dreaming　of　the　time　when　he　would　hold　them　in　his　own；　caressing
  them；　kissing　them。　　Would　it　be　possible　to　forget　them；　to
  reconcile　oneself　to　them？　　He　must　thinkmust　get　away　from　these
  crowded　streets　where　faces　seemed　to　grin　at　him。　　He　remembered
  that　Parliament　had　just　risen；　that　work　was　slack　in　the　office。
  He　would　ask　that　he　might　take　his　holiday　nowthe　next　day。　　And
  they　had　agreed。
  He　packed　a　few　things　into　a　knapsack。　　From　the　voices　of　the
  hills　and　streams　he　would　find　counsel。
  He　took　no　count　of　his　wanderings。　　One　evening　at　a　lonely　inn　he
  met　a　young　doctor。　　The　innkeeper's　wife　was　expecting　to　be　taken
  with　child　that　night；　and　the　doctor　was　waiting　downstairs　till
  summoned。　　While　they　were　talking；　the　idea　came　to　him。　　Why　had
  he　not　thought　of　it？　　Overcoming　his　shyness；　he　put　his　questions。
  What　work　would　it　be　that　would　cause　such　injuries？　　He　described
  them；　seeing　them　before　him　in　the　shadows　of　the　dimly　lighted
  room；　those　poor；　pitiful　little　hands。
  Oh！　a　dozen　things　might　account　for　itthe　doctor's　voice　sounded
  callousthe　handling　of　flax；　even　of　linen　under　certain
  conditions。　　Chemicals　entered　so　much　nowadays　into　all　sorts　of
  processes　and　preparations。　　All　this　new　photography；　cheap　colour
  printing；　dyeing　and　cleaning；　metal　work。　　Might　all　be　avoided　by
  providing　rubber　gloves。　　It　ought　to　be　made　compulsory。　　The
  doctor　seemed　inclined　to　hold　forth。　　He　interrupted　him。
  But　could　it　be　cured？　　Was　there　any　hope？
  Cured？　　Hope？　　Of　course　it　could　be　cured。　　It　was　only　localthe
  effect　being　confined　to　the　hands　proved　that。　　A　poisoned
  condition　of　the　skin　aggravated　by　general　poverty　of　blood。　　Take
  her　away　from　it；　let　her　have　plenty　of　fresh　air　and　careful　diet；
  using　some　such　simple　ointment　or　another　as　any　local　man；　seeing
  them；　would　prescribe；　and　in　three　or　four　months　they　would
  recover。
  He　could　hardly　stay　to　thank　the　young　doctor。　　He　wanted　to　get
  away　by　himself；　to　shout；　to　wave　his　arms；　to　leap。　　Had　it　been
  possible　he　would　have　returned　that　very　night。　　He　cursed　himself
  for　the　fancifulness　that　had　prevented　his　inquiring　her　address。
  He　could　have　sent　a　telegram。　　Rising　at　dawn；　for　he　had　not
  attempted　to　sleep；　he　walked　the　ten　miles　to　the　nearest　railway
  station；　and　waited　for　the　train。　　All　day　long　it　seemed　to　creep
  with　him　through　the　endless　country。　　But　London　came　at　last。
  It　was　still　the　afternoon；　but　he　did　not　care　to　go　to　his　room。
  Leaving　his　knapsack　at　the　station；　he　made　his　way　to　Westminster。
  He　wanted　all　things　to　be　unchanged；　so　that　between　this　evening
  and　their　parting　it　might　seem　as　if　there　had　merely　passed　an
  ugly　dream；　and　timing　himself；　he　reached　the　park　just　at　their
  usual　hour。
  He　waited　till　the　gates　were　closed；　but　she　did　not　come。　　All　day
  long　at　the　back　of　his　mind　had　been　that　fear；　but　he　had　driven
  it　away。　　She　was　ill；　just　a　headache；　or　merely　tired。
  And　the　next　evening　he　told　himself　the　same。　　He　dared　not　whisper
  to　himself　anything　else。　　And　each　succeeding　evening　again。　　He
  never　remembered　how　many。　　For　a　time　he　would　sit　watching　the
  path　by　which　she　had　always　come；　and　when　the　hour　was　long　past
  he　would　rise　and　walk　towards　the　gate；　look　east　and　west；　and
  then　return。　　One　evening　he　stopped　one　of　the　park…keepers　and
  questioned　him。　　Yes；　the　man　remembered　her　quite　well：　　the　young
  lady　with　the　fawn　gloves。　　She　had　come　once　or　twicemaybe
  oftener；　the　park…keeper　could　not　be　sureand　had　waited。　　No；
  there　had　been　nothing　to　show　that　she　was　in　any　way　upset。　　She
  had　just　sat　there　for　a　time；　now　and　then　walking　a　little　way　and
  then　coming　back　again；　until　the　closing　hour；　and　then　she　had
  gone。　　He　left　his　address　with　the　park…keeper。　　The　man　promised
  to　let　him　know　if　he　ever　saw　her　there　again。
  Sometimes；　instead　of　the　park；　he　would　haunt　the　mean　streets
  about　Lisson　Grove　and　far　beyond　the　other　side　of　the　Edgware
  Road；　pacing　them　till　night　fell。　　But　he　never　found　her。
  He　wondered；　beating　against　the　bars　of　his　poverty；　if　money　would
  have　helped　him。　　But　the　grim；　endless　city；　hiding　its　million
  secrets；　seemed　to　mock　the　thought。　　A　few　pounds　he　had　scraped
  together　he　spent　in　advertisements；　but　he　expected　no　response；
  and　none　came。　　It　was　not　likely　she　would　see　them。
  And　so　after　a　time　the　park；　and　even　the　streets　round　about　it；
  became　hateful　to　him；　and　he　moved　away　to　another　part　of　London；
  hoping　to　forget。　　But　he　never　quite　succeeded。　　Always　it　would
  come　back　to　him　when　he　was　not　thinking：　　the　broad；　quiet　walk
  with　its　prim　trees　and　gay　beds　of　flowers。　　And　always　he　would
  see　her　seated　there；　framed　by　the　fading　light。　　At　least；　that
  much　of　her：　　the　little　spiritual　face；　and　the　brown　shoes
  pointing　downwards；　and　between　them　the　little　fawn　gloves　folded
  upon　her　lap。
  End