ace, and the poverty of his appearance. The birds in the hedges
began to sing, and the cattle to low and tinkle their bells; the whistle
of the herdsmen came up from the valley, and all nature seemed to wake
with a cry of gladness to greet the new day.

Even poor Dick Whittington could not wholly resist the cheering
influence of that bright summer morning. It was impossible to believe
that everything was miserable in the midst of so much gladness, and
Dick's face brightened and his step became brisker almost without his
knowing it, as he trudged higher and higher up that steep road. His
thoughts, too, took a less desponding turn.

"After all," said he to himself, "perhaps I am foolish to be running
away from my master's house. I had better be the scullery boy of good
Master Fitzwarren, although his cook does ill-treat me and lead me a
dog's life, than the vagabond idle boy which I am now. And yet I cannot
endure the thought of returning to that cruel woman. Would that I knew
what to do!"

Thus he thought and questioned with himself, when he came to a stone set
by the wayside; and here he sat to rest, and ruminate further upon his
evil fortune.

"If some voice would but say `Return,' I would return," said he, "even
though she scold and beat me, for I know not what to do, without a
friend in the world. Was ever such a wretched boy as I?"

And he buried his face in his hands and gave himself over to his misery.
Suddenly in the quiet morning air there came to his ears a wonderful
sound, up from the valley, where, in the sun, shone the towers and
steeples of London town.

It was the sound of distant bells, and as the boy listened, it came
clearer and clearer, and seemed to fill the air with the very voice for
which he had but a minute since been longing. But what a strange voice
and what a strange story the bells told!--

Turn again, Whittington, Thrice Lord Mayor of London!

Over and over again they said the same words. Over and over again Dick
persuaded himself he was dreaming, yet felt sure he was awake. "Turn
again!" that was plain enough, and he could believe it, even though Bow
Bells said it. But--"Thrice Lord Mayor of London!" what could that
mean? That was never meant for the poor ill-used scullery boy of Master
Fitzwarren, the mercer in the Minories! And yet what could be more
distinct than the voice of those bells?

He sprang from his seat, turned his face in the direction of that
wonderful