As the reader will expect, no trace of Burley could Leonard find; the
humorist had ceased to communicate with the _Beehive_. But Leonard grieved
for Burley's sake; and, indeed, he missed the intercourse of the large
wrong mind. But he settled down by degrees to the simple loving society of
his child companion, and in that presence grew more tranquil. The hours in
the daytime that he did not pass at work he spent as before, picking up
knowledge at book-stalls; and at dusk he and Helen would stroll
out--sometimes striving to escape from the long suburb into fresh rural
air; more often wandering to and fro the bridge that led to glorious
Westminster--London's classic land--and watching the vague lamps reflected
on the river. This haunt suited the musing melancholy boy. He would stand
long and with wistful silence by the balustrade--seating Helen thereon,
that she too might look along the dark mournful waters which, dark though
they be, still have their charm of mysterious repose.
As the river flowed between the world of roofs and the roar of human
passions on either side, so in those two hearts flowed Thought--and all
they knew of London was its shadow.