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.”

“I’m only stopping for a day or two in London, uncle.”

“Ah! a wicked place; that it is.  No wickeder than other places, I’ll be bound.  Well; I must be trotting.  I can’t sit, I tell you.  You’re as dark here as a gaol.”

“Let me ring for candles, uncle.”

“No; I’m going.”

She tried to touch him, to draw him to a chair.  The agile old man bounded away from her, and she had to pacify him submissively before he would consent to be seated.  The tea-service was brought, and Rhoda made tea, and filled a cup for him.  Anthony began to enjoy the repose of the room.  But it made the money-bags’ alien to him, and serpents in his bosom.  Fretting—­on his chair, he cried:  “Well! well! what’s to talk about?  We can’t drink tea and not talk!”