But no, he creeps downstairs, and passes unnoticed into the narrow street, where he mingles with the noisy crowd. He runs hither and thither in his excitement. His blood is tingling with a savage pleasure at the thought of the deed which he has just accomplished. He gloats over it, and laughs aloud as he pictures what will happen by-and-by in Swift Street. But presently getting very warm and very tired, he leans against a door-post to rest himself; and with quietness and reflection a feeling comes over him that after all he has done a childish and a foolish thing. The little pile of sticks and rubbish will blaze away around the hissing candle for a few minutes, and then die out again, while his uncle, unconscious even of the event, will remain undisturbed. And now that he has carried out his grand speech about leaving home, what is he to do? He knows of no place where he can pass the night. He has read of archways under which little homeless children creep for shelter, but just now he cannot recall to his memory the situation of a single one. Besides, to lie in the open air and the dirt, with anybody that might choose to keep him company! He grows sick at the very idea. He has fourpence in his pocket. It will be a rough lodging that so small a sum can procure, but that is what he must seek, he supposes. He need not go in search of it just at present, however. He has plenty of time and he will put off the evil moment as long as possible. So he wanders disconsolately up and down the Strand, watching the people as they come out of the theatres, and drive away in their carriages. A young lady with fair hair and a pretty face reminds him of Miss Crawford. Phil cannot bear to think of her. What would she say if she knew how he had been keeping his promise to her and Millie? How disappointed she will be in him! She will never believe him, never trust in him again. 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."