In the long spring days that had now arrived, he used to awake early, turn round on his back, and gaze at them. He knew them all by heart. To him those men and women, who in gorgeous raiment laughed and smiled and danced, seemed to represent all that was beautiful. Those impossible flowers, that stage-painted scenery, opened fairy-land to Robin. Never as long as he lived did he forget the gaudy walls of his attic home. In reality, the wretched prints spoke of all that was coarse and low in life; but to the innocent child they meant beauty, and he learned no evil lessons thereby. The prints, as I said, were coarse; but one, as great a daub as the others, treated at least of a pure and child-like theme. A little girl dressed in white, with curling hair, sat on a bank stringing daisies into a chain. The bank was an impossible green, the child's cheeks an unnatural red, the daisies in her lap were like no daisies ever seen, while the sky over-head lowered down upon her an intense Prussian blue. But Robin was not an art critic, and to him the frightful production meant perfection. Of all the illustrations on the wall, this was his favourite: he liked them all, he loved them all, but he gave his heart to that little maiden in white, and he never tired of asking Helen to tell him her imaginary story. A few weeks passed thus, when one day, as they were out together, they met an old acquaintance--in short, one of the thieves whom Robin had known and dreaded when he lived in the thieves' quarters. A pang, he knew not why, shot through his young heart when he saw him, and neither was Helen pleased. The man accosted her, however, and though she would not allow him to see her home, they talked together for some time. Whatever their conversation--for they spoke partly in metaphor, partly turning their sentences backwards--it seemed to excite Helen; her bold, black eyes sparkled with something of their old fire, her tones grew loud and eager. Her companion was evidently entreating her to do something. She hesitated; she looked at Robin; she demurred; finally, she yielded. That night Robin went to sleep as usual with Helen by his side: he remembered how passionately she kissed him just before he fell asleep, but when the morning dawned she was gone. This had never happened before, and for a moment or two the child felt uneasy, and gazed around him anxiously; then his fears subsided, and, turning on his straw bed, he made himself happy watching the little girl in white, as she strung her daisies. At eleven o'clock Helen returned, flushed, tired, exhausted, her dress torn, and the paint with which she had tried to disguise her appearance scarcely washed away from her face.