99

XI. CHRISTMAS AT THE FARM, 109

XII. THE FINAL BLOW, 118

XIII. AN UNSUCCESSFUL SUIT, 128

XIV. ON THE HILLSIDE, 137

XV. THE LAST EVENING, 152

XVI. FORGIVENESS, 164

XVII. THE LAST, 176

Bristol Bells

CHAPTER I

LONGING FOR FLIGHT.

'Grandfather! I want to speak to you; please listen.'

'Well, who said I would not listen? But speak up, Biddy.'

The old man put his hand to his ear, and his granddaughter leaned over
the back of his chair.

'Don't call me Biddy, grandfather. I am Bryda.'

'Bryda! Phew! Your poor mother was called Biddy, and you ain't better
than she was that I know of.'

'Well, never mind; but this is what I want to say, and Betty is quite of
my mind. Do let me go to Bristol. Jack Henderson heard old Mrs Lambert
say she would like a bright, sharp girl to help her in the house, and I
am bright and sharp, grandfather!'

'I daresay, and make you a drudge!'

'No; I shouldn't be a drudge. I should be treated well, and you know Mrs
Lambert is a relation.'

'Relation! that's very pretty, when she has taken no heed of you for
years. No, no; stay at home, Biddy, and put such silly stuff out of your
head. Goody Lambert may find somebody else--not my granddaughter. Come!
it's about supper-time. Where's Bet? She doesn't want to gad about; she
knows when she is well off.'

Bryda pouted, and darted out of the large parlour of Bishop's Farm into
the orchard, where the pink-and-white blossoms of the trees were all
smiling in the westering sunshine of the fair May evening.

The level rays threw gleams of gold between the thickly-serried ranks of
the old trees--many of them with gnarled, crooked branches, covered with
white lichen--some, more recently planted, spreading out straight
boughs--the old and young alike all covered with the annual miracle of
the spring's unfailing gift of lovely blossoms, which promised a full
guerdon of fruit in after days.

In and out amongst the trees Bryda threaded her way, sometimes brushing
against one of the lower boughs, which shed its pink-and-white petals on
her fair head as she passed.

'Betty!' she called. 'Bet, are you here? Bet!'

Bryda had come to a wicket-gate opening on a space of rugged down,
golden with gorse, and from which could be seen