For at last he saw that in this aimless wandering there had been an aim; his father was revisiting old scenes to take farewell of them.
"Hush!" said Masterman. "Listen!"
As they listened, the hymn-music became recognisable.
Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see...
The hymn ceased.
"Give me your arm, Arthur; I feel a little faint. That's right. Now let us go back."
The rain had begun to fall, and the wind was rising. It was nine o'clock when they reached Tottenham, and both were wet through.
The next day he went to his work as usual. The weather was miserable. A raw north-east wind blew, bringing with it snow. The snow became sleet, and the wind changed to the south-east, bearing on its wings continuous rain. After the rain came black, impenetrable fog. Tottenham was submerged beneath the clammy vapour.
On the Thursday, when Arthur returned from Bundy's, he found his father huddled over the fire, coughing violently.
"Are you ill, father?" he asked in alarm.