They rode in beautiful
carriages, they strolled about, greeting one another with smiles. The
children ran and laughed. London, thought I to myself, is the city of
the fairies.

It passed, and we sank into a grim city of hoarse, roaring streets,
wherein the endless throngs swirled and surged as I had seen the yellow
waters curve and fret, contending, where the river pauses, rock-bound.
Here were no bright costumes, no bright faces, none stayed to greet
another; all was stern, and swift, and voiceless. London, then, said I
to myself, is the city of the giants. They must live in these towering
castles side by side, and these hurrying thousands are their driven
slaves.

But this passed also, and we sank lower yet until we reached a third
city, where a pale mist filled each sombre street. None of the beautiful
things of the world were to be seen here, but only the things coarse
and ugly. And wearily to and fro its sunless passages trudged with heavy
steps a weary people, coarse-clad, and with dull, listless faces. And
London, I knew, was the city of the gnomes who labour sadly all their
lives, imprisoned underground; and a terror seized me lest I, too,
should remain chained here, deep down below the fairy city that was
already but a dream.

We stopped at last in a long, unfinished street. I remember our pushing
our way through a group of dirty urchins, all of whom, my aunt remarked
in passing, ought to be skinned. It was my aunt's one prescription for
all to whom she took objection; but really in the present instance I
think it would have been of service; nothing else whatever could have
restored them to cleanliness. Then the door closed behind us with an
echoing clang, and the small, cold rooms came forward stiffly to greet
us.

The man in grey went to the one window and drew back the curtain; it
was growing dusk now. My aunt sat on a straight, hard chair and stared
fixedly at the three-armed gaselier. My mother stood in the centre of
the room with one small ungloved hand upon the table, and I noticed--for
I was very near--that the poor little one-legged thing was trembling.

"Of course it's not what you've been accustomed to, Maggie," said the
man in grey; "but it's only for a little while."

He spoke in a new, angry voice; but I could not see his face, his back
being to the light.

My mother drew his arms around us both.

"It is the best home in all the world," she said; and thus we stayed for
awhile.

"Nons