upon the faces of the horses and oxen that we used to breed and keep in the old world.
No. These people would not think of suicide.
****
Strange! how very dim and indistinct all the faces are growing around me! And where is my guide? and why am I sitting on the pavement? and—hark! surely that is the voice of Mrs. Biggles, my old landlady.
Has she been asleep a thousand years, too? She says it is twelve o’clock—only twelve? and I’m not to be washed till half-past four; and I do feel so stuffy and hot, and my head is aching. Hulloa! why, I’m in bed! Has it all been a dream? And am I back in the nineteenth century?
Through the open window I hear the rush and roar of old life’s battle. Men are fighting, striving, working, carving out each man his own life with the sword of strength and will. Men are laughing, grieving, loving, doing wrong deeds, doing great deeds,—falling, struggling, helping one another—living!
And I have a good deal more than three hours’ work to do to-day, and I meant to be up at seven; and, oh dear! I do wish I had not smoked so many strong cigars last night!
