'You would not, sure, think of taking your own life? Oh, it is very dreadful--it is a sin!' 'A sin!' he repeated. 'Well, I have not done it yet. I feel vastly full of life to-day. Old Lambert's rating at me put some spirit into me, and I shall not die yet.' 'Death is so solemn,' Bryda said, 'even when God calls us to die--the leaving of the sun and all the beauty of the world for the dark grave. I always shudder to see even a little bird dead, to think its songs are silent for ever, and its happy flights into the blue sky, and its sleep in its warm nest--' 'Ah!' Chatterton said, 'you have a breath of poetry in you. You can understand!' 'But what will you do in London? It is such a big place. And how will you live?' 'I shall _try_ to live, and if I can't--well, I will do what I meant to do to-morrow--_die_. But,' he went on, throwing back his head with the proud gesture peculiar to him, 'I can turn a penny to more purpose in London than here. I have been paid for my contributions to the _Town and Country Magazine_, and the _Middlesex Journal_ will take what I write and be glad. Then I have all my "Ælla"--"_Ælla_,"' he repeated, 'I set great store by "Ælla"--money will be sure to come for that and "The Tournament." But come and see my mother, Miss Palmer, next week, and we will have a parting visit together to the grand old church, and I will tell you more. Oh, I am not crushed yet--not I! I have heaps of literary stuff which may turn into gold, and I can say,-- Hope, holy sister, sweeping through the sky, In crown of gold and robe of lily white, Which far abroad in gentle air doth fly, Meeting from distance the enjoyous sight, Albeit oft thou takest thy high flight Shrouded in mist and with thy blinded eyne. 'Yes, holy sister,' he repeated, 'I clasp thee to my heart, and away and away to London.' 'These are beautiful words,' Bryda said; 'are they yours?' 'Mine? yes, they are mine. Despair came to me in black guise when I went to old Burgum, and he vowed he had not sixpence to give me. And as to lend money--who would lend to a beggar? Not Burgum; he is a thrifty soul though he comes of the grand race of De Bergheim, of which he is mighty proud, poor fool!' And Chatterton indulged in a fit of laughter, probably remembering how easily the honest pewterer had been gulled by the story of his noble ancestry, for which he had given him a crown piece. The laugh was strange, and not a melodious sound, and almost at the same moment Mrs Symes and the footboy came into the kitchen. 'Laughing, are you?' she said. 'You will have to laugh on the wrong side of your mouth, young man. Why, the folks are all talking of you and your wickedness. Come, I hear you have notice to quit--be off. And as to you, Miss Palmer, I would take care what you have to do with this _limb_, for he is a limb and no mistake--a real limb of the Evil One.'