“No, deary, we’ll have summer weather and a smooth sea, I hope, for the rest of our voyage.”

“You see, John, I have been dreadfully anxious, more than I could tell you.  If anything goes wrong, I’ve always noticed that it isn’t the big people that have to suffer; it’s the smaller ones that get caught.”

“Yes, it’s an old story; the big flies break out of the spider’s net; the little chaps hang there.  But I’ll settle up the business to-morrow.  I shall have enough to buy us a little house in the country,—­a snug box, with a garden; then I’ll get a horse to drive about with, and we’ll take some comfort.  Come, little woman, sit on my knee!  Come, baby, here is a knee for you, too!”

Holding them in his arms, he still mused upon the morrow, and once and again charged his mind to remember “two thousand for Sandford, ten thousand for Danforth and Dot!”

CHAPTER XXVII.

Alice did not feel the utter loneliness of her situation, until, as she walked along, square after square, she encountered so many hundreds of abstracted or curious or impudent faces, and reflected that it was upon such people that her future support and comfort would depend.  She tried to discover in some countenance the impress of kindly benevolence;—­not that she proposed to risk so much as a question; but it was her first experience with the busy world, and she wished to observe its ways, when neither relationship nor personal interest was involved.  Small encouragement she would have felt to approach any that she met.  Men of middle-age walked by as in dreams, cold, unobservant, listless; the younger ones, fuller of life, strode on with high heads, and flinging glances that were harder to bear than stony indifference, even.  Ladies clothed in costly furs scanned the pretty face under the mourning bonnet with prying eyes, or tossed her a hasty, scornful look.  Shop-girls giggled and stared.  Boys rushed by, rudely jostling every passenger.  Old women in scanty petticoats that were fringed by no dressmaker, with pinched faces and watery eyes, looked imploringly and hobbled along, wrapping parcels of broken victual under their faded shawls.—­A sorry world Alice thought it.  In the country, she had been used to receive a kindly bow or a civil “Good-morning!” from every person she met; and the isolation of the individual in the city was to her something unnatural, even appalling.

She had cut out some boarding-house advertisements from the daily papers, and her first care was to find a home suited to her slender means.  Reaching the door of the first on her list, she rang and was shown into a small drawing-room, shabby-genteel in its furniture and ornaments.  Two seamstresses sat chattering around the centre-table; while a ruddy young man, with greenish brown moustaches and sandy hair, rested his clumsy boots on the fender, holding an open music-book in his lap and a flute in his ill-kept