s eyesight and sensations grew
clearer, and he sat in a mental doze, looking at things with quiet animal
observation. His recollection of the state, after a lapse of minutes, was
pleasurable. The necessity for motion, however, set him on his feet, and
off he went, still Westward, out of the Park, and into streets. He
trotted at a good pace. Suddenly came a call of his name in his ear, and
he threw up one arm in self-defence.

"Uncle Anthony, don't you know me?"

"Eh? I do; to be sure I do," he answered, peering dimly upon Rhoda: "I'm
always meeting one of you."

"I've been down in the City, trying to find you all day, uncle. I meet
you--I might have missed! It is direction from heaven, for I prayed."

Anthony muttered, "I'm out for a holiday."

"This"--Rhoda pointed to a house--"is where I am lodging."

"Oh!" said Anthony; "and how's your family?"

Rhoda perceived that he was rather distraught. After great persuasion,
she got him to go upstairs with her.

"Only for two seconds," he stipulated. "I can't sit."

"You will have a cup of tea with me, uncle?"

"No; I don't think I'm equal to tea."

"Not with Rhoda?"

"It's a name in Scripture," said Anthony, and he drew nearer to her.
"You're comfortable and dark here, my dear. How did you come here? What's
happened? You won't surprise me."

"I'm only stopping for a day or two in London, uncle."

"Ah! a wicked place; that it is. No wickeder than other places, I'll be
bound. Well; I must be trotting. I can't sit, I tell you. You're as dark
here as a gaol."

"Let me ring for candles, uncle."

"No; I'm going."

She tried to touch him, to draw him to a chair. The agile old man bounded
away from her, and she had to pacify him submissively before he would
consent to be seated. The tea-service was brought, and Rhoda made tea,
and filled a cup for him. Anthony began to enjoy the repose of the room.
But it made the money-bags' alien to him, and serpents in his bosom.
Fretting--on his chair, he cried: "Well! well! what's to talk about? We
can't drink tea and not talk!"

Rhoda deliberated, and then said: "Uncle, I think you have always loved
me."

It seemed to him a merit that he should have loved her. He caught at the
idea.

"So I have, Rhoda, my dear; I have. I do."

"You do love me, dear uncle!"

"Now I come to think of it, Rhoda--my Dody, I don't think ever I've loved
anybody else. Never loved e'er a young woman in my life. As a young man."

"Tell me,