e Godlike language of the blind old bard. In
what can I be serviceable to ye, lady?" and to spring from his desk, to
smooth his apron, to stand before her the obedient Shop Boy, the Poet no
more, was the work of a moment.

"I might have prigged this box of figs," the damsel said good-naturedly,
"and you'd never have turned round."

"They came from the country of Hector," the boy said. "Would you have
currants, lady? These once bloomed in the island gardens of the blue
Aegean. They are uncommon fine ones, and the figure is low; they're
fourpence-halfpenny a pound. Would ye mayhap make trial of our teas? We
do not advertise, as some folks do: but sell as low as any other house."

"You're precious young to have all these good things," the girl
exclaimed, not unwilling, seemingly, to prolong the conversation. "If I
was you, and stood behind the counter, I should be eating figs the whole
day long."

"Time was," answered the lad, "and not long since I thought so too. I
thought I never should be tired of figs. But my old uncle bade me take
my fill, and now in sooth I am aweary of them."

"I think you gentlemen are always so," the coquette said.

"Nay, say not so, fair stranger!" the youth replied, his face kindling
as he spoke, and his eagle eyes flashing fire. "Figs pall; but oh! the
Beautiful never does. Figs rot; but oh! the Truthful is eternal. I was
born, lady, to grapple with the Lofty and the Ideal. My soul yearns for
the Visionary. I stand behind the counter, it is true; but I ponder here
upon the deeds of heroes, and muse over the thoughts of sages. What is
grocery for one who has ambition? What sweetness hath Muscovada to him
who hath tasted of Poesy? The Ideal, lady, I often think, is the true
Real, and the Actual, but a visionary hallucination. But pardon me; with
what may I serve thee?"

"I came only for sixpenn'orth of tea-dust," the girl said, with a
faltering voice; "but oh, I should like to hear you speak on for ever!"

Only for sixpenn'orth of tea-dust? Girl, thou camest for other things!
Thou lovedst his voice? Siren! what was the witchery of thine own? He
deftly made up the packet, and placed it in the little hand. She paid
for her small purchase, and with a farewell glance of her lustrous eyes,
she left him. She passed slowly through the portal, and in a moment
was lost in the crowd. It was noon in Chepe. And George de Barnwell was
alone.

Vol. II.

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