up in this."

Mrs. Damper sighed.

"Well, I mustn' detain you . . . This Arthur Miles Chandon--he's not a
friend of yours by any chance?"

"He's a--sort of connection," said Tilda. "You know 'im, p'r'aps?"

"Dear me, no!"

"Oh,"--the child, without intending it, achieved a fine irony--
"I thought you seemed interested. Well, so long! and thank you again--
there's a tram stoppin' at the corner! Come along, 'Dolph!"

She was not--she had said it truthfully--by any means in trouble just
yet. On the contrary, after long deprivation she was tasting life
again, and finding it good. The streets of this Bursfield suburb were
far from suggestive of the New Jerusalem--a City of which, by the way,
Tilda had neither read nor heard. They were, in fact, mean and squalid,
begrimed with smoke and imperfectly scavenged. But they were, at least,
populous, and to Tilda the faces in the tram and on the pavements wore,
each and all, a friendly--almost an angelic--glow. The tram-car rolled
along like a celestial chariot trailing clouds of glory, and 'Dolph,
running beside it and threading his way in and out between the legs of
the passers-by, was a hound of heaven in a coat effluent of gold.
Weariness would come, but as yet her body felt no weariness, buoyed upon
a spirit a-tiptoe for all adventure.

The tram reached the iron bridge and drew up. She descended, asked the