e air which were so dear to her.

'Perhaps I shall find ways in Bristol to make myself known. If that
strange boy gets his verses printed in _Felix Farley's Journal_ I may as
well try to get mine there. Then people will ask who is Beta--for I
shall call myself Beta. I know that is the Greek for B--and it sounds
pretty. I have many verses in my old school book. Miss Darcy said they
were elegant--at least the one I called "Farewell to Miss Darcy."

'I am sure I could write some verses about the dead lamb. Let me try, so
many words which are appropriate would rhyme.

'Dear little lambkin lying on the grass
So stiff and cold while strangers careless pass,
Never again to frisk amongst the flowers,
Never again to skip in vernal bowers.
Oh, little lambkin, death is hard for thee,
Though many a weary wight would gladly flee
From all the trouble of this mortal life,
And bid Farewell to grief, and pain, and strife.

'Yet what is Death? We get no sure reply
As cold and stiff like thee our dear ones lie.
Say, whither does the spirit seek its home
When all the battle's o'er, the victory won?
Ah! whither are they flown?'

Bryda came to a full stop.

A soft breeze wandering through the orchard gently caressed her hair,
making its own soft music as it whispered to the flowers and buds that
the day was done and that all things must end.

'I must go in now,' the girl said, starting up. 'I will write those
lines to-morrow, and take them with me to Bristol. I hope Jack will not
forget to come for the letter. But I know he won't. Poor old Jack, he is
kind and good, if he is stupid. But everyone can't be clever. The young
Squire looked as if he knew a good deal; and he was very handsome.
Though I hate him, I can't help seeing he is handsome, but cruel and
hard--yes, hard as nails, as poor grandfather said. I might as well try
to soften that big bit of rock.'

Then Bryda let the gate of the orchard close behind her, and went
towards the house.

CHAPTER IV

THE LETTER DELIVERED.

Jack Henderson was up before the sun the next morning. He had thought it
better not to take a horse and cart from his mother's stable, but trust
to his own powers of locomotion.

He made his way across the meadows, where the cowslips hung their
graceful heads, yet heavy with the dew of the short summer night. As the
light strengthened in the east, and lines of pink and gold anno