After what seemed to him hours and hours of walking,--for he was so weak, and his cough so painful, he could only creep along,--he found himself in West Brompton. Houses were still to the right and left of him; houses seemed to surround him everywhere. Should he ever get rid of these houses, and find the country? He paused to eat a piece of his bread, for his strength was going; but he disliked it--it almost made him sick. Well, he must soon come to the country. Suddenly he uttered a joyful cry; he had reached a gateway--a gateway with the gate thrown back. Through the gateway he saw trees and grass. Yes, this must lead to the country, if this was not the country itself. He went in through the gateway; he had entered the West Brompton Cemetery. Cold, nearly as white as the snow, gleamed the marble of the many monuments. Robin had not an idea what place he was in. He wandered on until he came to the part set aside for the very poor: here he threw himself down on a low grave to rest. He did not know it was a grave he was lying upon. There was no inscription or writing of any sort on the grave, nothing but the raised mound of grass. After a time, worn out with weakness, fatigue, and cold, he fell asleep. It was late when he awoke: the winter's sun had set, and the winter's night had come on. His limbs felt strangely numb and stiff; he tottered to his feet, and began feebly to grope his way forward. In half an hour he came to a gate; he recognised it as the gate he had come in by: it was fastened, locked. He wandered on and on; after what seemed to him an age of walking, he came to another gate: it also was locked. He perceived then that he could not get out of this place for the night. He had still not the faintest idea what place it really was, but the monuments in the white light, and the cold gleam of the snow on the grass, frightened him in spite of himself. Wandering round and round, he came back in time to the same grave on whose mound he had already slept; he sat down on it again, regarding it, in this strange and awful place, as something like an old friend. The sleet and snow had for the last couple of hours ceased to fall, the clouds had cleared away, the stars dotted the dark blue of the sky, and the moon, in grand, cold, calm majesty, shed an awful white light on the graves. The rich, in their warm luxurious houses, noticed what a severe frost there was that night; the poor were less saving than usual with their handfuls of coal. What then must have been the sensations of this poor little lost child seated alone upon a grave? He felt the cold terribly, intensely: he was too weary to walk, he was simply incapable of moving another step; and for a time the freezing process going on in his poor little body gave him such agony he could with difficulty keep himself from screaming aloud.