cottages in leafy gardens; or even reach as far as Clapton,
where old red brick Georgian houses still stood behind high palings, and
tall elms gave to the wide road on sunny afternoons an old-world air of
peace. But such excursions were the exception, for strange though it may
read, the narrow, squalid streets had greater hold on me. Not the few
main thoroughfares, filled ever with a dull, deep throbbing as of some
tireless iron machine; where the endless human files, streaming ever up
and down, crossing and recrossing, seemed mere rushing chains of flesh
and blood, working upon unseen wheels; but the dim, weary, lifeless
streets--the dark, tortuous roots, as I fancied them, of that grim
forest of entangled brick. Mystery lurked in their gloom. Fear whispered
from behind their silence. Dumb figures flitted swiftly to and fro,
never pausing, never glancing right nor left. Far-off footsteps, rising
swiftly into sound, as swiftly fading, echoed round their lonely comers.
Dreading, yet drawn on, I would creep along their pavements as through
some city of the dead, thinking of the eyes I saw not watching from the
thousand windows; starting at each muffled sound penetrating the long,
dreary walls, behind which that close-packed, writhing life lay hid.

One day there came a cry from behind a curtained window. I stood still
for a moment and then ran; but before I could get far enough away I
heard it again, a long, piercing cry, growing fiercer before it ceased;
so that I ran faster still, not heeding where I went, till I found
myself in a raw, unfinished street, ending in black waste land,
bordering the river. I stopped, panting, wondering how I should find
my way again. To recover myself and think I sat upon the doorstep of
an empty house, and there came dancing down the road with a curious,
half-running, half-hopping step--something like a water wagtail's--a
child, a boy about my own age, who, after eyeing me strangely sat down
beside me.

We watched each other for a few minutes; and I noticed that his mouth
kept opening and shutting, though he said nothing. Suddenly, edging
closer to me, he spoke in a thick whisper. It sounded as though his
mouth were full of wool.

"Wot 'appens to yer when yer dead?"

"If you're good you go to Heaven. If you're bad you go to Hell."

"Long way off, both of 'em, ain't they?"

"Yes. Millions of miles."

"They can't come after yer? Can't fetch yer back again?"

"No, never."

The doo