'Will you grant a delay of a year, sir?' she asked.

'A year--_no_! I am not made of the stuff of patient Job,' he replied, with a little laugh. 'No, madam, I will _not_ wait a year.'

'Till Eastertide next year, then?'

'Well, you are a little witch. I think you have cast a spell over me. I will wait till then. Come, thank me--give me a sign of gratitude.'

Bryda put out her little hand, and the Squire took it, bowed over it, raised it to his lips, and then said,--

'If I keep this hand your grandfather shall keep the money.'

'But I do not promise, sir--mind, I do not promise. I only crave for delay--understand me, sir.'

'I do understand,' was the reply, and then there were steps along the pavement of the square, as the apprentice hurried home for his midday meal in the kitchen.

Bryda reached the door at the same moment, but Chatterton made no remark.

He was in one of his unquiet moods. No news from Horace Walpole--no reply to his repeated demands for his manuscripts--nothing but complaints of him at the office--nothing but indignities in the house where he lived as a servant. What was it to him that Bryda's sweet face was clouded by distress--that tears stood on her long curled lashes--and that Mrs Lambert's voice was heard from the parlour door, raised in no pleasant tones?

'Miss Palmer, you are late in returning. Unpunctuality I cannot tolerate. Remember, miss, you are bound to follow my instructions, and--'

Then the door closed, and Chatterton heard no more.

But that afternoon he went into Mr Antony Henderson's office in Corn Street, where poor Jack Henderson sat on his low stool, with his long legs bent up under the watchmaker's counter, pulling to pieces a large watch in a pinchbeck case, and thinking more of Bryda than the wheels of that cumbrous bit of mechanism.

Chatterton bent over him, and whispered in his ear,--

'Look about you, Henderson. Your fair lady has another suitor. He was with her in the square to-day at noon. A fine fellow, too, I swear he was.'

Jack started so that the pinchbeck watch had a narrow escape of falling from the counter, and the man who had the care of the apprentices at Mr Henderson's exclaimed,--

'Take care, you clumsy lout. You spoil more things than you mend. You'll never be fit for the trade. You might as well put one of your mother's heifers in here to learn the business.'

Jack paid little heed to this taunt, and bent his head lower over the watch.

Chatterton laughed a low laugh.

'Well,' he said, 'I advise you to look out or your fair one will slip through your fingers.'

And then he was gone.

Jack had to wait till the following Sunday before he could see Bryda.

Everything was against him, for a heavy rain was falling, and there was no chance of Bryda coming out for a Sunday walk. But he went boldly up the steps before Mr Lambert's house and gave a heavy thud on the door with the knocker.

The footboy opened it, and Jack said,--

'Can I see Miss Palmer?'

'I don't know. She is reading to the missis. But,' said the boy, with a knowing wink, 'the missis takes a nap after dinner, and if she is gone off Miss Palmer may get out on the sly. I'll peep in and see. You are Miss P.'s beau, ain't you?'

'Hold your tongue,' Jack said wrathfully, 'you impudent young villain.'

'Oh, that's it, is it? Then I sha'n't do no more for you. You may stand there till the "crack of doom" the 'prentice is always talking about.'

The voices in the little lobby attracted Bryda's attention. Mrs Lambert was comfortably asleep, and Bryda opened the door softly, and saw Jack standing near it, arrayed in his Sunday best--blue coat, bright buttons, and large buff waistcoat.

Bryda closed the door behind her and said,--

'I cannot come out to-day, Jack, it is raining so hard.'

'I know that. Can't I speak to you here a minute?'

'Mr Lambert is gone out for the day. Yes, you may come into his study.

Is anything wrong, Jack?' she asked, looking anxiously into his face.

'What have you got to do with that brute of a Squire Bayfield? I know it was he you were talking to t'other day. Don't have aught to do with him or you'll rue it, I tell you. You will--'

'I don't know why you should be so cross, Jack,' Bryda said, assuming a jesting air. 'I shall sing you the old rhyme,--

Crosspatch, draw the latch, Sit by the fire and spin.'

'Don't be silly, Bryda. It is no laughing matter.'

'No, perhaps it isn't,' Bryda replied, 'but I have had a letter from my dear Bet, which the carrier brought, which will please you, or _ought_ to please you.'

Bryda plunged her little hand into her deep pocket and drew out Betty's letter. Betty had not the gift of either penmanship or composition, and this letter had cost her much trouble.

'Here, read what Bet says,' Bryda exclaimed, holding out the letter to Jack.

'No, thank you. I don't want to read it.'

'Then I shall read it for you,' Bryda exclaimed, 'you stupid old Jack.'

How pretty she looked as she stood before Jack with the open letter, her face flushed with the most delicate crimson, her eyes sparkling as she began,--

'DEAR BRYDA,--This leaves me well, as I hope it finds you at present. Dear Bryda, the young Squire, Mr Bayfield, came over here last evening. He was as kind as he could be. Grandfather is not to trouble about the money for another few months. The Squire says he won't press it, and so we can go on as we are till next Easter. Dear Bryda, I think the Squire was tender-hearted when he saw grandfather so old and broken. I don't wonder. He looks ten years older since it came out about the money and our poor father. That's what cuts him to the heart--'

Bryda sighed as she read these words, and Jack was touched. He had been cross-grained, he knew, but nevertheless he would gladly have got the Squire at that moment in his hands and thrashed him without mercy.

'That's all in the letter,' Bryda said. 'There's only love and kisses, and a few words written below to say grandfather had eaten a good supper and was more like himself for this good news.'

'It's all very well,' Jack said, 'but it seems to me if the Squire gets the money at Easter he might as well have it now. What's the odds?'

'Oh, Jack, they will have the winter to look about them. It does make a difference.'

'Well,' Jack said, 'I would not trust that man. He has got some reason for this, depend on it.'

But poor Jack dare not trust himself to ask what that reason might be.