road and river
travelling one knows not where, into regions just falling asleep in
the quiet dusk. Or there is a holiday crowd, a moonlit ferry, steep
wooded hills, and songs and laughter which echo in the streets and
float across the tide. Or the Alps, keenly cut against the infinite
depth of blue, with a whiteness and a far-off glory no tongue can
utter. Or a solemn cathedral, or a busy town piled up, with church and
castle high aloft and a still, transparent lake below. But through it
all, and underlying it all, is Bellevue street, with the dirty men and
women, who scream and shout at each other and wrangle in its filthy
courts and alleys. Still, God knows that I don't repent, and that I
wish my little cousin well."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

WANTED--AN ORGANIST.

In later days Percival looked back to that Christmas as his worst and
darkest time. His pride had grown morbid, and he swore to himself that
he would never give in--that Horace should never know him otherwise
than self-sufficient, should never think that but for Mrs. Middleton's
or Godfrey Hammond's charity he might have had his cousin as a
pensioner. Brooding on thoughts such as these, he sauntered moodily
beneath the lamps when the new year was but two days old.

His progress was stopped by a little crowd collected on the pavement.
There was a concert, and a string of carriages stretched halfway down
the street. Just as Percival came up, a girl in white and amber, with
flowers in her hair, flitted hurriedly across the path and up
the steps, and stood glancing back while a fair-haired,
faultlessly-dressed young man helped her mother to alight. The father
came last, sleek, stout and important. The old people went on in
front, and the girl followed with her cavalier, looking up at him and
making some bright little speech as they vanished into the building.
Percival stood and gazed for a moment, then turned round and hurried
out of the crowd. The grace and freshness and happy beauty of the girl
had roused a fierce longing in his heart. He wanted to touch a lady's
hand again, to hear the delicate accents of a lady's voice. He
remembered how he used to dress himself as that fair-haired young
man was dressed, and escort Aunt Harriet and Sissy to Fordborough
entertainments, where the best places were always kept for the
Brackenhill party. It was dull enough sometimes, yet how he longed for
one such evening now--to hand the cups once again at afternoon tea, to
ta