he is of the earth, earthy,—the sacred odour
exists not for him.

Yet, in the deep melancholy, the expression
of harrowing regret with which he did
look up at that house—even in the very
depths of his moral degradation and suffering
—the seeds of better things might be
germinating. Who shall say? He has sounded
the very base-string of misery; he touches
ground at last—that may be something.

The sparrows chirped in the rays of the
sun, and the little sweeper whistled away.
Different figures began sparingly to appear,
and one by one crept out; objects of strange
aspect who seem to come, one knows not
whence;—the old clothes-man, with his low
and sullen croak; country carts; milk-men,
rattling their cans against area rails; butcher-boys
swinging their trays. Presently were
heard, immediately below where the man
was sitting, the sounds of awakening life;—
unlocking of doors, opening of windows, the
pert voices of the women servants, and the
surly responses of the men; shutters above
began to be unfolded, and the eyes of the
large house gradually to open. The man
watched them—his head resting still upon
his hand, and his face turned upwards—until,
at length, the hall-door opened, displaying a
handsome vestibule, and a staircase gay with
painting and gilding. A housemaid issued
forth to shake the door-mat.

Then he arose and slowly moved away;
every now and then casting a wistful glance
backwards at the house, until he turned the
corner, and it was lost to his sight.

Thus he left a place which once had been
his own.

With his head bent downwards, he walked
slowly on; not properly pursuing his way—
for he had no way nor object to pursue—
but continuing his way, as if he had, like a
ball once set in motion, no motive to stand
still. He looked neither to the right nor to
the left; yet seemed mechanically to direct
his footsteps towards the north. At length,
he slowly entered one of the larger streets in
the neighbourhood of Portland Place. His
attention was excited by a bustle at the door of
one of the houses, and he looked up. There
was a funeral at a house which stood in this
street a little detached from the others. The
plumes were white. It was the funeral of an
unmarried person. Why did his heart quiver?
Why did he make a sudden pause? Had
he never seen a funeral with white plumes
before in his life?

Was it by some mysterious sympathy of
nature that this reckless, careless, fallen man—
who had looked at the effigies of death, and
at death itself, hundreds and hundreds of
times, with negligent unconcern—shuddered
and turned pale, as if smitten to the heart by
some unanticipated horror?

I cannot tell. All I know is, that, struck
with a sudden invincible terror, impelled by
a strange but dreadful curiosity, he staggered,
rather than walked forward; supporting
himself as he went against the iron rails, and
thus reached the steps of the house just as
the coffin was being carried down.

Among the many many gifts once possessed,
and all misused, was one of the longest,
clearest, and quickest sights that I ever
remember to have heard of. His forlorn eye
glanced upon the coffin; he read:

"ELLA WINSTANLEY,
Died June 29, 18 . .
Aged Twenty-three."

And he staggered. The rails could no longer
support him. He sank down upon the flagstones.

The men engaged about the funeral lifted
the poor ragged creature up. A mere common
beggar, they thought; and they were about to
call a policeman, and bid him take charge
of him; when a lady, who was standing at the
dining-room window of the house, opened it,
and asked what was the matter?

"I don't know, Ma'am," said the undertaker's
man; "but this here gent has fallen
down, as I take it, in a fit, or something of
the sort. Policeman, hadn't you best get a
stretcher, and carry him to the workhus or
to the hospital?"

"No," said the lady, "better bring him
in here. Mr. Pearson is in the house, and
can bleed him, or do what is necessary."

Upon which the insensible man was
carefully lifted and carried by two or three of
the men up the steps. At the door of the
hall they were met by the lady who had
appeared at the window. She was evidently a
gentlewoman by her dress and manners.
She was arrayed very simply. Her grey hair
was folded smoothly under her bonnet-cap;
her black silk cloak still hung upon her
shoulders; her bonnet rested upon a pole
screen in the dining-room. It seemed by this
that she was not a regular inhabitant of the
house in which she exercised authority.
Nothing could be more gentle and kind than the
expression of her calm, but firm countenance;
but upon it the lines of sorrow, or of years,
were deeply traced. She was, evidently, one
who had not passed through the world without
her own portion of suffering; but she
seemed to have suffered herself, only the more
intimately to commiserate the suffering of
others.

They laid the stranger upon the sofa in the
dining-room; and, at the lady's desire, sent
for Mr. Pearson, who was the house apothecary.
Whilst waiting for him, she stood
with her eyes fixed upon the face of the
stranger; and, as she did so, curiosity, wonder,
doubt, conviction, and astonishment were
painted in succession upon her face.

Very soon Mr. Pearson appeared, and
advised the usual remedy of bleeding. The
lady walked to the window, and stood there,
watching the proceedings of those without,
until the arrangements of a very simple funeral