'Hush, Jack. On this beautiful day--Easter day--don't have wicked feelings. If you went to church this morning--'

'I didn't. I was too miserable,' Jack interrupted.

'Well, I am sorry for that,' she said very gently, 'because if you had gone you would have heard the words which tell us to put away the leaven of malice and wickedness, Jack. I have thought so much more of religion since I came to Bristol, I don't quite know why, but I have thought how, if we really love God, He will keep us safe--safe from evil passions such as we have seen possess poor Tom Chatterton. I could cry when I think that when he was only a little boy of eleven he could write those beautiful verses on "Christmas Day," and not long ago the lines on "Faith," and yet get so mastered by his passion that he could actually write a will to be read when he had sinned against God by killing himself to-day. And he is now cast out on the world, which will break his poor mother's heart.'

But Jack Henderson did not care to hear about the mad apprentice just then. He rose from his seat with a gesture of impatience.

'I don't want to hear about Tom Chatterton,' he said. 'I asked you a plain question, and I want a plain answer.'

'Well, then, dear Jack, we shall always be friends, I hope. But I could not--no, I could not promise more.'

'Very well,' he said moodily. 'But look here, Bryda, if I thought that scoundrel Bayfield had anything to do with this I'd break every bone in his body--I swear I would!'

'You have no right to speak to me like this,' Bryda replied. 'You have no right to suppose that the Squire has anything to do with what I say to you.'

'Haven't I, then? What did he mean by sneaking in last Christmas with presents, and daring to--' Jack stopped, and then in a choked voice he said, 'Don't be angry with me, Bryda; that would be worse than all.'

'No, I won't be angry if you are good,' she said, in a tone she would have used to soothe a child, 'and now let us go round by the village and down by Bristol to the Hot Wells.'

Yes, Clifton was then only a village, and Chatterton had already sung its charms in lines which ought to be known and prized by those who live in the Clifton of these days. It is true Clifton is no longer 'the sweet village' which the boy poet describes, though it may still be

The loved retreat of all the rich and gay,

it is not the Clifton of a century and more ago. Now it is rather a city of mansions and stately crescents, of colleges and schools, than a village. Full of the busy workers in literature and art, of philanthropists and philosophers, of churches and chapels, looking down from the elevation of her rocky fastnesses over the yellow Avon creeping below, 'its sullen billows rolling a muddy tide.'

The poet who sang its praises, and with his wonderful eagle glance over the page of Bristol history seized the salient points to introduce into his ode, is at once one of the most famous and the saddest memories lingering round this City of the West, from which her younger sister of to-day has sprung, and to which she owes her origin and her wealth.

Jack and Bryda parted at the entrance of Dowry Square, and with a long and wistful gaze at the face he loved so well he turned sadly away.

'I am a rough suitor,' he said to himself, 'I shall never win her. She is too far above me, too good, too clever, but'--and poor Jack tore the primroses from his coat and threw them away--'oh, Heaven! how I love her!'

CHAPTER XIV

ON THE HILLSIDE.

The next week was spent by Chatterton in bidding his friends good-bye, presenting some young ladies of his acquaintance with gingerbread, the boyish side of his nature coming to the front, and with it a loving tenderness to his mother and sister.

Full of hope since the money had been collected for him, and glad to be turning his back on Bristol, Chatterton was in one of his most winning moods.

The soft spring weather had changed, cold winds blew, and instead of soft April showers hail fell, blown in little heaps along Dowry Square by the breath of the keen north-west wind.

Bryda was standing by the parlour window, looking out into the square, just before dinner was served on Sunday.

It was somewhat of a relief to her to think Jack would not come to-day, or, if he came, she could make the excuse of cold and a headache and decline to take a Sunday stroll.

The remembrance of poor Jack's sad face as they parted haunted her, and she said to herself she wished she had been kinder to him, and she wished, oh! how she wished he had loved Betty instead of her. Bryda had written to Betty as she had determined, and sent the letter by the carrier, folded in thick paper and fastened by a string. The post in the rural districts was very irregular in those days, and the carrier's charge for delivering a parcel was even less than the postage of a letter. Bryda wondered she had received no answer yet from Betty. She had told her to reply on the return of the carrier on Saturday, and she knew that if the letter was left at the office in Corn Street she would be sure to get it on Saturday evening.

But no reply had come. Bryda had spoken to Mr Lambert that morning about the affairs at Bishop's Farm, and he had advised that before the Squire could take any decided steps an appraiser, in the old man's interests, should be dispatched to the farm to value the stock and the furniture, and find out how far it would cover the debt and the expenses.

'I must wait till I hear from my sister,' Bryda had said. 'I dare not take them by surprise; it would frighten poor grandfather, and upset him again. I hope Betty will soon answer my letter.'

'Well,' Mr Lambert had replied, 'young ladies must please themselves, as they take care to do; but if I might presume to advise, I should say accept the Squire's proposal. I should have thought he was a likely fellow to gain a fair maiden's favour.'

Bryda had no reply to make to this, and now, as she stood looking out on the square, she saw a boy crossing it and looking at the houses, as if uncertain at which to stop. Presently he came up to the door and rang the bell, giving also a great thud with the knocker. The footboy hastened up to open the door, and Bryda, going into the passage, heard her name.

'Does Miss Palmer live here?'

Bryda advanced and said,--

'Yes; I am Miss Palmer.'

'This is for you, miss,' the boy said. 'I was to say it was _urgent_.'

Bryda took from the boy's hand a crumpled bit of paper, on which was written,--

'Come at once to the old thorn tree half-way up the hill--great distress, I must see you. I will be there at three o'clock.

BETTY.'

The paper was so crumpled that it was hard to decipher the writing, but it was Betty's, of that Bryda felt sure. She went hastily to the parlour.

'Madam Lambert,' she said, 'I am come to ask leave to start at once to meet my sister. She is in great trouble--give me leave--'

'To meet her--where? You agitate me, Miss Palmer.'

'Oh! I pray you let me go,' and Bryda, scarcely waiting for an answer, ran upstairs, threw on her cloak and covered her head with its hood, and then was out of the house and on her way towards Rownham Ferry.

'The shortest way, oh! which is the shortest way. Shall I be able to get to the thorn tree by three o'clock. I know the tree, and the road when I am once out of Bristol.'

At this moment she met Chatterton, whom she stopped, waking him from one of his dreams.

'Oh, Miss Palmer, I was on my way towards the square, hoping I might be so happy as to meet you and your true knight. But what ails you?'

'I have had a summons to meet Bet, my sister. She is in great trouble, something has happened. Put me in the way to get to the road to Dundry.'

'I will show you the way, and glad to do so,' Chatterton said. 'I am sorry for your distress, Miss Palmer, but let us hope things are not so bad as you fear. I am in good heart to-day,' he said, his fine face shining with hope and boyish gladness, 'let me give you some of my "Holy sister's" influence.'

Then he walked with Bryda to the ferry. When once on the other side of the river she could find her way to the foot of the winding road which led up to Dundry.

Bryda held the crumpled piece of paper in her hand and scanned it again.

'Bet has written it so ill I can scarce read it,' she said. 'That word is _distress_, is it not, Mr Chatterton?'

Chatterton took the paper and examined it closely.