"Thurnall!" said he; "I have been a long journey. I have been to Whitbury once more, and followed my father about his garden, and sat upon my mother's knee. And she taught me one text, and no more. Over and over again she said it, as she looked down at me with still sad eyes, the same text which she spoke the day I left her for London. I never saw her again. 'By this, my son, be admonished; of making of books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh. Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter. Fear God and keep His commandments; for this is the whole duty of man.'.... Yes, I will go down to Whitbury, and he a little child once more. I will take poor lodgings, and crawl out day by day, down the old lanes, along the old river-banks, where I fed my soul with fair and mad dreams, and reconsider it all from the beginning;--and then die. No one need know me; and if they do, they need not be ashamed of me, I trust--ashamed that a poet has risen up among them, to speak words which have been heard across the globe. At least, they need never know my shame--never know that I have broken the heart of an angel, who gave herself to me, body and soul--attempted the life of a man whose shoes I am not worthy to unloose--never know that I have killed my own child!--that a blacker brand than Cain's is on my brow!--Never know--Oh, my God, what care I? Let them know all, as long as I can have done with shams and affectations, dreams, and vain ambitions, and he just my own self once more, for one day, and then die!" And he burst into convulsive weeping. "No, Tom, do not comfort me! I ought to die, and I shall die. I cannot face her again; let her forget me, and find a husband who will--and be a father to the children whom I neglected! Oh, my darlings, my darlings! If I could but see you once again: but no! you too would ask me where I had been so long. You too would ask me--your innocent faces at least would--why I had killed your little brother!--Let me weep it out, Thurnall; let me face it all! This very misery is a comfort, for it will kill me all the sooner." "If you really mean to go to Whitbury, my poor dear fellow," said Tom at last, "I will start with you to-morrow morning. For I too must go; I must see my father." "You will really?" asked Elsley, who began to cling to him like a child. "I will indeed. Believe me, you are right; you will find friends there, and admirers too. I know one." "You do?" asked he, looking up. "Mary Armsworth, the banker's daughter." "What! That purse-proud, vulgar man?" "Don't be afraid of him. A truer and more delicate heart don't beat. No one has more cause to say so than I. He will receive you with open arms, and need be told no more than is necessary; while, as his friend, you may defy gossip, and do just what you like."