'Can't we have a cab?' asked Gladys innocently.

'No, we can't; you ought to know, if you don't, that a cab is double
fare after midnight,' said the old man severely. Just look in the
carriage to make sure nothing is left.'

Gladys did so, then the melancholy pair trudged off out from the station
into the quiet streets. Happily the night was fine, though cold, with a
clear, star-begemmed sky, and a winter moon on the wane above the roofs
and spires. A great city it seemed to Gladys, with miles and miles of
streets; tall, heavy houses set in monotonous rows, but no green
thing--nothing to remind her of heaven but the stars. She had the soul
of the poet-artist, therefore her destiny was doubly hard. But the time
came when she recognised its uses, and thanked God for it all, even for
its moments of despair, its bitterest tears, because through it alone
she touched the great suffering heart of humanity which beats in the
dark places of the earth. In the streets after midnight there is always
life--the life which dare not show itself by day, because it stalks in
the image of sin. Gladys was surprised, as they slowly wended their way
along a wide and handsome thoroughfare, past the closed windows of great
shops, to meet many ladies finely dressed, some of them beautiful, with
a strange, wild beauty, which half-fascinated, half-terrified her.

'Who are these ladies, Uncle Abel?' she asked at length. 'Why are so
many people in the streets so late? I thought everybody would be in bed
but us.'

'They are the night-birds, child. Don't ask any more questions, but shut
your eyes and hold fast by me. We'll be home in no time,' said the old
man harshly, because his conscience smote him for what he was doing.