Betty fetched an inkhorn and two quills from a cupboard by their bed, and placed them on a somewhat rickety table, where Bryda's few books lay--books well worn and studied, books which fed her romance--two volumes of the _Rambler_ and _Spectator_, Pope's verses, and last, but not least, Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_. On the style of these English classics Bryda had formed hers, and thus her expressions were somewhat quaint, and yet she was free from the stilted and flowery mannerism of the women of her time who had received a superficial education. Bryda might be said to be self-educated. Her schooling had been of the narrow type afforded by a 'decayed gentlewoman' in a neighbouring large village, who had undertaken to instruct her pupils in reading, writing, and arithmetic, with fine needlework and the rudiments of French. These rudiments seldom advanced beyond the auxiliary verbs and the pronouns, but Miss Darcy still kept school at Pensford, and spoke with pride of her late talented pupil Miss Palmer. Bryda wrote her letter on a sheet of blue Bath post, and folding it, sealed it with a pink wafer, and addressed it to 'Mrs Lambert, Dowry Square, Bristol,' and wrote in the corner, 'By the hand of Mr J. Henderson.' In the evening, when everyone was going or gone to bed, Bryda stepped out and placed the letter under the loose coping-stone of the wall, and then with a sense of relief went through the dewy orchard and out on the moor, where the purple hues of evening had gathered, and indulged in those castles in the 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.