FROM the inertness, or what we may term the vege-
tative character, of his ordinary mood, Clifford would
perhaps have been content to spend one day after an-
other, interminably, -- or, at least, throughout the sum-
mer-time, -- in just the kind of life described in the pre-
ceding pages. Fancying, however, that it might be for
his benefit occasionally to diversify the scene, Phœbe
sometimes suggested that he should look out upon the
life of the street. For this purpose, they used to mount
the staircase together, to the second story of the house,
where, at the termination of a wide entry, there was an
arched window of uncommonly large dimensions, shaded
by a pair of curtains. It opened above the porch, where
there had formerly been a balcony, the balustrade of
which had long since gone to decay, and been removed.
At this arched window, throwing it open, but keeping
himself in comparative. obscurity by means of the curtain,
Clifford had an opportunity of witnessing such a portion
of the great world's movement as might be supposed to
roll through one of the retired streets of a not very popu-
lous city. But he and Phœbe made a sight as well worth
seeing as any that the city could exhibit. The pale, gray,
childish, aged, melancholy, yet often simply cheerful,
and sometimes delicately intelligent aspect of Clifford,
peering from behind the faded crimson of the curtain, --

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