'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 again