"Crack in ’is ’ead as long as my ’and. ’Orrible! Never noted afore that blood ’ad such a salty smell to it. Quite sickly, ain’t it? To think of it, poor fool! ... And on a day like this, too!" And he took off his hat and sunned himself. "I’m for a drink arter all that," he added; and, his companion agreeing with him, he walked over to the tavern, in company with many other of the ’bus passengers, and the driver and conductor of that vehicle, and most of the barge-men. They took the cornet-blower with them, and somebody collected a store of coppers in that musician’s interest, with which he was presented upon the understanding that he should "bite off a yard o’ somethink lively" to cheer the mourning host withal. So while the woman on the barge was being carried below deck by her sympathisers; whilst faint gurgles issued from the daffodil-girl, standing over her baskets by the water-side; whilst the sun winked down upon all of us—the cornet-blower threw out his chest with an air something at variance with the muddy tears upon his cheek, and blared out a song of mourning. Leave off tickerlin’, leave off tickerlin’, Leave off tickerlin’, Jock! sang the mourners; and the jolly young sun must have winked itself into a headache. By the time our ’bus went on again every note of tragedy save one had departed from the scene. That solitary note was supplied by the daffodil-girl, who stood by her garden dabbing disconsolately at her nose and eyes with an apron-end. Nought was stirring on the April barge, save one plump little figure, which squatted all by itself in the centre of the deck. They had forgotten the baby in this coil. But the baby was quite happy—happier than any of them. For it sat there, eating its father’s cap, and smiling amiably at the sunshine, as who should know that there is a benign and beautiful purpose in everything, even unto the falling of a sparrow. The daffodils upon the waterside, pressing each other close within their baskets, stared up into the heavens more wonderingly than ever. *XXVII* *THE CASE OF MRS. ROPER* "Beg pardon, young fellar," said Mrs. Roper, "but ain’t you the young fellar from the doctor’s?" Mrs. Roper is a sullen-eyed lady with very many chins. She is, _vide_ her shop sign, a dealer in antiques, and, to quote the same authority, old metal, old teeth, old glass and china, and every variety of new and second-hand wearing apparel are bought and sold by her. She is not the cleanest woman in London, nor is her shop the cleanest in Bovingdon Street. But there is charm in the variety and abundance of Mrs. Roper’s assets, which are the working parts, as it were, of our complex civilisation, amongst which tokens Mrs. Roper is always sitting, silently, mournfully, by day and night, like a lonely widow on a coral reef, surrounded by mementoes of a shipwreck.