t the
place; for he needed the strength that food would give; he needed it
to carry him out of the sight and the knowledge of all who might
hear what he had done, and point their fingers at him.

He paused a moment in the parlour, and then, setting his teeth tight
together, he went upstairs.

First of all he went into the bit of a room opening out of theirs,
in which his baby slept. He dearly loved the child, and many a time
would run in and play a while with it; and in such gambols he and
Sylvia had passed their happiest moments of wedded life.

The little Bella was having her morning slumber; Nancy used to tell
long afterwards how he knelt down by the side of her cot, and was so
strange she thought he must have prayed, for all it was nigh upon
eleven o'clock, and folk in their senses only said their prayers
when they got up, and when they went to bed.

Then he rose, and stooped over, and gave the child a long,
lingering, soft, fond kiss. And on tip-toe he passed away into the
room where his aunt lay; his aunt who had been so true a friend to
him! He was thankful to know that in her present state she was safe
from the knowledge of what was past, safe from the sound of the
shame to come.

He had not meant to see Sylvia again; he dreaded the look of her
hatred, her scorn, but there, outside her mother's bed, she lay,
apparently asleep. Mrs. Robson, too, was sleeping, her face towards
the wall. Philip could not help it; he went to have one last look at
his wife. She was turned towards her mother, her face averted from
him; he could see the tear-stains, the swollen eyelids, the lips yet
quivering: he stooped down, and bent to kiss the little hand that
lay listless by her side. As his hot breath neared that hand it was
twitched away, and a shiver ran through the whole prostrate body.
And then he knew that she was not asleep, only worn out by her
misery,--misery that he had caused.

He sighed heavily; but he went away, down-stairs, and away for ever.
Only as he entered the parlour his eyes caught on two silhouettes,
one of himself, one of Sylvia, done in the first month of their
marriage, by some wandering artist, if so he could be called. They
were hanging against the wall in little oval wooden frames; black
profiles, with the lights done in gold; about as poor semblances of
humanity as could be conceived; but Philip went up, and after
looking for a minute or so at Sylvia's, he took it down, and
buttoned his waistc