His wonted carelessness is replaced by a wistful looking at, and dwelling upon, all the old landmarks.

He will soon be far away, and may never see them again, he thinks.

Poor youth! Poor youth! As dusk draws on, he paces the Monks' Vineyard.

He has walked to and fro, full half an hour by the Cathedral chimes, and it has closed in dark, before he becomes quite aware of a woman crouching on the ground near a wicket gate in a corner.

The gate commands a cross bye-path, little used in the gloaming; and the figure must have been there all the time, though he has but gradually and lately made it out.
He strikes into that path, and walks up to the wicket.