Outcast Robin

The sun itself seemed to be keeping holiday on the morning on which my brother opened his eyes on the world. The day was a June day, one of those days when the people who are fortunate enough to live in the country feel quite too lazy to work—when a delicious languor, a rich hazy beauty pervades the grass, trees, flowers, as well as the more distant landscape. The sort of day when those who reside in Eaton Square, or any other part of Belgravia, sit peacefully and enjoy the scent of the freshly arranged window gardens, and look forward with interest to a drive in the Park by-and-by.

Yes, the sun was keeping holiday, and pouring down right genially and right lovingly his happy rays on the earth.

Impartial, as betokens all true sovereignty, was this king of day; no idea had he of favouring the rich more than the poor. Had this not been his invariable and unexceptionable rule, it is highly probable that Mrs. Timbs, of Blind Alley, Spitalfields, London, would have been left, if not in darkness, yet in considerable fog and obscurity.