It was the quietest hour of the twenty-four,--the hour almost of dawn.

The night wayfarers had passed away, the great army of toilers as yet slumbered.
One sad-eyed woman stumbled against him as he walked slowly up Piccadilly.

He lifted his hat with an involuntary gesture, and her laugh changed into a sob.

He turned round, and emptied his pockets of silver into her hand, hurrying away quickly that his eyes might not dwell upon her face.
"A coward always," he murmured to himself, a little wearily, for he knew where his weakness lay,--an invincible repugnance to the ugly things of life.

As he passed on, however, his spirits rose again.