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as it can.
HARLEY STREET, LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1861.

OPENING CHAPTER.
A CHILD'S SUNDAY.
At a quarter to one o'clock, on a wet Sunday afternoon, in November
1837, Samuel Snoxell, page to Mr. Zachary Thorpe, of Baregrove
Square, London, left the area gate with three umbrellas under his arm,
to meet his master and mistress at the church door, on the conclusion of
morning service. Snoxell had been specially directed by the housemaid
to distribute his three umbrellas in the following manner: the new silk
umbrella was to be given to Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe; the old silk umbrella
was to be handed to Mr. Goodworth, Mrs. Thorpe's father; and the
heavy gingham was to be kept by Snoxell himself, for the special
protection of "Master Zack," aged six years, and the only child of Mr.
Thorpe. Furnished with these instructions, the page set forth on his way
to the church.
The morning had been fine for November; but before midday the
clouds had gathered, the rain had begun, and the inveterate fog of the
season had closed dingily over the wet streets, far and near. The garden

in the middle of Baregrove Square--with its close-cut turf, its vacant
beds, its bran-new rustic seats, its withered young trees that had not yet
grown as high as the railings around them--seemed to be absolutely
rotting away in yellow mist and softly-steady rain, and was deserted
even by the cats. All blinds were drawn down for the most part over all
windows; what light came from the sky came like light seen through
dusty glass; the grim brown hue of the brick houses looked more dirtily
mournful than ever; the smoke from the chimney-pots was lost
mysteriously in deepening superincumbent fog; the muddy gutters
gurgled; the heavy rain-drops dripped into empty areas audibly. No
object great or small, no out-of-door litter whatever appeared anywhere,
to break the dismal uniformity of line and substance in the perspective
of the square. No living being moved over the watery pavement, save
the solitary Snoxell. He plodded on into a Crescent, and still the awful
Sunday solitude spread grimly humid all around him. He next entered a
street with some closed shops in it; and here, at last, some consoling
signs of human life attracted his attention. He now saw the
crossing-sweeper of the district (off duty till church came out) smoking
a pipe under the covered way that led to a mews. He detected, through
half closed shutters, a chemist's apprentice yawing over a large book.
He passed a navigator, an ostler, and two costermongers wandering
wearily backwards and forwards before a closed public-house door. He
heard the heavy clop clop of thickly-booted feet advancing behind him,
and a stern voice growling, "Now then! be off with you, or you'll get
locked up!"--and, looking round, saw an orange-girl, guilty of having
obstructed an empty pavement by sitting on the curb-stone, driven
along before a policeman, who was followed admiringly by a ragged
boy gnawing a piece of orange-peel. Having delayed a moment to
watch this Sunday procession of three with melancholy curiosity as it
moved by him, Snoxell was about to turn the corner of a street which
led directly to the church, when a shrill series of cries in a child's voice
struck on his ear and stopped his progress immediately.
The page stood stock-still in astonishment for an instant--then pulled
the new silk umbrella from under his arm, and turned the corner in a
violent hurry. His suspicions had not deceived him. There was Mr.
Thorpe himself walking sternly homeward through the rain, before

church was over. He led by the hand "Master Zack," who was trotting
along under protest, with his hat half off his head, hanging as far back
from his father's side as he possibly could, and howling all the time at
the utmost pitch of a very powerful pair of lungs.
Mr. Thorpe stopped as he passed the page, and snatched the umbrella
out of Snoxell's hand, with unaccustomed impetuity; said sharply, "Go
to your mistress, go on to the church;" and then resumed his road home,
dragging his son after him faster than ever.
"Snoxy! Snoxy!" screamed Master Zack, turning round towards the
page, so that he tripped himself up and fell against his father's legs at
every third step; "I've been a naughty boy at church!"
"Ah! you look like it, you do," muttered Snoxell to himself sarcastically,
as he went on. With that expression of opinion, the page approached
the church portico, and waited sulkily among his fellow servants and
their umbrellas for the congregation to come out.
When Mr. Goodworth and Mrs. Thorpe left the church, the old
gentleman, regardless of appearances, seized eagerly on the despised
gingham umbrella, because it was the largest he could get,