Mr. Petulengro soon began talking of the letter which I had received in the morning.  “Is it not from Miss Berners, brother?” said he.  I told him it was.  “Is she coming back, brother?” “Never,” said I; “she is gone to America, and has deserted me.”  “I always knew that you two were never destined for each other,” said he.  “How did you know that?” I inquired.  “The dook told me so, brother; you are born to be a great traveller.”  “Well,” said I, “if I had gone with her to America, as I was thinking of doing, I should have been a great traveller.”  “You are to travel in another direction, brother,” said he.  “I wish you would tell me all about my future wanderings,” said I.  “I can’t, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “there’s a power of clouds before my eye.”  “You are a poor seer, after all,” said I; and getting up, I retired to my dingle and my tent, where I betook myself to my bed, and there, knowing the worst, and being no longer agitated by apprehension, nor agonized by expectation, I was soon buried in a deep slumber, the first which I had fallen into for several nights.

CHAPTER XVII

The Public-house—­Landlord on His Legs Again—­A Blow in Season—­The Way of the World—­The Grateful Mind—­The Horse’s Neigh.

It was rather late on the following morning when I awoke.  At first I was almost unconscious of what had occurred on the preceding day; recollection, however, by degrees returned, and I felt a deep melancholy coming over me, but perfectly aware that no advantage could be derived from the indulgence of such a feeling, I sprang up, prepared my breakfast, which I ate with a tolerable appetite, and then left the dingle, and betook myself to the gypsy encampment, where I entered into discourse with various Romanies, both male and female.  After some time, feeling myself in better spirits, I determined to pay another visit to the landlord of the public-house.  From the position of his affairs when I had last visited him I entertained rather gloomy ideas with respect to his present circumstances.  I imagined that I should either find him alone in his kitchen smoking a wretched pipe, or in company with some surly bailiff or his follower, whom his friend the brewer had sent into the house in order to take possession of his effects.

Nothing more entirely differing from either of these anticipations could have presented itself to my view than what I saw about one o’clock in the afternoon, when I entered the house.  I had come, though somewhat in want of consolation myself, to offer any consolation which was at my command to my acquaintance Catchpole, and perhaps like many other people who go to a house with “drops of compassion trembling on their eyelids,” I felt rather disappointed at finding that no compassion was necessary.  The house was thronged with company, and cries for ale and porter, hot brandy and water, cold gin and water, were numerous; moreover, no desire to receive