At last they came within easy reach of London; but Leonard had resolved
not to enter the metropolis fatigued and exhausted, as a wanderer needing
refuge, but fresh and elate, as a conqueror coming in triumph to take
possession of the capital. Therefore they halted early in the evening of
the day preceding this imperial entry, about six miles from the
metropolis, in the neighbourhood of Ealing (for by that route lay their
way). They were not tired on arriving at their inn. The weather was
singularly lovely, with that combination of softness and brilliancy which
is only known to the rare true summer days of England; all below so
green, above so blue,--days of which we have about six in the year, and
recall vaguely when we read of Robin Hood and Maid Marian, of Damsel and
Knight in Spenser's golden Summer Song, or of Jacques, dropped under the
oak-tree, watching the deer amidst the dells of Ardennes. So, after a
little pause at their inn, they strolled forth, not for travel but
pleasure, towards the cool of sunset, passing by the grounds that once
belonged to the Duke of Kent, and catching a glimpse of the shrubs and
lawns of that beautiful domain through the lodge-gates; then they crossed
into some fields, and came to a little rivulet called the Brent. Helen
had been more sad that day than on any during their journey,--perhaps
because, on approaching London, the memory of her father became more
vivid; perhaps from her precocious knowledge of life, and her foreboding
of what was to befall them, children that they both were. But Leonard
was selfish that day; he could not be influenced by his companion's
sorrow; he was so full of his own sense of being, and he already caught
from the atmosphere the fever that belongs to anxious capitals.

"Sit here, sister," said he, imperiously, throwing himself under the
shade of a pollard-tree that overhung the winding brook, "sit here and
talk."