With fresh anguish at his heart, he leaves the noisy crowded Strand, goes down Wellington Street, and passes on to Waterloo Bridge, just as he had done with Millie on that moonlight night a few weeks ago. On the very same seat that they had occupied then, he sits down now. Poor boy! Already he regrets the hasty measures that he has taken, but his pride is too great to allow him to return to his uncle. Big Ben's ruddy face tells him that it is not yet twelve. How slowly the time goes! There will be hours yet before morning. He buries his face in his hands and acknowledges how foolishly he has behaved. Conscience whispers him to forget his uncle's words and go back to Swift Street. Again his pride refuses to let him, and he remains there seated on the bridge.
Presently there flashes across his memory the story of Millie's dream. She had said, "I stretched out my hand to you again, Phil, but you were gone; I could not see you anywhere."
Suppose that dream meant something after all—that his father and mother and sister would all meet together some day in another world, and that he would be shut out from their company, and left alone. It was likely enough to happen, Phil groaned in his misery. He guessed, if the truth were known, that he and his uncle were suitable companions for each other. He was going to the bad as fast as he could go. And yet he had intended to do well. Miss Crawford had bidden him take heart, and lead a nobler, a more unselfish life. Not in so many words, perhaps, but Phil had understood her meaning and had pledged himself to fulfil her wishes. Here was a fine ending to his grand resolutions!
Perhaps, after all, it was not too late. He would go back and take up his life from where he had left it only a couple of hours ago. Most probably his uncle would have forgotten their quarrel, and the bitter words that had been uttered on both sides. And he would try to do better. Ah! If only Millie had not gone! But perhaps God would help him if he asked Him. Miss Crawford believed in God, he knew, and so did Millie. With that thought, he turned his back to the pavement, and with his eyes fixed on the starry sky, he humbly prayed that God would forgive, and bless, and help him. Then, with a heavy heart, he retraced his footsteps.
What is the cry which he hears as he once more emerges into the busy Strand? He stands still to listen—"Fire! Fire!"
Surely—? O! No, not that; not his work. God forbid! Phil, always fleet of foot, flies like lightning towards home. How dear the place has suddenly become to him!
"Fire! Fire!" is still the shout.
He is in the midst of a crowd now, but he dives under the elbow of one and pushes aside another with a strength that astonishes even himself.
"Fire! Fire!"
"Where?" some one asks.