. At last misfortune befell him. One dreary afternoon of
rain he dropped his new bundle of papers in the mud of the roadway. To
avoid death he had to spring from the path of a thundering tramcar. A
heavy cart ran over the bundle. While he was ruefully and hastily
gathering the papers together, a band of street children swooped down
and kicked them lustily about the filth. He was battling with one
urchin when a policeman grabbed him. With an elusive twist he escaped
and ran like a terrified hare. Disaster followed, and that was the end
of his career as a newsvendor.

Greater leisure for reading, however, compensated the loss of the
occasional penny. He read dazzling tales of dukes with palaces (like
Chudley Court), and countesses with ropes of diamonds in their hair,
who all bore a resemblance to the fragrant one. And dukes and
countesses lived the most resplendent lives, and spoke such beautiful
language, and had such a way with them! He felt a curious pride in
being able to enter into all their haughty emotions. Then, one day, he
began a story about a poor little outcast boy in a slum. At first he
did not care for it. His soaring spirit disdained boys in slums. It had
its being on higher planes. But he read on, and, reading on, grew
interested, until interest was intensified into absorption For the
outcast boy in the slums, you must know, was really the kidnapped child
of a prince and a princess, and after the most romantic adventures was
enfolded in his parents' arms, married a duke's beauteous daughter,
whom in his poverty he had worshipped from afar, and drove away with
his bride in a coach-and-six.

To little Paul Kegworthy the clotted nonsense was a revelation from on
high. He was that outcast boy. The memorable pronouncement of the
goddess received confirmation in some kind of holy writ. The Vision
Splendid, hitherto confused, crystallized into focus. He realized
vividly how he differed in feature and form and intellect and character
from the low crowd with whom he was associated. His unpopularity was
derived from envy. His manifest superiority was gall to their base
natures. Yes, he had got to the heart of the mystery. Mrs. Button was
not his mother. For reasons unknown he had been kidnapped. Aware of his
high lineage, she hated him and beat him and despitefully used him. She
never gushed, it is true, over her offspring; but the little Buttons
flourished under genuine motherment. They, inconsiderable brats, wer