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"
Ay
,
that
's
true
;
I
feel
it
is
a
little
chilly
.
"
I
said
good-night
,
and
instinctively
took
the
road
to
my
old
abode
.
If
I
only
set
about
it
carefully
,
I
might
be
able
to
get
upstairs
without
being
heard
;
there
were
eight
steps
in
all
,
and
only
the
two
top
ones
creaked
under
my
tread
.
Down
at
the
door
I
took
off
my
shoes
,
and
ascended
.
It
was
quiet
everywhere
.
I
could
hear
the
slow
tick-tack
of
a
clock
,
and
a
child
crying
a
little
.
After
that
I
heard
nothing
.
I
found
my
door
,
lifted
the
latch
as
I
was
accustomed
to
do
,
entered
the
room
,
and
shut
the
door
noiselessly
after
me
.
Everything
was
as
I
had
left
it
.
The
curtains
were
pulled
aside
from
the
windows
,
and
the
bed
stood
empty
.
I
caught
a
glimpse
of
a
note
lying
on
the
table
;
perhaps
it
was
my
note
to
the
landlady
--
she
might
never
have
been
up
here
since
I
went
away
.
I
fumbled
with
my
hands
over
the
white
spot
,
and
felt
,
to
my
astonishment
,
that
it
was
a
letter
.
I
take
it
over
to
the
window
,
examine
as
well
as
it
is
possible
in
the
dark
the
badly-written
letters
of
the
address
,
and
make
out
at
least
my
own
name
.
Ah
,
I
thought
,
an
answer
from
my
landlady
,
forbidding
me
to
enter
the
room
again
if
I
were
for
sneaking
back
.
Slowly
,
quite
slowly
I
left
the
room
,
carrying
my
shoes
in
one
hand
,
the
letter
in
the
other
,
and
the
blanket
under
my
arm
.
I
draw
myself
up
,
set
my
teeth
as
I
tread
on
the
creaking
steps
,
get
happily
down
the
stairs
,
and
stand
once
more
at
the
door
I
put
on
my
shoes
,
take
my
time
with
the
laces
,
sit
a
while
quietly
after
I
'm
ready
,
and
stare
vacantly
before
me
,
holding
the
letter
in
my
hand
.
Then
I
get
up
and
go
.
The
flickering
ray
of
a
gas
lamp
gleams
up
the
street
.
I
make
straight
for
the
light
,
lean
my
parcel
against
the
lamp-post
and
open
the
letter
.
All
this
with
the
utmost
deliberation
.
A
stream
of
light
,
as
it
were
,
darts
through
my
breast
,
and
I
hear
that
I
give
a
little
cry
--
a
meaningless
sound
of
joy
.
The
letter
was
from
the
editor
.
My
story
was
accepted
--
had
been
set
in
type
immediately
,
straight
off
!
A
few
slight
alterations
...
.
A
couple
of
errors
in
writing
amended
...
.
Worked
out
with
talent
...
be
printed
tomorrow
...
half-a-sovereign
.
I
laughed
and
cried
,
took
to
jumping
and
running
down
the
street
,
stopped
,
slapped
my
thighs
,
swore
loudly
and
solemnly
into
space
at
nothing
in
particular
.
And
time
went
.
All
through
the
night
until
the
bright
dawn
I
"
jodled
"
about
the
streets
and
repeated
--
"
Worked
out
with
talent
--
therefore
a
little
masterpiece
--
a
stroke
of
genius
--
and
half-a-sovereign
.
"
A
few
weeks
later
I
was
out
one
evening
.
Once
more
I
had
sat
out
in
a
churchyard
and
worked
at
an
article
for
one
of
the
newspapers
.
But
whilst
I
was
struggling
with
it
eight
o'clock
struck
,
and
darkness
closed
in
,
and
time
for
shutting
the
gates
.
