creed, and there
should be contentment and no complaining in her streets.

And as he walked down the Strand, a little ragged boy cheeped out between
his legs:

"Bloodee discoveree in a Bank--Grite sensytion! Pi-er!"

Miltoun paid no heed to that saying; yet, with it, the wind that blows
where man lives, the careless, wonderful, unordered wind, had dispersed
his austere and formal vision. Great was that wind--the myriad
aspiration of men and women, the praying of the uncounted multitude to
the goddess of Sensation--of Chance, and Change. A flowing from heart to
heart, from lip to lip, as in Spring the wistful air wanders through a
wood, imparting to every bush and tree the secrets of fresh life, the
passionate resolve to grow, and become--no matter what! A sighing, as
eternal as the old murmuring of the sea, as little to be hushed, as prone
to swell into sudden roaring!

Miltoun held on through the traffic, not looking overmuch at the present
forms of the thousands he passed, but seeing with the eyes of faith the
forms he desired to see. Near St. Paul's he stopped in front of an old
book-shop. His grave, pallid, not unhandsome face, was well-known to
William Rimall, its small proprietor, who at once brought out his latest
acquisition--a Mores 'Utopia.' That particular edition (he assured
Miltoun) was quite unprocurable--he had never sold but one other copy,
which had been literally, crumbling away. This copy was in even better
condition. It could hardly last another twenty years--a genuine book, a
bargain. There wasn't so much movement in More as there had been a
little time back.

Miltoun opened the tome, and a small book-louse who had been sleeping on
the word 'Tranibore,' began to make its way slowly towards the very
centre of the volume.

"I see it's genuine," said Miltoun.

"It's not to read, my lord," the little man warned him: "Hardly safe to
turn the pages. As I was saying--I've not had a better piece this year.
I haven't really!"

"Shrewd old dreamer," muttered Miltoun; "the Socialists haven't got
beyond him, even now."

The little man's eyes blinked, as though apologizing for the views of
Thomas More.

"Well," he said, "I suppose he was one of them. I forget if your
lordship's very strong on politics?"

Miltoun smiled.

"I want to see an England, Rimall, something like the England of Mores
dream. But my machinery will be different. I shall begin at the top."

The little man nodded.