lly all over--that the irrevocable step was taken--that they were
married. The whirl of her thoughts then!

At the terminus, John bought a newspaper and scanned its advertisements.
They started on their search for lodgings. His room was in Whitechapel,
near Saint Ruth's.

"It is up under the roof, and looks over the week's washing of the
submerged tenth; it won't do at all!" he had declared.

The idea of a hotel impressed Phyllis unpleasantly.

"Well, then," said John, "we must look for a new tree in which to build
our nest."

How many dissonant bells jangled to their touch; how many dreary
hallways they entered and stood waiting in; how many steep staircases
they climbed; how many rooms they peeped into--one look enough; how many
others they viewed at greater length, but with no more satisfaction in
the end; a few, John thought, had possibilities, but Phyllis could not
bear the sight of them!

The curious questions they were asked; as though the lodgers instead of
the lodgings were undergoing inspection. Most of the lodging-house
keepers asked John where he was employed; some of them wanted to know if
he could give references.

"How cime you to leave your last plice?" was one shrill question.

In utter weariness Phyllis at last consented to John's suggestion; he
would make a preliminary survey and she should be called into counsel
only in promising cases. They were few enough. She walked up and down
monotonous streets while John was indoors; to be told, time after time,
that was not the place they sought.

Even John might have been discouraged; on the contrary, that young man's
chin rose to his difficulties. But Phyllis's eyes grew more and more
troubled when darkness fell, and the lights in windows reminded them
that they were still homeless.

Seeking new bills, "To Let," they found themselves in a small square,
surrounded by houses; a fine neighborhood in its day.

"Oh dear, John, I fear I can walk no farther," said Phyllis. "We must go
to a hotel after all, though I detest the idea. My shoes are worn
through."

He led her to a bench in the little square, and kneeling before her took
off one shoe, and then the other, and carefully fitted each with a new
sole, made from a page of "The Daily Chronicle."

"If I fail as a poet I shall be a cobbler," he said to her brightly.

He sat down beside her. "My dearest, I am so sorry. I have blundered
through this afternoon, horribly. Perhaps I should have taken