‘It will do the children no harm to miss their lessons this afternoon; in the depressed state of the barometer, it is cruelty to make them study. But it is such a day----’ ‘Oh, I don’t mind. It will do me no harm; I don’t take cold easily, and I can take an omnibus from Oxford Street, you know.’ ‘Really, since you don’t seem to mind, I think----’ ‘I will get ready now,’ said Helena. ‘I can lend you a waterproof,’ suggested Mrs. Galloway, to whom it did not seem to occur that a cab would be the most effectual kind of waterproof. ‘I have one, thank you; I am ready now. I will put the books in this strap. Have you put a list with them?’ ‘The list is quite ready. Then you will bring the books back here?’ ‘Yes,’ said Helena, cheerfully, so pleased at the prospect of escaping the afternoon’s lessons that she would willingly have gone if, in addition to the rain, it had blown a hurricane. Mrs. Galloway followed her to the hall door, uttering deprecating observations, and Helena, unfurling her umbrella, stepped out into the rain. After a short walk through the damp, soaking avenues of the park, she at last emerged in Oxford Street, and stood waiting in the wet until an omnibus came by. It was nearly full, but Helena managed to squeeze herself in between two stout ‘Turkish merchants,’ and opposite a fat old woman with a bundle. Who does not know and love the classic atmosphere of a crowded omnibus on a wet, close day? The omnibus took her to Market Street, from whence she took another walk into Cross Street, and turned into the narrow lane, sacred to Mr. Mudie’s library and fancy shops. Her enthusiasm was beginning to glow less brightly. She felt very wet, very draggled, and very tired--exceedingly tired. She went into the library, and found herself alone there; the young man who came forward to serve her looked almost compassionately at her, and remarked what very bad weather it was. Helena languidly agreed with him, and presented her list. He gave her two heavy massive volumes of travels, and she took them. They would not go into the little strap which had held the three volume novel, and Helena was in that mood in which a trifling inconvenience makes one feel that it would be best to put an end to one’s existence at once. ‘Suppose you were to take only one volume,’ suggested the young man. ‘No, I’ll have both,’ said Helena, stoically, manfully seizing them, and going on her way. As she left the library some one almost knocked up against her, some one who was going, like herself, towards St. Ann’s Square. ‘Beg your pardon. Oh, Helena--Miss Spenceley! What, in the name of all that is damp, brings you here on such a day?’ asked Sebastian, stopping suddenly and looking at her. To meet him thus, after her recent reflections, came upon Helena with almost a shock: but she mastered herself quickly, and said, ‘I have only been to the library.’