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me. I smile back. Oh! if only I could do something for them. These waifs with scarcely any chance at all.
Kermington Park
How depressing to me are all parks! The loneliness of them. One never goes to a park unless one is lonesome. And lonesomeness is sad. The symbol of sadness, that's a park.
But I am fascinated now with it. I am lonesome, and want to be.
Kermington Gate. That has its memories. Sad, sweet, rapidly recurring memories.
'Twas here my first appointment with Hetty. How I was dolled up in my little tight-fitting frock coat, hat and cane ! I was quite the dude as I watched every street car until four o'clock, waiting for Hetty to step off, smiling as she saw me waiting.
I get out and stand there for a few moments at Kennington Gate. My taxi driver thinks I am mad. But I am forgetting taxi drivers. I am seeing a lad of nineteen, dressed to the pink, with fluttering heart, waiting, waiting for the moment of the day when he and happiness walked along the road. The road is so alluring now. It beckons for another walk, and as I hear a street car approaching T turn eagerly, for a moment almost expecting to see the same trim Hetty step off, smiling.
The car stops. A couple of men get out. An old woman. Some children. But no Hetty.
Hetty is gone. So is the lad with the frock coat and cane.
Kermington Cross
It was here that I discovered music, or where I first learned its rare beauty, a beauty that has gladdened and haunted me from that moment. It all happened one night when I was there. I recall the whole thing so distinctly.
I was just a boy, and its beauty was like some sweet mystery. I did not understand. I only knew I loved it and I became reverent as the sounds carried themselves through my brain via my heart.
Back of the Strand Theatre
He takes me to the back of the Strand Theatre, where there are beautiful gardens and courts suggesting palaces and armour and the days when knights were bold. These houses were the homes of private people during the reign of King Charles and even farther back. They abound in secret passages and tunnels leading up to the royal palace. There is an air about them that is aped and copied, but it is not hard to distinguish the real from the imitation. History is written on every