"_Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set. And blew 'Childe Roland to
the Dark Tower came.'_" BROWNING.

Fifty years before, the Hospital of the Good Samaritan had been the pet
"charity" of a residential suburb. Factories and slums had since
crowded in upon it, ousting the residents and creeping like a tide over
the sites of their gardens and villas. The street kept its ancient
width, and a few smoke-blackened trees--lilacs, laburnums, limes, and
one copper-beech--still dignified the purlieus. Time, ruthless upon
these amenities, had spared, and even enlarged, the hospital.

It stood on the shaded side of the street. Nevertheless, the sunshine,
reflected from the facade of mean houses across the way, dazzled Tilda
as she crossed the threshold of the great doorway and hopped down the
steps. There were five steps, and on the lowest she paused, leaning a
moment on her crutch before taking the final plunge into liberty.

Then, while she stood blinking, of a sudden a yellowish brown body
bounded at her out of the sun-dazzle, pushed her tottering, danced back,
and leapt at her again, springing to lick her face, and uttering sharp,
inarticulate noises from a throat bursting with bliss.

"'Dolph! O 'Dolph!"

Tilda sank on the lowest step and stretched out both arms. The dog,
rushing between them, fairly bowled her backwards; lit in her lap and
twisted his body round ecstatically, thrusting, nuzzling at her bosom,
her neck, her face--devouring her with love. In her weakness she caught