If there lie a still, pure sorrow At the heart of everything, If never shall dawn a morrow With healing upon its wing, Then down I kneel to my sorrow, And say, Thou art my king! From old pale joy I borrow A withered song to sing! And with heart entire and thorough, To a calm despair I cling, And, freedman of old king Sorrow, Away Hope's fetters fling! That was all--and not much, either as poetry, or as consolation to one that loved him; but sometimes, like that ghastly shroud of Icelandic fable, the poem will rise and wrap itself around the poet. As Richard closed his envelope, he remembered, with a pang of self-reproach, that the hour of his usual meeting with Alice was past, and that Arthur too was in danger of going to bed hungry, for his custom was to put her brother's supper in Alice's handbag. He set out at once for Clerkenwell--on foot notwithstanding his haste, for he was hoarding every penny to get new clothes for Arthur, who was not only much in want of them for warmth, but in risk of losing his situation because of his shabby appearance. His anxiety to reach the house before the mother came in, spurred him to his best speed. He halted two minutes on the way to buy some slices of ham and some rolls, and ran on again. It was a frosty night, but by the time he reached Everilda-street, he was far from cold. He was rewarded by finding his brother and sister at home, alone, and not too hungry. He had just time to empty his pockets, and receive a kiss from Alice in return, when they heard the uncertain step of their mother coming up the stair, stopping now and then, and again resuming the ascent. Alice went to watch which door she would turn to when she reached the top, that Richard might go out by the other, for the two rooms communicated. But just as she was entering Arthur's room, Mrs. Manson changed her mind, and turned to the other door, so that Richard was caught in the very act of making his exit. She flew at him, seized him by the hair, and began to pull and cuff him, abusing him as the true son of his father, who did everything on the sly, and never looked an honest woman in the face. Richard said never a word, but let her tug and revile till there was no more strength in her, when she let him go, and dropped into a chair. The three went half-way down the stair together. “Don't mind her,” said Alice with a great sob. “I hope she didn't hurt you much, Richard!” “Not a bit,” answered Richard. “Poor mother!” sighed Arthur; “she's not in her right mind! We're in constant terror lest she drop down dead!” “She's not a very good mother to you!” said Richard. “No, but that has nothing to do with loving her,” answered Alice; “and to think of her dying like that, and going straight to the bad place! Oh, Richard, what _shall_ I do! It turns me crazy to think of it!”