“Toll! Toll!
When a wandering soul
Forsaketh the truthful and fair:
Its days are unblest,
Its nights are unrest,
In the bud of its hope is a worm of Despair.
Toll! Toll!”
Immediately a strong wind stirred through the belfry of St. Clement’s, and the Bell gave out one long, funereal tone.
The bewildered man leaves the shop and wanders into the street, not knowing whither. He had intended to buy some bread, and tea and sugar; but, in the remorse of his mind, and with those words ringing in his ears, hunger, and thirst, and faintness were all forgotten. He tramps backwards and forwards in the streets, like a sleep-walker in a wild dream.
“Hollo!” says a voice, “what’s the matter with you? you don’t look over cheerful this evening. Why, if you was to go into a dairy, you’d turn the milk sour! Step in here, man, and take a thimble-full to cheer your spirits! It will do you good. Come! I’ll stand treat to-night, and you shall do the same for me to-morrow.”