“I should like to go back to the pictures once more. I feel as if I must stand among them just a little longer. They have been my companions for so long that they are almost part of myself. I can close my eyes and recall them faithfully. But I want to take a last look at them; I want to feel once more the presence of the great masters, and to refresh my mind with their genius. When I look at their work I think of their life, and can only wonder at their death. It was so strange that they should die.” They went back together, and he took her to his favourite pictures, but remained speechless before them, and she did not disturb his thoughts. At last he said: “I am ready to go. I have said farewell to them all. I know nothing more wonderful than being among a number of fine pictures. It is almost overwhelming. Once expects nature to be grand, but one does not expect man to be grand.” “You know we don’t agree there,” she answered. “_I_ expect everything grand and great from man.” They went out of the gallery, and into Trafalgar Square. It was a scorching afternoon in August, but there was some cooling comfort in seeing the dancing water of the fountains sparkling so brightly in the sunshine. “Do you mind stopping here a few minutes?” he said. “I should like to sit down and watch. There is so much to see.” She led the way to a seat, one end of which was occupied by a workman, who was sleeping soundly, and snoring too, his arms folded tightly together. He had a little clay pipe in the corner of his mouth; it seemed to be tucked in so snugly that there was not much danger of its falling to the ground. At last Helen spoke to her companion. “What do you mean by saying that you will not be able to finish your picture? Perhaps you are not well. Indeed, you don’t look well. You make me anxious, for I have a great regard for you.” “I am ill and suffering,” he answered, quietly. “I thought I should have died yesterday; but I made up my mind to live until I saw you again, and I thought I would ask you to spend the afternoon with me, and go with me to Westminster Abbey, and sit with me in the cloisters. I do not feel able to go by myself, and I know of no one to ask except you; and I believed you would not refuse me, for you have been very kind to me. I do not quite understand why you have been kind to me, but I am wonderfully grateful to you. Today I heard some one in the gallery say that you were plain. I turned round and I said, ‘I beg your pardon; _I_ think she is very beautiful.’ I think they laughed, and that puzzled me; for you have always seemed to me a very beautiful person.” At that moment the little clay pipe fell from the workman’s mouth and was broken into bits. He awoke with a start, gazed stupidly at the old man and his companion, and at the broken clay pipe. “Curse my luck!” he said, yawning. “I was fond of that damned little pipe.” The old man drew his own pipe and his own tobacco-pouch from his pocket.