sort of chap. Old
Lambert hates him, but masters always hate their apprentices, just as
Uncle Tom hates me.'

'Have you brought me any more poems, Jack?'

'No. You must come for 'em. I'll lay a wager Chatterton will give you a
lot of stuff like the "Friar's Bridge" when he sees you.'

'You might send me _Felix Farley's Journal_ when you go back to
business.'

'Look here, Bryda, you must come for it. I shall be off in the cart next
Monday morning. I'll wait at the turn by the church till you come. Only
old Tim will know, and he is as blind as a mole and deaf as a post. Now,
come, there's a good girl.'

'But Mrs Lambert may not want me.'

'You are quick with your pen, write to the old lady and tell her you
will come to be a grandchild to her, or what you like. Come, Bryda, say
yes.'

But Bryda still hesitated.

The flight to Bristol was to the country-bred village maiden of a
hundred and twenty years ago a serious matter. Just as she had seen the
young swallows stretching their wings on the nests under the eaves, and
fluttering and trembling before they followed their twittering parents,
so did Bryda pause, before she could make up her mind to take this
earnestly desired flight into the heart of the city from the heart of
the hills.

Bryda had few books, for books, of which there were not many in those
days, did not find their way to the Mendip villages. But the girl lived
in her own world of romance, and peopled it with airy phantoms, as many
a maiden has done before her. Her prosaic aunt and the two or three
cronies who paid visits to Bishop's Farm were much more unreal to her
than the creations of her own brain.

She loved Betty with the love that is born of dependence, for Betty
exercised a half maternal care over the sister of whose beauty she was
so proud, and who seemed to her simple soul so far superior to herself
and to any of her neighbours.

That Bryda should have the best of everything was a recognised fact with
Betty--the best clothes, the brightest ribbons, the choicest food.

Many a time had Betty stood as a shield between their Aunt Dorothy and
the spoiled child, her sister, and skilfully covered any of Bryda's
delinquencies by the garment which loving hands know so well how to
throw over those who are dearest to them.

Betty was very pretty, but she had no acknowledged admirers, while there
was not a young man in the district who did not show signs of adoration
for Bryda--mute signs, pe