"An' sang a song of 'ome, sweet 'ome,
The song that reached my 'art.
'Ome, 'ome, sweet, sweet 'ome,
She sang the song of 'ome, sweet 'ome,
The song that reached my 'art."
Here, indeed, was something in tune with Scuddy's fine feelings. He looked up. From the darkening sky the evening star winked through the smoke from a factory chimney. From anear came an exquisite scent of saveloys. Plaintive influences all. He tried to think of 'ome himself—of 'ome strictly in the abstract, so that it might reach his 'art. He stood for some minutes torpid and mindless, oozing with sentiment: till the song ended, and he went on. Fine feelings—fine.
He crossed the road, and took a turning. A lame old woman sat in a recess selling trotters, where a dark passage led back to a mission-hall. About the opening a man hovered—fervent, watchful—and darted forth on passers-by. He laid his hand on Scuddy's shoulder, and said: "My dear friend, will you come in an' 'ear the word of the Lord Jesus Christ?"
Scuddy turned: the sound of an harmonium and many strenuous voices came faintly down the passage. It was his mood. Why not give his fine feelings another little run? He would: he would go in.
"Trotters!" quavered the lame old woman, looking up wistfully. "Two a penny! Two a penny!" But no: he went up the passage, and she turned patiently to her board.
Along the passage the singing grew louder, and burst on his ears unchecked as he pushed open the door at the end:—