The king-cup on its slender stalk,
Within the pasture dell,
Would picture there a pleasant walk
With one I loved so well.
It said, "How sweet at eventide
'Twould be, with true love at thy side."
And on the pasture's woody knoll
I saw the wild blue-bell.
On Sundays, where I used to stroll
With her I loved so well:
She culled the flowers the year before;
These bowed, and told the story o'er."
He was ever in imagination seeking his lost one, and ever hoping to regain her.
So now, while he appeared to be getting better, he was dreaming how he could effect his escape, and find his Mary. After several unsuccessful attempts, he managed to get away, and the story of his adventures written by himself has an interest quite unique.
In an old wide-awake, which he had found amongst the remains of a gipsy encampment, Clare stole off. By a sort of intuition he managed to get into the great York road, reaching Stevenage in Hertfordshire the first night. There he slept in an old shed on some clover, taking care to lie with his head to the north, that he might know in what direction to steer in the morning.
With a grateful thanksgiving for his night's rest, he set out on his journey fasting, for he had not a penny in his pocket. Happily, a countryman whom he met on horseback threw him a penny, with which he got half a pint of beer, a rest, and shelter from a heavy shower. Onward he marched, through villages and towns, until, as the morning waned, he sat down for half an hour, and, as he quaintly observes, "made a good many wishes for breakfast."
When, late in the evening, he reached Potton in Bedfordshire, he inquired for the house of the clergyman and the overseer. But he could not find them, and being nearly worn out, one of his feet having become so crippled that he could only just hobble along, he asked a labourer where he could find a shed
