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 day time that he did not pass at work he spent as
before, picking up knowledge at bookstalls; 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.