family, this man--so cold to women in after life--had made child-love,
in the days of his boyhood, to a sweet little cousin long since
numbered with the dead. The present time, with its interests and
anxieties, passed away like the passing of a dream. Little by little,
as the minutes followed each other, his sore heart felt a calming
influence, breathed mysteriously from the fluttering leaves. Still
forgetful of the outward world, he wandered slowly up the street;
living in the old scenes; thinking, not unhappily now, the old
thoughts.

Where, in all London, could he have found a solitude more congenial to
a dreamer in daylight?

The broad district, stretching northward and eastward from the British
Museum, is like the quiet quarter of a country town set in the midst of
the roaring activities of the largest city in the world. Here, you can
cross the road, without putting limb or life in peril. Here, when you
are idle, you can saunter and look about, safe from collision with
merciless straight-walkers whose time is money, and whose destiny is
business. Here, you may meet undisturbed cats on the pavement, in the
full glare of noontide, and may watch, through the railings of the
squares, children at play on grass that almost glows with the lustre of
the Sussex Downs. This haven of rest is alike out of the way of fashion
and business; and is yet within easy reach of the one and the other.
Ovid paused in a vast and silent square. If his little cousin had
lived, he might perhaps have seen his children at play in some such
secluded place as this.

The birds were singing blithely in the trees. A tradesman's boy,
delivering fish to the cook, and two girls watering flowers at a