behest was disregarded. Paul dived into the volume occasionally,
however, for intellectual entertainment.

As for the fragrant and beautiful goddess, she had disappeared into
thin air. Paul hung for a week or two about the vicarage, in the
hope of seeing her, but in vain. As a matter of fact, Maisie
Shepherd had left for Scotland the morning after the school treat;
people don't come to Bludston for long and happy holidays. So Paul
had to feed his ardent little soul on memories. That she had not
been an impalpable creature of his fancy was proven by the precious
cornelian heart. Her words, too, were written in fine flame across
his childish mind. Paul began to live the life of dreams.

He longed for books. The fragmentary glimpses of history and
geography in the Board school standard whetted without satisfying
his imagination. There was not a book in the house in Budge Street,
and he had never a penny to buy one. Sometimes Button would bring
home a dirty newspaper, which Paul would steal and read in secret,
but its contents seemed to lack continuity. He thirsted for a story.
Once a generous boy, since dead-he was too good to live had given
him a handful of penny dreadfuls, whence he had derived his
knowledge of pirates and Red Indians. Too careless and confident, he
had left them about the kitchen, and his indignant mother had used
them to light the fire. The burning of his library was an enduring
tragedy. He realized that it must be reconstituted; but how? His
nimble wit hit on a plan. Vagrant as an unowned dog, he could roam
the streets at pleasure. Why should he not sell newspapers-in a
quarter of the town, be it understood, remote from both factory and
Budge Street? He sold newspapers for three weeks before he was found
out. Then he was chastised and forced to go on selling newspapers