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.