"Tsweet-tsweet-tsweet-tsweet!" every trill an intoxicating, magic draught, drunk in by the ear, and--a very opium--bearing the hearer far, far away to green fields, shady woodlands, golden hill-sides, and sparkling brooks; louder, louder and more rapturous, thrilling the air around; rising and falling, echoing from far and near, but ever sweet and pure, even joyous at times; and praise the song of the wild bird as you may, there is that in the trill of its caged brother in some close London alley that shall sound the sweeter in the sadness engendered by the surroundings, for it whispers of brighter scenes and purer homes, bearing you with it far, far away from the misery where you stay. Even Bill Jarker ceased waving his handkerchief, took his short, black pipe from his mouth, and listened; the curate thought of days when, with a soft white hand in his, he had wandered over the downs, listening to those ever-sweet English notes; while from the window above was stretched forth the fair, shapely head of Lucy Grey, her eyes sparkling, and lips apart, as if to command silence; and then, as the curate looked up, there was a slight start, a faint flush of colour in the girl's pale cheeks, and her head was quickly withdrawn. A tall, slight, careworn man was the curate of Saint Magdalen's; hair sprinkled with grey, deep lines crossing his brow, and yet there was a smile of ineffable sweetness lingering about his mouth--a smile which, far from telling of weakness, whispered of sorrow, tenderness, patience, and charity. The few minutes of tranquillity had passed. The door of the house stood open--as, in fact, did that of every other house in the thickly-inhabited court; the children began to troop back, Bill Jarker took to his pipe and pigeon-flying, and with thoughts trembling between the ideal and the real, the curate entered the door before him.