ze Nelson, dripping with dirty moisture; between the big buildings
of New Street, and so to the centre of the town. At the corner by the
Post Office he stood in idle contemplation. Rain was still falling, but
lightly. The great open space gleamed with shafts of yellow radiance
reflected on wet asphalt from the numerous lamps. There was little
traffic. An omnibus clattered by, and a tottery cab, both looking
rain-soaked. Near the statue of Peel stood a hansom, the forlorn horse
crooking his knees and hanging his hopeless head. The Town Hall
colonnade sheltered a crowd of people, who were waiting for the rain to
stop, that they might spend their Sunday evening, as usual, in rambling
about the streets. Within the building, which showed light through all
its long windows, a religious meeting was in progress, and hundreds of
voices peeled forth a rousing hymn, fortified with deeper organ-note.

Hilliard noticed that as rain-drops fell on the heated globes of the
street-lamps they were thrown off again in little jets and puffs of
steam. This phenomenon amused him for several minutes. He wondered that
he had never observed it before.

Easter Sunday. The day had its importance for a Christian mind. Did Eve
think about that? Perhaps her association with him, careless as he was
in all such matters, had helped to blunt her religious feeling. Yet
what hope was there, in such a world as this, that she would retain the
pieties of her girlhood?

Easter Sunday. As he walked on, he pondered the Christian story, and
tried to make something out of it. Had it any significance for _him_?
Perhaps, for he had never consciously discarded the old faith; he had
simply let it fall out of his mind. But a woman ought to have religious
convictions. Yes; he saw the necessity of that. Better for him if Eve
were in the Town Hall yonder, joining her voice with those that sang.

Better for _him_. A selfish point of view. But the advantage would be
hers also. Did he not desire her happiness? He tried to think so, but
after all was ashamed to play the sophist with himself. The letter he
carried in his pocket told the truth. He had but to think of her as
married to Robert Narramore and the jealous fury of natural man drove
him headlong.

Monday was again a holiday. When would the cursed people get back to
their toil, and let the world resume its wonted grind and clang? They
seemed to have been making holiday for a month past.

He walked up and down on