labor, as well as for the diffusion of better ideals--ideals of
self-culture and self-restraint--among the workingmen of Bow, who have
been fortunate, so far as I can perceive, in the possession (if in one
case unhappily only temporary possession) of two such men of undoubted
ability and honesty to direct their divided counsels and to lead them
along a road, which, though I cannot pledge myself to approve of it in
all its turnings and windings, is yet not unfitted to bring them
somewhat nearer to goals to which there are few of us but would extend
some measure of hope that the working classes of this great Empire may
in due course, yet with no unnecessary delay, be enabled to arrive."

Mr. Gladstone's speech was an expansion of his postcard, punctuated by
cheers. The only new thing in it was the graceful and touching way in
which he revealed what had been a secret up till then--that the portrait
had been painted and presented to the Bow Break o' Day Club, by Lucy
Brent, who in the fulness of time would have been Arthur Constant's
wife. It was a painting for which he had sat to her while alive, and she
had stifled yet pampered her grief by working hard at it since his
death. The fact added the last touch of pathos to the occasion. Crowl's
face was hidden behind his red handkerchief; even the fire of excitement
in Wimp's eye was quenched for a moment by a tear-drop, as he thought of
Mrs. Wimp and Wilfred. As for Grodman, there was almost a lump in his
throat. Denzil Cantercot was the only unmoved man in the room. He
thought the episode quite too Beautiful, and was already weaving it into
rhyme.

At the conclusion of his speech Mr. Gladstone called upon Tom Mortlake
to unveil the portrait. Tom rose, pale and excited. His hand faltered as
he touched the cord. He seemed overcome with emotion. Was it the mention
of Lucy Brent that had moved him to his depths?

The brown holland fell away--the dead stood revealed as he had been in
life. Every feature, painted by the hand of Love, was instinct with
vitality: the fine, earnest face, the sad kindly eyes, the noble brow
seeming still a-throb with the thought of Humanity. A thrill ran through
the room--there was a low, undefinable murmur. O, the pathos and the
tragedy of it! Every eye was fixed, misty with emotion, upon the dead
man in the picture and the living man who stood, pale and agitated, and
visibly unable to commence his speech, at the side of the canvas.
Suddenly a hand