telling, however beautiful, each being eclipsed
by the other in the horrible glut, had interested her, and she had
looked at everything. But she soon sickened at the sight. The vast
quantities of things, crowded together, robbed her of all pleasure of
choice, and made her feel as if she had eaten too much. Occasionally
she would see two or three things of beauty displayed with art in a
large window; but everywhere else excessive quantity produced
indifference, disgust, or satiety, according to the mood of the
moment. And even in the days of her poverty and obscurity, when her
faculties were sharpened into proper appreciation by privation, those
congested windows teeming with jewels, with wearing apparel, with all
things immoderately, set up a sort of mental dyspepsia that was
distressing, and she was glad to turn away to relieve the consequent
brain-fag. But by degrees she became accustomed to the tasteless
profusion. It did not please her any better, but at all events it did
not afflict her by always obtruding itself upon her attention. She saw
it, not in detail, but as a part of the picture; and she found in the
new view of London and of London life from the top of omnibuses more
of the unexpected, of delight, of beauty for the eyes and of matter
for the mind, of humour, pathos, poetry, of tragedy and comedy,
suggestive glimpses caught in passing and vividly recollected, than
she could have conceived possible when she rolled along with society
on carriage cushions, soothed by the stultifying ease into temporary
sensuous apathy.

Winter set in suddenly and with terrible severity that year. London
became a city of snow, cruelly cold, but beautiful, all its ugliness
disguised by the white mantle, all its angles softened, all its charms
enhanced. Commonplace squares, parks, gardens, and dirty streets were
transformed into fairyland by the delicate disposition of snow in
festoons on door-post and railing, ledge and lintel, from roof to
cellar. The trees especially, all frosted with shining filigree, were
a wonder to look upon; and Beth would wander about the alleys in
Kensington Gardens, and gaze at the glory of the white world under the
sombre grey of the murky clouds, piled up in awesome magnificence,
until she ached with yearning for some word of human speech, some way
to express it, to make it manifest.

She returned one afternoon somewhat wet and weary from one of her
rambles. The little window of her attic was hal