CHAPTER XIII.

As the reader will expect, no trace of Burley could Leonard find: the
humourist had ceased to communicate with the "Beehive." But Leonard
grieved for Burley's sake; and, indeed, he missed the intercourse of the
large, wrong mind. But he settled down by degrees to the simple, loving
society of his child companion, and in that presence grew more tranquil.
The hours in the daytime that he did not pass at work, he spent as
before, picking up knowledge at book-stalls; and at dusk he and Helen
would stroll out,--sometimes striving to escape from the long suburb into
fresh rural air; more often wandering to and fro the bridge that led to
glorious Westminster--London's classic land--and watching the vague lamps
reflected on the river. This haunt suited the musing, melancholy boy.
He would stand long and with wistful silence by the balustrade, seating
Helen thereon, that she too might look along the dark mournful waters,
which, dark though they be, still have their charm of mysterious repose.

As the river flowed between the world of roofs, and the roar of human
passions on either side, so in those two hearts flowed Thought--and all
they knew of London was its shadow.




CHAPTER XIV.