Up in the West there is not so much to be dreaded from the rapacity of men.  You do not hear of such alarming burglaries there every day; every hand is not at another’s throat there, or in another’s pocket; at least, not until after nightfall; and when the dark should come on, Anthony had determined to make for his own quarter with all speed.  Darkness is horrible in foreign places, but foreign places are not so accusing to you by daylight.

The Park was vastly pleasant to the old man.

“Ah!” he sniffed, “country air,” and betook himself to a seat.  “Extraordinary,” he thought, “what little people they look on their horses and in their carriages!  That’s the aristocracy, is it!” The aristocracy appeared oddly diminutive to him.  He sneered at the aristocracy, but, beholding a policeman, became stolid of aspect.  The policeman was a connecting link with his City life, the true lord of his fearful soul.  Though the moneybags were under his arm, beneath his buttoned coat, it required a deep pause before he understood what he had done; and then the Park began to dance and curve like the streets, and there was a singular curtseying between the heavens and the earth.  He had to hold his money-bags tight, to keep them from plunging into monstrous gulfs.  “I don’t remember that I’ve taken a drink of any sort,” he said, “since I and the old farmer took our turn down in the Docks.  How’s this?” He seemed to rock.  He was near upon indulging in a fit of terror; but the impolicy of it withheld him from any demonstration, save an involuntary spasmodic ague.  When this had passed, his eyesight and sensations grew clearer, and he sat in a mental doze, looking at things with quiet animal observation.  His recollection of the state, after a lapse of minutes, was pleasurable.  The necessity for motion, however, set him on his feet, and off he went, still Westward, out of the Park, and into streets.  He trotted at a good pace.  Suddenly came a call of his name in his ear, and he threw up one arm in self-defence.

“Uncle Anthony, don’t you know me?”

“Eh?  I do; to be sure I do,” he answered, peering dimly upon Rhoda:  “I’m always meeting one of you.”

“I’ve been down in the City, trying to find you all day, uncle.  I meet you—­I might have missed!  It is direction from heaven, for I prayed.”

Anthony muttered, “I’m out for a holiday.”

“This”—­Rhoda pointed to a house—­“is where I am lodging.”

“Oh!” said Anthony; “and how’s your family?”

Rhoda perceived that he was rather distraught.  After great persuasion, she got him to go upstairs with her.

“Only for two seconds,” he stipulated.  “I can’t sit.”

“You will have a cup of tea with me, uncle?”

“No; I don’t think I’m equal to tea.”

“Not with Rhoda?”

“It’s a name in Scripture,” said Anthony, and he drew nearer to her. 
“You’re comfortable and dark here, my dear.  How did you come here? 
What’s happened?  You won’t surprise me.”