachers are such silly fellows.  I know all about it, thought Mr. Newt; and now he lies there forlorn, but picturesque and very handsome, singing sweetly to his guitar, and reciting Petrarch’s sonnets with large, melancholy eyes.  His manners refined and fascinating.  His age?  About thirty.  Poor Amy!  Of course common humanity requires her to come and see that he does not suffer.  Of course he is desperately in love, and she can only pity.  Pity? pity?  Who says something about the kinship of pity?  I really think, says Lawrence Newt to himself, that I ought to go over and help that unfortunate young man.  Perhaps he wishes to return to his native country.  I am sure he ought to.  His native air will be balm to him.  Yes, I’ll ask Miss Waring about it this very evening.

He did not.  He never alluded to the subject.  They had never mentioned that summer noontide exchange of glance and gesture which had so curious an effect on Lawrence Newt that he now stood quite as often at his back window, looking up at the old brick house, as at his front window, looking out over the river and the ships, and counting the spires—­at least it seemed so—­in Brooklyn.