The weeks, the months, seem long without her. He buys his books, and with every new book he buys new comfort. He recalls the historian’s words: "Some day, when she is tired, she will be glad to lean on some one whom she can trust." So David waits. THE END. * * * * * * * * *AN IDYLL OF LONDON.* *BY BEATRICE HARRADEN.* It was one o’clock, and many of the students in the National Gallery had left off work, and were refreshing themselves with lunch and conversation. There was one old worker who had not stirred from his place; but he had put down his brush, and had taken from his pocket a small book, which was, like its owner, thin and shabby of covering. He seemed to find pleasure in reading it, for he turned over its pages with all the tenderness characteristic of one who loves what he reads. Now and again he glanced at his unfinished copy of the beautiful portrait of Andrea del Sarto, and once his eyes rested on another copy next to his, better and truer than his; and once he stooped to pick up a girl’s prune-colored tie which had fallen from the neighboring easel. After this he seemed to become unconscious of his surroundings, as unconscious indeed as any one of the pictures near him. Any one might have been justified in mistaking him for the portrait of a man, but that his lips moved; for it was his custom to read softly to himself. The students passed back to their places, not troubling to notice him, because they knew from experience that he never noticed them, and that all greetings were wasted on him, and all words were wanton expenditure of breath. They had come to regard him very much in the same way as many of us regard the wonders of Nature, without astonishment, without any questionings, and often without any interest. One girl, a newcomer, did chance to say to her companion: "How ill that old man looks!" "Oh, he always looks like that," was the answer. "You will soon get accustomed to him. Come along! I must finish my ’Blind Beggar’ this afternoon."