friend, and that seemed the final answer to all his aspirations.

This was a dark day with him. The gold he handled stung him to hatred
and envy, and every feeling which he had resolved to combat as worse
than profitless. He could not speak to his fellow-workmen. From morning
to night it had rained. St. John's Arch looked more broken-spirited
than ever, drenched in sooty moisture.

During the dinner-hour he walked over to the public-house of which Jane
had spoken, and obtained from the barman as full a description as
possible of the person he hoped to encounter. Both then and on his
return home in the evening he shunned the house where his friends dwelt.

It came round to Monday. For the first time for many months he had
allowed Sunday to pass without visiting the Hewetts. He felt that to go
there at present would only be to increase the parents' depression by
his own low spirits. Clara had left them now, however, and if he still
stayed away, his behaviour might be misinterpreted. On returning from
work, he washed, took a hurried meal, and was on the point of going out
when someone knocked at his door. He opened, and saw an old man who was
a stranger to him.

CHAPTER VII

MRS. BYASS'S LODGINGS

'You are Mr. Kirkwood?' said his visitor civilly. 'My name is Snowdon.
I should be glad to speak a few words with you, if you could spare the
time.'

Sidney's thoughts were instantly led into the right channel; he
identified the old man by his white hair and the cloak. The hat,
however, which had been described to him, was now exchanged for a soft
felt of a kind common enough; the guernsey, too, had been laid aside.
With ready goodwill he invited Mr. Snowdon to enter.

There was not much in the room to distinguish it from the dwelling of
any orderly mechanic. A small bed occupied one side; a small table
stood before the window; the toilet apparatus was, of course,
unconcealed; a half-open cupboard allowed a glimpse of crockery,
sundries, and a few books. The walls, it is true, were otherwise
ornamented than is usual; engravings, chromo-lithographs, and some
sketches of landscape in pencil, were suspended wherever light fell,
and the choice manifested in this collection was nowise akin to that
which ruled in Mrs. Peckover's parlour, and probably in all the
parlours of Tysoe Street. To select for one's chamber a woodcut after
Constable or Gainsborough is at all events to give proof of a capacity
for civilisation.