That seventh-story heaven once more leads a dull life as the office of a
ship-chandler, and harsh voices grate the air where Beauty sang. The
books and the flowers and the lovers' faces are gone for ever. I suppose
the stars are the same, and perhaps they sometimes look down through
that roof-window, and wonder what has become of those two lovers who
used to look up at them so fearlessly long ago.

But friends of mine who believe in God say that He has given His angels
charge concerning that dingy old seventh-floor heaven, and that, for
those who have eyes to see, there is no place where a great dream has
been dreamed that is not thus watched over by the guardian angels of
memory.

_For M. Le G., 25 September 1895._




SPRING BY PARCEL POST


They've taken all the spring from the country to the town--
Like the butter and the eggs, and the milk from the cow....

So began to jig and jingle my thoughts as in my letters and newspapers
this morning I read, buried alive among the solitary fastnesses of the
Surrey hills, the last news from town. The news I envied most was that
spring had already reached London. 'Now,' ran a pretty article on spring
fashions, 'the sunshine makes bright the streets, and the