Портрет художника в юности

           Theywerenotbeautifultoseeastheycrouchedinthemire.ButtheirsoulswereseenbyGod;andiftheirsoulswereinastateofgracetheywereradianttosee:andGodlovedthem,seeingthem.

           Awastingbreathofhumiliationblewbleaklyoverhissoultothinkofhowhehadfallen,tofeelthatthosesoulsweredearertoGodthanhis.ThewindblewoverhimandpassedontothemyriadsandmyriadsofothersoulsonwhomGod’sfavourshonenowmoreandnowless,starsnowbrighterandnowdimmersustainedandfailing.Andtheglimmeringsoulspassedaway,sustainedandfailing,mergedinamovingbreath.Onesoulwaslost;atinysoul:his.Itflickeredonceandwentout,forgotten,lost.Theend:black,cold,voidwaste.

           Consciousnessofplacecameebbingbacktohimslowlyoveravasttractoftimeunlit,unfelt,unlived.Thesqualidscenecomposeditselfaroundhim;thecommonaccents,theburninggas-jetsintheshops,odoursoffishandspiritsandwetsawdust,movingmenandwomen.Anoldwomanwasabouttocrossthestreet,anoilcaninherhand.Hebentdownandaskedherwasthereachapelnear.

           —Achapel,sir?Yes,sir.ChurchStreetchapel.

           —Church?

           Sheshiftedthecantoherotherhandanddirectedhim;and,assheheldoutherreekingwitheredrighthandunderitsfringeofshawl,hebentlowertowardsher,saddenedandsoothedbyhervoice.

           —Thankyou.

           —Youarequitewelcome,sir.