not even open their windows for fear of inhaling the poison.

The child felt the coldness of men more terribly than the coldness of
night. The coldness of men is intentional. He felt a tightening on his
sinking heart which he had not known on the open plains. Now he had
entered into the midst of life, and remained alone. This was the summit
of misery. The pitiless desert he had understood; the unrelenting town
was too much to bear.

The hour, the strokes of which he had just counted, had been another
blow. Nothing is so freezing in certain situations as the voice of the
hour. It is a declaration of indifference. It is Eternity saying, "What
does it matter to me?"

He stopped, and it is not certain that, in that miserable minute, he did
not ask himself whether it would not be easier to lie down there and
die. However, the little infant leaned her head against his shoulder,
and fell asleep again.

This blind confidence set him onwards again. He whom all supports were
failing felt that he was himself a basis of support. Irresistible
summons of duty!

Neither such ideas nor such a situation belonged to his age. It is
probable that he did not understand them. It was a matter of instinct.
He did what he chanced to do.

He set out again in the direction of Johnstone Row. But now he no longer
walked; he dragged himself along. He left St. Mary's Street to the left,
made zigzags through lanes, and at the end of a winding passage found