When he next returned home, his mother met him with the remark, "I have
news for you; get out your handkerchief--Miss Chaworth is married."

In just another year Byron was home again, and was invited to dine with
the Chaworths. He accepted the invitation, and when he was introduced to a
baby girl, a month old, the child of his old sweetheart, his emotions got
the better of him and he had to leave the room. And to ease his woe he
indited a poem to the baby.

Miss Chaworth was not happy with her fox-hunting squire. Her mind became
clouded, and after some years she passed out, in poverty and alone. And if
there ever came to her mind any appreciation of the greatness of the man
who had given her name immortality, we do not know it.

The years from Eighteen Hundred Five to Eighteen Hundred Eight Byron spent
at Cambridge. The arts in which he perfected himself there were shooting,
swimming, fencing, drinking and gambling.

During vacations, and off and on, he lived at Southwell, a village halfway
between Mansfield and Newark. Southwell was sleepy, gossipy, dull--and
exerted a wholesome restraint on our restless youth. It was simply a
question of economy that took Byron and his mother to Southwell. The
run-down estate of Newstead was yielding a meager income, but at Southwell
one could be shabby and yet respectable.

At Southwell Byron met John Pigot and his sister--cultured people of a
refined and quiet sort. Byron took to them at once, and they liked him.

In a country town the person who thinks, instinctively hunts out the other