and, too old to be of use, had been chivied forth from their hive to perish slowly in the cold twilight of their days. Down the centre of the street Thyme saw a brewer's dray creeping its way due south under the sun. Three horses drew it, with braided tails and beribboned manes, the brass glittering on their harness. High up, like a god, sat the drayman, his little slits of eyes above huge red cheeks fixed immovably on his horses' crests. Behind him, with slow, unceasing crunch, the dray rolled, piled up with hogsheads, whereon the drayman's mate lay sleeping. Like the slumbrous image of some mighty unrelenting Power, it passed, proud that its monstrous bulk contained all the joy and blessing those shadows on the pavement had ever known. The two young people emerged on to the high road running east and west. “Cross here,” said Martin, “and cut down into Kensington. Nothing more of interest now till we get to Hound Street. Purceys and Purceys all round about this part.” Thyme shook herself. “O Martin, let's go down a road where there's some air. I feel so dirty.” She put her hand up to her chest. “There's one here,” said Martin. They turned to the left into a road that had many trees. Now that she could breathe and look about her, Thyme once more held her head erect and began to swing her arms. “Martin, something must be done!” The young doctor did not reply; his face still wore its pale, sarcastic, observant look. He gave her arm a squeeze with a half-contemptuous smile. CHAPTER XV SECOND PILGRIMAGE TO HOUND STREET Arriving in Hound Street, Martin Stone and his companion went straight up to Mrs. Hughs' front room. They found her doing the week's washing, and hanging out before a scanty fire part of the little that the week had been suffered to soil. Her arms were bare, her face and eyes red; the steam of soapsuds had congealed on them. Attached to the bolster by a towel, under his father's bayonet and the oleograph depicting the Nativity, sat the baby. In the air there was the scent of him, of walls, and washing, and red herrings. The two young people took their seat on the window-sill. “May we open the window, Mrs. Hughs?” said Thyme. “Or will it hurt the baby?” “No, miss.” “What's the matter with your wrists?” asked Martin. The seamstress, muffing her arms with the garment she was dipping in soapy water, did not answer. “Don't do that. Let me have a look.” Mrs. Hughs held out her arms; the wrists were swollen and discoloured. “The brute!” cried Thyme. The young doctor muttered: “Done last night. Got any arnica?” “No, Sir.” “Of course not.” He laid a sixpence on the sill. “Get some and rub it in. Mind you don't break the skin.” Thyme suddenly burst out: “Why don't you leave him, Mrs. Hughs? Why do you live with a brute like that?” Martin frowned. “Any particular row,” he said, “or only just the ordinary?” Mrs. Hughs turned her face to the scanty fire. Her shoulders heaved spasmodically.