be human—human, even as those slight triflers or coarse brawlers that pass yonder! Oh, for something in common with common life!"
Her lips closed, and her eyes again fell upon the crowded street. At that moment three or four heavy vans or wagons filled with operatives, or laborers and their wives, coming back from the race-course, obstructed the way; two out-riders with satin jackets were expostulating, cracking their whips, and seeking to clear space for an open carriage with four thorough-bred impatient horses. Toward that carriage every gazer from the windows was directing eager eyes; each foot-passenger on the pavement lifted his hat—evidently in that carriage some great person! Like all who are at war with the world as it is, Arabella Crane abhorred the great, and despised the small for worshipping the great. But still her own fierce dark eyes mechanically followed those of the vulgar. The carriage bore a marquis's coronet on its panels, and was filled with ladies; two other carriages bearing a similar coronet, and evidently belonging to the same party, were in the rear. Mrs. Crane started. In that first carriage, as it now slowly moved under her very window, and paused a minute or more, till the obstructing vehicles in front were marshalled into order—there flashed upon her eyes a face radiant with female beauty in its more glorious prime. Among the crowd at that moment was a blind man, adding to the various discords of the street by a miserable hurdy-gurdy. In the movement of the throng to get nearer to a sight of the ladies in the carriage, this poor creature was thrown forward; the dog that led him, an ugly brute, on his own account or his master's, took fright, broke from the string, and ran under the horse's hoofs, snarling. The horses became restive; the blind man made a plunge after his dog, and was all but run over. The lady in the first carriage, alarmed for his safety, rose up from her seat, and made her outriders dismount, lead away the poor blind man, and restore to him his dog. Thus engaged, her face shone full upon Arabella Crane; and with that face rushed a tide of earlier memories. Long, very long since she had seen that face—seen it in those years when she herself, Arabella Crane, was young and handsome.
The poor man—who seemed not to realize the idea of the danger he had escaped—once more safe, the lady resumed her seat; and now that the momentary animation of humane fear and womanly compassion passed from her countenance—its expression altered—it took the calm, almost the coldness, of a Creek statue. But with the calm there was a listless melancholy
