hansom, the forlorn horse crooking his knees and hanging his
hopeless head. The Town Hall colonnade sheltered a crowd of people,
who were waiting for the rain to stop, that they might spend their
Sunday evening, as usual, in rambling about the streets. Within the
building, which showed light through all its long windows, a
religious meeting was in progress, and hundreds of voices peeled
forth a rousing hymn, fortified with deeper organ-note.

Hilliard noticed that as rain-drops fell on the heated globes of the
street-lamps they were thrown off again in little jets and puffs of
steam. This phenomenon amused him for several minutes. He wondered
that he had never observed it before.

Easter Sunday. The day had its importance for a Christian mind. Did
Eve think about that? Perhaps her association with him, careless as
he was in all such matters, had helped to blunt her religious
feeling. Yet what hope was there, in such a world as this, that she
would retain the pieties of her girlhood?

Easter Sunday. As he walked on, he pondered the Christian story, and
tried to make something out of it. Had it any significance for
_him_? Perhaps, for he had never consciously discarded the old
faith; he had simply let it fall out of his mind. But a woman ought
to have religious convictions. Yes; he saw the necessity of that.
Better for him if Eve were in the Town Hall yonder, joining her
voice with those that sang.

Better for _him_. A selfish point of view. But the advantage would
be hers also. Did he not desire her happiness? He tried to think so,
but after all was ashamed to play the sophist with himself. The