And so ended little Paul's school days at Doctor Blimber's, for once at home again he never rose from his little bed. He lay there (listening to the noises in the street), quite tranquilly, not caring much how the time went, but watching it and everything about him with observing eyes. When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew that evening was coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen--deepen, into night. Then he thought how the long streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was flowing through the great city; and now he thought how black it was and how deep it would look reflecting the hosts of stars--and more than all, how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea. As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so rare that he could hear their coming, count them as they passed, and lose them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured ring about the candle, and wait patiently for day. When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun and when its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself--pictured! he saw--the high church towers rising up into the morning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds came by degrees into the street below; the servants in the house were roused and busy; faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered for himself, "I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you. Tell papa so." By little and little he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and re-passing; and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless, and uneasy sense again--the child could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waking moments--of that rushing river. "Why will it never stop, Floy?" he would sometimes ask her. "It is bearing me away I think." But Floy could always soothe and reassure him: and it was his daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest. "You are always watching me, Floy, let me watch you now." They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline the while she lay beside him, bending forwards oftentimes to kiss her. Thus the flush of the day in its heat and light, would gradually decline; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall.