But at Charing Cross the twelfth passenger got in--a boy with a
stick, and a bundle in a blue handkerchief. He was about thirteen;
bound for the docks, we could tell at a glance, to sail on his first
voyage; and, by the way he looked about, we could tell as easily that
in stepping outside Charing Cross Station he had set foot on London
stones for the first time. When we pulled up, he was standing on the
opposite pavement with dazed eyes like a hare's, wondering at the new
world--the hansoms, the yelling news-boys, the flower-women, the
crowd pushing him this way and that, the ugly shop-fronts, the hurry
and stink and din of it all. Then, hailing our 'bus, he started to
run across--faltered--almost dropped his bundle--was snatched by our
conductor out of the path of a running hansom, and hauled on board.
His eyelids were pink and swollen; but he was not crying, though he
wanted to. Instead, he took a great gulp, as he pushed between our
knees to his seat, and tried to look brave as a lion.

The passengers turned an incurious, half-resentful stare upon him,
and then repented. I think that more than one of us wanted to speak,
but dared not.

It was not so much the little chap's look. But to the knot of his
sea-kit there was tied a bunch of cottage-flowers--sweet williams,
boy's love, love-lies-bleeding, a few common striped carnations, and
a rose or two--and the sight and smell of them in that frowsy 'bus
were like tears on thirsty eyelids. We had ceased to pity what we
were, but the heart is far withered that cannot pity what it has
been; and it made us shudder to look on the young face set towards
the road along which we had travelled so far. Only the minor actress
dropped a tear; but she was used to expressing emotion, and half-way