her as she
passed. Bryda went through the wicket-gate and sank down on the boulder
where long ago she sat meditating on the dead lamb, and, hearing the
chime of the Bristol bells, was filled with desire to take flight to the
busy city, and had consented to write to Madam Lambert and let Jack
Henderson convey the letter to Bristol the next day.

Jack--where was Jack? An exile and a wanderer for her sake, and her
heart failed her when she thought she should never see him again, never
be able to atone to him for what he had suffered. The knights of old, of
whom Thomas Chatterton wrote, rescued their lady loves from the grasp of
lawless men, and, at the risk of life and limb, were ready to die in the
attempt. And poor Jack had done the deed worthy of the knights of old,
and how severely he had been punished.

As Bryda went over the past she heard quick footsteps behind her. The
wicket-gate opened and shut with a click, and Mr Barrett stood by her
side.

'Well done, my fair lady,' he said. 'I wanted to get you into the open
air. You have stolen a march on Betty, who is hastening after me with
another shawl and a cloak.'

Then, as Betty came up full of fear that Bryda should suffer, and
covering the ground with an old cloak that Bryda's feet might rest upon
it, Mr Barrett's cheery manner suddenly changed. With a deep sigh he
said,--

'I have had sad news to-day. The poor boy, poor Chatterton, is
dead--aye, and worse, died by his own hand.'

'Dead!' both girls exclaimed in an awe-struck tone.

'Yes, and we in Bristol have all been guilty in the matter. Poor George
Catcott is racked by self-reproach, and well he may be, well may I be.
He was starving and half-mad, that last letter to Catcott shows. We
should have sent someone to him, poor, poor boy. I shall find it hard to
forgive myself, I know that. And in that letter he said "I am no
Christian--"'

Mr Barrett's voice was choked with emotion, and, unable to say another
word, he went hastily down the lane, and very soon his horse's feet and
the wheels of his high gig were heard rattling on the highroad beyond.

'Oh, Bryda, don't fret,' Betty said, as poor Bryda covered her face with
her hands.

'I would like to be alone,' Bryda replied. 'Leave me, dear, just a
little while. Come back for me, but leave me now.'

Betty obeyed, and Bryda was left alone once more to face the great
mystery of death.

'Yes,' she thought, 'he was mad. He could not be taken to account