t it is dreadful--_dreadful_!' Bryda exclaimed, 'because it is all my
fault. And Jack gone--do you say quite gone?'

'Yes, he is a long way down channel by this time. Now, Miss Palmer, do
not take on; things are sure to brighten for you.'

'Oh! he ought to have waited till he knew more. It was cowardly of
Jack--'

'Well you know he did not feel sure you cared for him--thought maybe it
was the Squire after all.'

'Have you heard anything else?' Bryda asked. 'Is it the talk of Bristol
what happened yesterday?'

'Well, it is known, because Mr Barrett has been sent for to the Squire
to try to mend his broken head. It is a pity Henderson did not wait till
he knew whether he was dead or alive. I should have thought you would
have heard something from Corn Street, for no doubt there is a row there
at Jack's absence from the silversmith's shop.'

'Mr Lambert is away for the day,' Bryda said. 'Oh, it has been such a
long, long day. I am so miserable, so wretched. I dare not stay a minute
longer. Good-bye.'

'A long good-bye, a _last_ good-bye, Miss Palmer. I am off to London by
the coach to-morrow. Wish me better fortune than I have had here. If you
could visit my poor mother sometimes I should be glad. She takes on at
the idea of parting with me. You see you can't make a mother see that
leaving her is for her son's benefit. No,' he said, 'it's gospel truth,
there is no love to compare with a mother's;' and he added, 'Though I
love the muse, and love and court her as a knight would court his ladye
love, I love my mother, who, dear soul, never understood a word of
poetry in her life--and sister is almost as bad. But, bless them both,
they will be glad enough when I come back to Bristol famous.'

Then, with the courtesy of the knights of old of whom he spoke,
Chatterton doffed his cap, bowed low, and, kissing Bryda's hand, was
gone.

It was his last night in Bristol. He was off by the mail to London the
next day, but scantily provided with clothes, though his mother had done
her best, but scantily provided with money, but full to overflowing with
high hope and enterprise. Of his bulky manuscripts--his much-cherished
possession--he never lost hold throughout the long, cold journey. They
were securely packed by his own hand in a canvas bag; his mother might
pack his clothes, his sister might mend his stockings, and water them
with her tears as she rolled them up and placed them in the heavy trunk,
but no hand but his own