either side of the entrance-hall, and just under the archway, was a
plaster-of-Paris figure, nearly as large as life--that on the right-hand
being a representation of Bacchus, and that on the left of a nymph
dancing. But the female image had long since lost its head, and also
one of its arms--the latter being still in existence, but being hung for
convenience' sake through the raised arm of Bacchus, making him look
like one of those Hindu idols which are preposterously figured with a
number of superfluous limbs. If the effect of this transference of the
nymph's arm to its companion statue was rather burlesque than
ornamental, the disconnected limb itself was certainly not without its
use, small fragments of it being broken off from time to time for the
purpose of whitening the door-steps and the hall-flags when the
hearthstone could not readily be found.

Within the archway, over the parlour door, was a plaster bust of
Socrates; but this had met with no better treatment than the statues,
having accidentally got its face turned to the wall as though in
disgrace, or as if in despair of any really practical wisdom being
allowed to have sway in the sceptic's household.

Things were no better in the sitting-room: there was plenty of finery,
but no real comfort--scarcely a single article of furniture was entire;
while a huge chimney-glass, surmounted by a gilded eagle, being too tall
for its position, had been made to fit into its place by the sacrifice
of the eagle's head and body, the legs and claws alone being visible
against the ceiling. The glass itself was starred at one corner, and
the frame covered with scars where the gilding had fallen off. There
were coloured prints on the walls, and a large photograph of the members
of the "Free-thought Club;" the different individuals of the group being
taken in various attitudes, all indicative of a more than average amount
of self-esteem. There were book-shelves also, containing volumes
amusing, scientific, and sceptical, but no place was found for the Book
of books; it was not admitted into that cheerless household.

It was a December evening; a dull fire burned within the dingy bars of
William Foster's parlour grate. William himself was at his club, but
his wife and baby were at home: that poor mother, who knew nothing of a
heavenly Father to whose loving wisdom she could intrust her child; the
baby, a poor little sinful yet immortal being, to be brought up without
on