‘You could not make a better use of it.’ ‘I suppose not. After all, the masses, ignorant of art as they must needs be, must still be capable of some interest in relics which are associated with the past. There is an innate sentiment of beauty in the mind of man—an innate passion for the romantic and the ancient which not the most sordid surroundings can extinguish. I have seen dirty bare-footed children—wanderers from the purlieus of Oxford-market or Cleveland-road—flatten their noses against my window in Bond-street, and gloat over the beauty of Sèvres and Dresden, as if they had the appreciation of the connoisseur.’ Lucius encouraged this idea of the East-end museum. He saw that this fancy, and the determination to dispose of the more saleable portion of his collection, had already lightened the old man’s spirits. He agreed in the wisdom of turning these hoarded and hidden treasures into the sinews of life’s warfare. He declared himself quite willing to owe advancement to Mr. Sivewright’s generosity. The catalogue was begun that very evening; for Homer Sivewright, once having taken up this idea, pursued it with extraordinary eagerness. He dictated a new list of his treasures from the old one, and Lucius did all the penmanship; and at this employment they both worked sedulously for two hours, at the end of which time Lucius ordered his patient off to bed, and took leave for the night. This went on for three nights, and on the third, which was Saturday, the catalogue had made considerable progress. All those objects which addressed themselves to the antiquarian rather than to the connoisseur, and all articles of doubtful or secondary value, Mr. Sivewright kept back for his East-end Museum. He knew that the public appreciation of his collection depended upon its being scrupulously weeded of all inferior objects. He had been known to amateurs as an infallible judge; and in this, his final appearance before the public, he wished to maintain his reputation. Lucius left him on Saturday night wonderfully improved in spirits. That occupation of catalogue-making had been the best possible distraction. Early on Sunday morning Lucius started for Brighton, so early that the hills and downs of Sussex were still wrapped in morning mists as he approached that pleasant watering-place. He was in time to take Lucille to the eleven-o’clock service at the famous St. Paul’s. It was the first time they had ever gone to church together, and to kneel thus side by side in the temple seemed as blissful as it was new to both.