asleep. The next day it was much the same, only at dinner he had up the
brandy-bottle, and finished it; and he did not have up Jacob, but he
contrived to write.

The third day it rained incessantly. "Have you no books, Mrs. Goodyer?"
asked poor John Burley.

"Oh, yes, some that the dear lady left behind her; and perhaps you would
like to look at some papers in her own writing?"

"No, not the papers,--all women scribble, and all scribble the same
things. Get me the books."

The books were brought up,--poetry and essays--John knew them by heart.
He looked out on the rain, and at evening the rain had ceased. He rushed
to his hat and fled.

"Nature, Nature!" he exclaimed, when he was out in the air and hurrying
by the dripping hedgerows, "you are not to be coaxed by me! I have
jilted you shamefully, I own it; you are a female, and unforgiving. I
don't complain. You may be very pretty, but you are the stupidest and
most tire some companion that ever I met with. Thank Heaven, I am not
married to you!"

Thus John Burley made his way into town, and paused at the first public-
house. Out of that house he came with a jovial air, and on he strode
towards the heart of London. Now he is in Leicester Square, and he gazes
on the foreigners who stalk that region, and hums a tune; and now from
yonder alley two forms emerge, and dog his careless footsteps; now
through the maze of passages towards St. Martin's he threads his path,