“THE CHILDREN OF PAUL’S” 141

the sun was low and the cool wind came up from the
river with a little whispering in the lane. The purple-
gray doves, too, would be cooing softly in the elms over
the cottage gable. In fancy he heard the whistle of their
wings as they flew. But all the sound that came in over
the roofs of London town was a hollow murmur as from
a kennel of surly hounds.

“Nick !—oh, Nick!”

Cicely Carew was calling at the door. The rat scurried
off to its hole in the wall.

“What there, Nick! Art thou within?” Cicely called
again; but Nick made no reply.

“Nick, dear Nick, art erying?”

“No,” said he; “I’m not.”

There was a short silence.

“Nick, I say, wilt thou be good if I open the door?”

“ No.”

“Then I will open it anyway; thou durst n’t be bad to
me!”

The bolts thumped, and then the heavy door swung
slowly back.

“Why, where art thou?”

He was sitting in the corner behind the door.

“ Here,” said he.

She came in, but he did not look up.

“Nick,” she asked earnestly, “why wilt thou be so bad,
and try to run away from my father?”

“T hate thy father!” said he, and brought his fist down
upon his knee.