“Young thoughtless things like you see no more in such occupation than making so much clay into so many pots, for so much wages; and, perhaps, the pride of being a skilled workman. But those that have spent their first years in the fields, and have wandered about the world since, see much blessing to you in having beauty before your eyes, and growing up under your hands. ’Tis well for you that there is something to keep you fresh in all the dust of this place, and all the glare and noise of the street. The spirit of beauty that hung the cloud curtains of God’s throne may look bright down upon you, even here. Blessings on her, and Him that made her!” The boy’s rising colour seemed to show that he heard and partly understood, though he proceeded diligently with his work. “Did you ever go into the country, lad?” inquired Durell. “Did you ever see a green field?” “Not he, I’ll be bound,” answered the little boy at the neighbouring lathe, who became impatient to be noticed. “My father took me to Tottenham once, and I had some ale; but _his_ mother never lets him go anywhere.” “She does,” asserted Brennan, turning red again. “She lets me stay out on the wharf till bed-time; and when I got a new coat given me, she went all the way into the Park with me, one Sunday afternoon.” “You saw some green grass, there?” “Yes, Sir, and the swans.” “And plenty of ducks?” “I did not care so much about them,—just like soda-water bottles with wings, when they are flying. But I made a swan, sir, when I came back.” “What do you do out on the wharf till bed-time?” “Look at the boats passing under the bridge, sir. And there are heaps of things that look better as it grows dark.” “What sort of things?” “Baskets of things on the wharf, heaped up; and barrows and packages——” The boy at the lathe interrupted his companion by laying an information against him. There was not such a thing as a bit of slate ever found upon the wharf that was not covered over with Brennan’s drawings of barrows, and boats, and baskets, and sometimes Mr. Studley’s greyhound. “I made a greyhound,” observed Brennan, looking up; “and when it was baked, Mr. Studley knew it for his own.” “When shall you have a new coat again?” asked Durell. “Confound the question! just as if we could not get you a coat among us! You shall go to a place, Brennan,—I will take you to a place where you will see something prettier than that pitcher you seem to be admiring so much;— something that I think you will like better than green fields.” “On a Sunday, sir?” “No; I believe not. Studley! The British Museum is not open on a Sunday, is it?—No, boy; it must be some other day.” “But I can’t go any other day,” said the boy mournfully, “O yes; cursed be he that shuts out such as you from feeding your genius,—from adoring God in using his gifts” “Perhaps you would ask for a part holiday, sir?” suggested the boy.