ought Bryda books and
newspapers; but when she asked news of Thomas Chatterton he would put
off a direct answer.

Another question, often on her lips, about the Squire he parried; and
when she asked, 'Is there any way of getting Jack Henderson back--of
letting him know?' Mr Barrett would shake his head.

'I am afraid not; but don't vex yourself, my dear. He may be making his
fortune, and come back one day a rich man.'

'Ah! but he will always have that face before him, lying dead, as he
thought. Even now I can't forget it.'

'Oh! come, come! the Squire is better. He was able to set his hand to a
document to-day, and Nurse says he is not so wandering in his sleep.
He'll do in time.'

And while these glowing August days of 1770 went on, and the golden corn
ripened, and the trees in the orchard were laden with rosy fruit, while
the hills wore their imperial robes of purple and gold, and partridges,
all unconscious of their coming fate, rose in covies from the stubble,
London streets were hot and dusty, and there, up and down, paced the boy
poet, nearing the tragic end of all his bright dreams and all his proud
aspirations.

The pathetic story need not be told in detail here. From the moment when
he left Mr Lambert's house, and went to try his fortune in the great
city of London, he drifted away from his Bristol friends and Bristol
ties.

Mr Barrett and his staunch friend Mr George Catcott had letters from
him, and it is plain that he applied to Mr Barrett for a certificate to
go out as a ship's surgeon.

But this request he could not honestly grant. Letters to his mother and
sister are also preserved, which are pathetic, indeed, as they are
evidently written with the one desire of keeping them in ignorance of
his real condition.

He sends them presents, and denies himself food that he may do so. He
writes of orders for copy for the reviews and magazines, and keeps up
the hope of the mother he loves so well, when his own hope was dying day
by day.

One hot morning Bryda was lying in her upper chamber in the old
farmhouse, paper and pens at her side, on a little table, where Betty,
her faithful sister, had placed a little jar of monthly roses and
mignonette. Life was returning to her, and she rose from her couch, and
throwing a shawl over her head, without telling Betty, she crept feebly
downstairs and went out into the orchard, the boughs of the old apple
trees, heavy with their rosy and russet load, touching