le. My mother made a sign of impatience at the
delay, and I got into the carriage. Spite of the rain, I put down the
window and leaned out. I forgot the presence of my mother and aunt. I
forgot everything. The carriage moved on.

'Winifred!' I gasped, as the certainty that the voice was hers came
upon me.

And the dingy London night became illuminated with scrolls of fire,
whose blinding, blasting scripture seared my eyes till I was fain to
close them: 'Let his children be vagabonds, and beg their bread: let
them seek it also out of desolate places.'

So rapidly had the carriage rolled through the rain, and so entirely
had my long pain robbed me of all presence of mind, that, by the time
I had recovered from the paralysing shock, we had reached Piccadilly
Circus. I pulled the check-string.

'Why, Henry!' said my mother, who had raised the window, 'what are
you doing? And what has made you turn so pale?'

My aunt sat in indignant silence. 'Ten thousand pardons,' I said, as
I stepped out of the carriage, and shook hands with them. 'A sudden
recollection--important papers unsecured at my hotel--business in--in
Lincoln's Inn Fields. I will call on you in the morning.'

And I reeled down the pavement towards the Haymarket. When I was some
little distance from the carriage, I took to my heels and hurried as
fast as possible towards the theatre, utterly regardless of the
people. I reached the spot breathless. I stood for a moment staring
wildly to right and left of me. Not a trace of her was to be seen. I
heard a thin voice from my lips, that did not seem my own, ask a
policeman, who was now patrolling the neighbourhood, if he had seen a
basket-girl singing.

'No,' said the man, 'but I fancy you mean the Essex Street Beauty,
don't you? I haven't seen her for a long while now, but her dodge
used to be to come here on rainy nights, and stand bare-headed and
sing and sell just when the theatres was a-bustin'. She gets a good
lot, I fancy, by that dodge.'

'The Essex Street Beauty?'

'Oh, I thought you know'd p'raps. She's a strornary pretty
beggar-wench, with blue eyes and black hair, as used to stand at the
corner of Essex Street, Strand, and the money as that gal got
a-holdin' out her matches and a-sayin' texes out of the Bible must
ha' been strornary. So the Essex Street Beauty's bin about here agin
on the rainy-night dodge, 'es she? Well, it must have been the fust
time for many a long day, for I've never seen her