it more
reconciled to the future, more softened, chastened, attuned to gentle
and pious thoughts than perhaps ever yet had made his soul dominant
over the deep and dark tide of his gloomy passions. He went thence to
a neighbouring sculptor, and paid beforehand for a plain tablet to be
placed above the grave he had left. He had just quitted that shop, in
the same street, not many doors removed from the house in which his
mother had breathed her last. He was pausing by a crossing, irresolute
whether to repair at once to the home assigned to Sidney, or to seek
some shelter in town for that night, when three men who were on the
opposite side of the way suddenly caught sight of him.

"There he is--there he is! Stop, sir!--stop!"

Philip heard these words, looked up, and recognised the voice and the
person of Mr. Plaskwith; the bookseller was accompanied by Mr. Plimmins,
and a sturdy, ill-favoured stranger.

A nameless feeling of fear, rage, and disgust seized the unhappy boy,
and at the same moment a ragged vagabond whispered to him, "Stump it, my
cove; that's a Bow Street runner."

Then there shot through Philip's mind the recollection of the money he
had seized, though but to dash away; was he now--he, still to his own
conviction, the heir of an ancient and spotless name--to be hunted as a
thief; or, at the best, what right over his person and his liberty had
he given to his taskmaster? Ignorant of the law--the law only seemed to
him, as it ever does to the ignorant and the friendless--a Foe. Quicker
than lightning these thoughts, which it takes so many words to describe,
flashed through the storm and darkness of his breast; and at the very
instant that Mr. Plimmins had laid hands on his shoulder his resolution
was formed. The instinct of self beat loud at his heart. With a bound--a
spring that sent Mr. Plimmins sprawling in the kennel, he darted across
the road, and fled down an opposite lane.

"Stop him! stop!" cried the bookseller, and the officer rushed after
him with almost equal speed. Lane after lane, alley after alley, fled
Philip; dodging, winding, breathless, panting; and lane after lane, and
alley after alley, thickened at his heels the crowd that pursued. The
idle and the curious, and the officious,--ragged boys, ragged men, from
stall and from cellar, from corner and from crossing, joined in that
delicious chase, which runs down young Error till it sinks, too often,
at the door of the gaol or the foot of