many of them with their faces studiously settled into masks intended
to express righteousness, were far less interesting, because less
alive, than the same people in their work-day attire, in their
shops, or seated at their stalls, or driving their carts, and
looking thoroughly human. As to going to church himself, such an
idea had never entered his head. He had not once for a moment
imagined that anybody would like him to go to church, that such as
he ever went to church, that church was at all a place to which
Gibbies with fathers to look after should have any desire to go. As
to what church going meant, he had not the vaguest idea; it had not
even waked the glimmer of a question in his mind. All he knew was
that people went to church on Sundays. It was another of the laws
of existence, the reason of which he knew no more than why his
father went every night to Jink Lane and got drunk. George,
however, although he had taught his son nothing, was not without
religion, and had notions of duty in respect of the Sabbath. Not
even with the prize of whisky in view, would he have consented to
earn a sovereign on that day by the lightest of work.

Gibbie was awake some time before his father, and lay revelling in
love's bliss of proximity. At length Sir George, the merest bubble
of nature, awoke, and pushed him from him.

The child got up at once, but only to stand by the bed-side. He
said no word, did not even think an impatient thought, yet his
father seemed to feel that he was waiting for him. After two or
three huge yawns, he spread out his arms, but, unable to stretch
himself, yawned again, rolled himself off the bed, and crept feebly
across the room to an empty chest that stood under the skylight.
There he seated himself, and for half an hour sat motionless, a