“Now, then, to shift his head; so-so,—that’s right.” Philip’s sallow cheek and long hair were now tenderly lapped on the soliloquist’s bosom. “Poor wretch! he smiles; perhaps he is thinking of home, and the butterflies 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.