I resolved to lose not a moment in returning.
With some difficulty I retraced my steps, but the bundle had disappeared.

The clothes were, in themselves, of small value, but they constituted the whole of my wardrobe; and I now reflected that they were capable of being transmuted, by the pawn or sale of them, into food.
There were other wretches as indigent as I was, and I consoled myself by thinking that my shirts and stockings might furnish a seasonable covering to their nakedness; but there was a relic concealed within this bundle, the loss of which could scarcely be endured by me.

It was the portrait of a young man who died three years ago at my father's house, drawn by his own hand.
He was discovered one morning in the orchard with many marks of insanity upon him.

His air and dress bespoke some elevation of rank and fortune.
My mother's compassion was excited, and, as his singularities were harmless, an asylum was afforded him, though he was unable to pay for it.

He was constantly declaiming, in an incoherent manner, about some mistress who had proved faithless.