lies he ran after when he was an urchin--they never come back,
those days;--never--never--never! I think the wind veers to the east; he
may catch cold;"--and with that, the man, sliding the head for a moment,
and with the tenderness of a woman, from his breast to his shoulder,
unbuttoned his coat (as he replaced the weight, no longer unwelcomed, in
its former part), and drew the lappets closely round the slender
frame of the sleeper, exposing his own sturdy breast--for he wore no
waistcoat--to the sharpening air. Thus cradled on that stranger's bosom,
wrapped from the present and dreaming perhaps--while a heart scorched
by fierce and terrible struggles with life and sin made his pillow--of a
fair and unsullied future, slept the fatherless and friendless boy.

CHAPTER VII.

"Constance. My life, my joy, my food, my all the world,
My widow-comfort."--King John.

Amidst the glare of lamps--the rattle of carriages--the lumbering
of carts and waggons--the throng, the clamour, the reeking life and
dissonant roar of London, Philip woke from his happy sleep. He woke
uncertain and confused, and saw strange eyes bent on him kindly and
watchfully.

"You have slept well, my lad!" said the passenger, in the deep ringing
voice which made itself heard above all the noises around.

"And you have suffered me to incommode you thus!" said Philip, with more
gratitude in his voice and look than, perhaps, he had shown to any one
out of his own family since his birth.

"You have had but little kindness shown you, my poor boy, if you think
so much of this."

"No--all people were very kind to me once. I did not value it then."
Here the coach rolled heavily down the dark arch of the inn-yard.

"Take care of yourself, my boy! You look ill;" and in the dark the man
slipped a sovereign into Philip's hand.

"I don't want money. Though I thank you heartily all the same; it would
be a shame at my age to be a beggar. But can you think of an employment
where I can make something?--what they offer me is so trifling. I have a
mother and a brother--a mere child, sir--at home."

"Employment!" repeated the man; and as the coach now stopped at the
tavern door, the light of the lamp fell full on his marked face. "Ay, I
know of employment; but you should apply to some one else to obtain it
for you! As for me, it is not likely that we shall meet again!"

"I am sorry for that!--What and who are you?" asked Philip, with a rude
and blunt cur