'Come on,' said a gruff voice, 'and don't talk such foolery, Sally.

Leave the boy to look after his own business.'

'Or rather the girl after hers,' was the saucy reply, as the pair moved away.

Jack Henderson began to think that Miss Chatterton purposely avoided joining company with her brother and Bryda.

He now said,--

'Miss Palmer has a long walk to Dowry Square. I think, by your leave, I will join her, and advise her to take advantage of Mrs Chatterton's offer to rest a while at her house.'

'Certainly, sir, if you desire it; but my brother would fain take her into the church, I fancy, before it is closed.'

Chatterton at once became moody and distrait when his _tete-a-tete_ with Bryda was at an end. He had been annoyed, too, by the remarks of the free-spoken young lady, who had rallied him on his 'new conquest,' and when they entered the church the evil spirit was again dominant.

But Bryda forgot him, forgot Rowley the priest, and the wonderful story of his poems, in the feeling of awe with which the noble church inspired her.

There was in her, as I have said, a quick response to all sights and sounds of beauty. Then, as the organ rolled its waves of melody above her head, as the last Amen of the choir rose to the vaulted roof, her whole soul was wrapt in that feeling which has no other name but devotion. The unseen Presence of what was holy and pure seemed to encompass her, and as she leaned against one of the pillars, close to the monument of the great Canynge, her fair face wore on it an expression those who saw it were not likely to forget.

And, as if in sharp contrast, a little in the background was seen the grand outline of Chatterton's head, thrown back with a strangely defiant air, his lips curled with contempt, his hands clasped at his back, and his whole bearing that of one full of resentment and hatred against what might or might not be imaginary foes.

There is nothing more sorrowful than the story of Chatterton's genius, misdirected, and, as it were, preparing its own doom. The lawyer's apprentice, who had this rare gift of poetry, was to know only broken hopes and unfulfilled desires, and soon to fall beyond the reach of help, of human love, or Christian charity.

There he stood, on that bright summer afternoon, as the procession of clergy passed out and the organ pealed forth its melodious strains, there he stood in the church, where his father had stood before him, chafing against his lot, and conscious, who shall say how bitterly conscious, that like the baseless fabric of a dream the poems of the priest of St John would vanish, and he, Thomas Chatterton, the true poet, stand exposed as an unskilful forger. Sixteen summers had barely passed over his head, and yet in moments like these he looked as if the storms of twice sixteen years had left their mark upon him.

Mrs Chatterton received Bryda with kindly warmth, rather overdoing her apologies for her humble fare and poor cottage. It was evident that Chatterton chafed at this, and he scarcely spoke a word during tea. Jack Henderson and Chatterton's mother made an attempt at conversation, but honest Jack was not skilled in finding subjects for small talk, and he was, moreover, so engrossed with Bryda that he had little room for any other thought.

When tea was over Bryda said she must return to Mr Lambert's, as Sam the footboy was to have his turn for a holiday after six o'clock. Jack was only too glad to get Bryda off, and as they walked away together he said,--

'Don't have too much to say to Tom Chatterton, Bryda.'

She looked up at him and laughed.

'It was he who had so much to say to me,' she said.

'Well, he is not the man for you to make a friend of, mind that.'

'Man!' she said. 'Jack, he is only a boy--just sixteen. You did not call yourself a man then when you were at the Grammar School at Wells. But, Jack--' she said more seriously.

'I don't want to talk any more about the apprentice, though I pity him just as I should pity a young eagle shut up in a close cage, and feeling all his strength to rise to the sun of no use. Oh, yes, I do pity him, and so ought you.'

'I shall pity myself more if you give him all your company another Sunday and shut me out.'

'Don't be silly, Jack; I am not one to cast off old friends for new.

But, Jack, I am so frightened when I think the Squire is in Bristol.

What did he come for?'

'What was he saying to you by the orchard gate that evening I came upon you?'

'Oh, that I could not tell you; it was all meant to flatter me, and I hate him.'

'Why did he say he would give your grandfather a month before he sold off?'

Bryda hesitated.

'He said something about he would have me instead of the money.'

Jack Henderson's honest face flushed with indignation.

'The villain--the cursed villain! I see what he is driving at, but I will be quits with him.'

Bryda grew calm as Jack waxed more and more vehement, and his loud voice attracted the passers-by.

'Hush, Jack, people are staring at you! Do you suppose I would be bought like that? No! What would Bet say? I would sooner die than strike a bargain like that!'

'I'd sooner see you dead,' Jack replied.

Bryda was afraid to say more that would rouse Jack's wrath, so she asked him to be sure to let her hear any news of home.

'I sha'n't hear any news. No one ever writes to me. When the farm produce comes in once a month on market days the old carter asks if I am in good health--with the missus' love--that's about all.'

'I am writing to Bet, little bits every day. I have got an ink-pot and a quill pen up in the garret, and Mr Chatterton gave me some paper from the office, but I don't think that is quite honest, so please buy me a little. I can give you a shilling,' she said, putting her hand in the large pocket which was fastened to her waist under the short skirt.

Jack pushed her hand away.

'I don't want your shilling,' he said.

'Oh, Jack, why are you so cross-grained,' Bryda said, 'it is not like you.'

'I don't feel like myself neither,' poor Jack said, 'but I'll be in a better temper when I see you next Sunday, and don't have that mad boy at your heels. Take care what you do in Bristol; it is full of people, and some of them are bad enough. So take care, for you know you are--well, you have only to look in a glass to see. Good-bye, Bryda, I won't come up to the door.'

Bryda found Mrs Lambert only half awake in her easy-chair, with the best china teacups and a small teapot before her. Blair's sermons and the port wine together had caused a prolonged slumber, and Sam had brought in the tray all unobserved at five o'clock. Mr Lambert generally spent his Sunday afternoons with a friend at Long Ashton, and sometimes one of Mrs Lambert's cronies looked in on her for a dish of tea and a gossip.

But no one had arrived on this afternoon, and the good lady had thus slept on undisturbed.

'What is the time, Miss Palmer? It must be time for tea.'

'Oh, yes, madam; it is six o'clock. I will go and boil the kettle, and make the tea; please give me the keys of the caddy.'

Bryda took the large tortoiseshell caddy from the shelf in the glass cupboard, and Mrs Lambert solemnly unlocked it. Tea was precious in those days, and Mrs Lambert took a teaspoon and carefully measured the precise quantity, saying,--

'One for each person, and one for the pot.'

'I have had my tea, madam,' Bryda said.

'Oh! Well you can take another cup, I daresay,' Mrs Lambert said graciously. 'I am getting a little faint,' she added, yawning, 'so I shall be obliged to you to hasten to brew the tea.'

Bryda lost no time, and descending to the lower regions, set Sam at liberty till nine o'clock, and very soon had tea and crisp toast ready for her mistress.

All her handy ways were rapidly winning her favour, and Mrs Lambert called her 'a very notable young person, not at all like one brought up in a farmhouse!'