which I had been writing ever since I started tailoring.

"He's bound to it by blude," said Sandy; "and I'm thinking ye'd better
try to get a list o' subscribers."

So to Cambridge I went.

It was some time since I had seen my cousin George, and at our last
meeting he had taken me to the Dulwich Gallery. It was there that two
young ladies, one so beautiful that I was dazzled, and an elderly
clergyman, whom my cousin told me was a dean, had spoken to me about the
pictures, and that interview marked a turning point in my life. When I
got to Cambridge, and had found my cousin's rooms, I was received kindly
enough.

"You couldn't have got on at tailoring--much too sharp a fellow for
that," he said, on hearing my story. "You ought to be at college, if one
could only get you there. Those poems of yours--you must let me have
them and look over them, and I dare say I shall be able to persuade the
governor to do something with them."

Lord Lynedale came to my cousin's rooms next day--George told me plainly
that he made friends with those who would advance him when he was a
clergyman--and taking an interest in a self-educated author, bade me
bring my poems to the Eagle and ask for Dean Winnstay. Lord Lynedale was
to marry Dean Winnstay's niece. When I arrived at the Eagle, the first
person I saw was Lillian--for so her father, the dean, called her--the
younger lady, my heroine of the Dulwich Gallery, looking more beautiful
than ever. I could have fallen down--fool that I was!--and worshipped--
what? I could not tell you, for I cannot tell even now.

The dean smiled recognition, bade me sit down, and disposed my papers on
his knee. I obeyed him, trembling, my eyes devouring my idol, forgetting
why I had come, seeing nothing but her, listening for nothing but the
opening of those lips.

"I think I may tell you at once that I am very much surprised and
gratified with your poems," said the old gentleman.

"How very fond of beautiful things you must be, Mr. Locke," said
Lillian, "to be able to describe so passionately the longing after
them!"

I stammered out something about working-men having very few
opportunities of indulging the taste for--I forget what.

"Ah, yes! I dare say it must be a very stupid life. So little
opportunity, as he says. What a pity he is a tailor, papa! Such an
unimaginative employment! How delightful it would be to send him to
college and make him a clergyman!"

Fool that I was! I fancied--what