of Sylvia's
possible death overclouded his heart. It was strange that he had
hardly ever thought of this before; so strange, that now, when the
terror came, it took possession of him, and he could almost have
sworn that she must be lying dead in Monkshaven churchyard. Or was
it little Bella, that blooming, lovely babe, whom he was never to
see again? There was the tolling of mournful bells in the distant
air to his disturbed fancy, and the cry of the happy birds, the
plaintive bleating of the new-dropped lambs, were all omens of evil
import to him.

As well as he could, he found his way back to Monkshaven, over the
wild heights and moors he had crossed on that black day of misery;
why he should have chosen that path he could not tell--it was as if
he were led, and had no free will of his own.

The soft clear evening was drawing on, and his heart beat thick, and
then stopped, only to start again with fresh violence. There he was,
at the top of the long, steep lane that was in some parts a literal
staircase leading down from the hill-top into the High Street,
through the very entry up which he had passed when he shrank away
from his former and his then present life. There he stood, looking
down once more at the numerous irregular roofs, the many stacks of
chimneys below him, seeking out that which had once been his own
dwelling--who dwelt there now?

The yellower gleams grew narrower; the evening shadows broader, and
Philip crept down the lane a weary, woeful man. At every gap in the
close-packed buildings he heard the merry music of a band, the
cheerful sound of excited voices. Still he descended slowly,
scarcely wondering what it could be, for it was not associated in
his mind with the one pervading thought of Sylvia.

When he came to the angle of junction between the lane and the High
Street, he seemed plunged all at once into the very centre of the
bustle, and he drew himself up into a corner of deep shadow, from
whence he could look out upon the street.

A circus was making its grand entry into Monkshaven, with all the
pomp of colour and of noise that it could muster. Trumpeters in
parti-coloured clothes rode first, blaring out triumphant discord.
Next came a gold-and-scarlet chariot drawn by six piebald horses,
and the windings of this team through the tortuous narrow street
were pretty enough to look upon. In the chariot sate kings and
queens, heroes and heroines, or what were meant for such; all the
little