In the streets below, men and women streamed past by hundreds; I heard the beat of their feet on the pavement. Men on their way to business; servants on errands; boys hurrying to school; weary professors pacing slowly the old street; prostitutes, men and women, dragging their feet wearily after last night’s debauch; artists with quick, impatient footsteps; tradesmen for orders; children to seek for bread. I heard the stream beat by. And at the alley’s mouth, at the street corner, a broken barrel-organ was playing; sometimes it quavered and almost stopped, then went on again, like a broken human voice. I listened: my heart scarcely moved; it was as cold as lead. I could not bear the long day before me; and I tried to sleep again; yet still I heard the feet upon the pavement. And suddenly I heard them cry loud as they beat, “We are seeking!--we are seeking!--we are seeking!” and the broken barrel-organ at the street corner sobbed, “The Beautiful!--the Beautiful!--the Beautiful!” And my heart, which had been dead, cried out with every throb, “Love!--Truth!--the Beautiful!--the Beautiful!” It was the music I had heard in Heaven that I could not sing there. And fully I awoke. Upon the faded quilt, across my bed a long yellow streak of pale London sunlight was lying. It fell through my narrow attic window. I laughed. I rose. I was glad the long day was before me. Paris and London.