something big and strong had got hold
of him, and he began to be happy.

"Since then," he said in a low voice, "I've been happier than I ever
was before in all my life. I ain't got any family, nor any home--rightly
speakin'--nor any money, but, comrade, you see here in front of you, a
happy man."

When he had finished his story we sat quiet for some time.

"Well," said he, finally, "I must be goin'. The committee will wonder
what's become o' me."

I followed him out to the road. There I put my hand on his shoulder, and
said:

"Bill Hahn, you are a better man than I am."

He smiled, a beautiful smile, and we walked off together down the road.

I wish I had gone on with him at that time into the city, but somehow I
could not do it. I stopped near the top of the hill where one can see in
the distance that smoky huddle of buildings which is known as Kilburn,
and though he urged me, I turned aside and sat down in the edge of a
meadow. There were many things I wanted to think about, to get clear in
my mind.

As I sat looking out toward that great city, I saw three men walking
in the white road. As I watched them, I could see them coming quickly,
eagerly. Presently they threw up their hands and evidently began to
shout, though I could not hear what they said. At that moment I saw my
friend Bill Hahn running in the road, his coat skirts flapping heavily
about his legs. When they met they almost fell into another's arms.

I suppose it was so that the early Christians, those who hid in the
Roman catacombs, were wont to greet one another.

So I sat thinking.

"A man," I said to myself, "who can regard himself as a function, not an
end of creation, has arrived."

After a time I got up and walked down the hill--some strange force
carrying me onward--and came thus to the city of Kilburn.

CHAPTER X. I AM CAUGHT UP INTO LIFE

I can scarcely convey in written words the whirling emotions I felt
when I entered the city of Kilburn. Every sight, every sound, recalled
vividly and painfully the unhappy years I had once spent in another and
greater city. Every mingled odour of the streets--and there is nothing
that will so surely re-create (for me) the inner emotion of a time or
place as a remembered odour--brought back to me the incidents of that
immemorial existence.

For a time, I confess it frankly here, I felt afraid. More than once I
stopped short in the street where I was walking, and considered turning
about