CHAPTER III.
THE CONTRAST.
Thus, full of carking care, while he pushed aside the proffered consolation, Roger Acton walked abroad.

There was yet but a glimmer of faint light, and the twittering of birds told more assuringly of morning than any cheerful symptom on the sky: however, it had pretty well ceased raining, that was one comfort, and, as Roger, shouldering his spade, and with the day's provision in a handkerchief, trudged out upon his daily duty, those good old thoughts of thankfulness came upon his mind, and he forgot awhile the dream that had unstrung him.

Turning for a moment to look upon his hovel, and bless its inmates with a prayer, he half resolved to run back, and hear a few more words, if only not to vex his darling child: but there was now no time to spare; and then, as he gazed upon her desolate abode--so foul a casket for so fair a jewel--his bitter thoughts returned to him again, and he strode away, repining.
Acton's cottage was one of those doubtful domiciles, whose only recommendation it is, that they are picturesque in summer.

At present we behold a reeking rotting mass of black thatch in a cheerless swamp; but, as the year wears on, those time-stained walls, though still both damp and mouldy, will be luxuriantly overspread with creeping plants--honeysuckle, woodbine, jessamine, and the everblowing monthly rose.

Many was the touring artist it had charmed, and Suffolk-street had seen it often: spectators looked upon the scene as on an old familiar friend, whose face they knew full well, but whose name they had forgotten for the minute.