The day went by in a sort of dream.  A pale fog hung over London:  and as he wandered about he saw the tall houses rise faintly blue into the gray mist; and the great coffee-colored river, flushed with recent rains, rolled down between the pale embankments; and the golden-red globe of the sun, occasionally becoming visible through the mottled clouds, sent a ray of fire here and there on some window-pane or lamp.

In the course of his devious wanderings—­for he mostly went about alone—­he made his way, with great trouble and perplexity, to the court in which the mother of Johnny Wickes lived; and he betrayed no shame at all in confronting the poor woman—­half starved, and pale, and emaciated as she was—­whose child he had stolen.  It was in a tone of quite gratuitous pleasantry that he described to her how the small lad was growing brown and fat; and he had the audacity to declare to her that as he proposed to pay the boy the sum of one shilling per-week at present, he might as well hand over to her the three months’ pay which he had already earned.  And the woman was so amused at the notion of little Johnny Wickes being able to earn anything at all, that, when she received the money and looked at it, she burst out crying; and she had so little of the spirit of the British matron, and so little regard for the laws of her country, that she invoked Heaven knows what—­Heaven does know what—­blessings on the head of the very man who had carried her child into slavery.

“And the first time I am going over to Oban,” said he, “I will take him with me, and I will get a photograph of him made, and I will send you the photograph.  And did you get the rabbits?” said he.

“Yes, indeed, sir, I got the rabbits.”

“And it is a very fine poacher your son promises to be, for he got every one of the rabbits with his own snare, though I am thinking it was old Hamish was showing him how to use it.  And I will say good-by to you now.”

The poor woman seemed to hesitate for a second.

“If there was any sewing, sir,” wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, “that I could do for your good lady, sir—­”

“But I am not married,” said he, quickly.

“Ah, well, indeed, sir,” she said with a sigh.

“But if there is any lace, or sewing, or anything like that you can send to my mother, I have no doubt she will pay you for it as well as any one else—­”

“I was not thinking of paying, sir; but to show you I am not ungrateful,” was the answer; and if she said hun-grateful, what matter?  She was a woman without spirit; she had sold away her son.

From this dingy court he made his way round to Covent Garden market, and he went into a florist’s shop there.

“I want a bouquet,” said he to the neat-handed maiden who looked up at him.

“Yes, sir,” said she; “will you look at those in the window?”

“But I want one,” said he, “with a single rose—­a red rose—­in the centre.”