All the latent romance in Bryda's nature was stirred by the history which her companion told her of the old parchments, used forsooth as covers of books, or cut up into thread papers, and yet of priceless value--a value which he alone had discovered. 'Listen,' he said, stopping short, 'and I will recite to you an elegy or minstrel's song from the "Tragedy of Ælla," then tell me whether Rowley the priest was not a king amongst men. A poor priest--aye, and a poor apprentice, brought up on the charity of Colston's School, has brought him to light, and in due time we shall see his memory receive the laurel crown, denied him perhaps in his life. It is only these dull trading Bristol folk who are blind as bats and deaf as adders. Curse them! I hate Bristol and its people for Rowley's sake, and for my own. Yet I will rise above them, and they shall find they cannot trample on me with impunity.' Bryda began to feel frightened at the increased vehemence of her companion, and looking back, saw they had left Jack Henderson and Miss Chatterton far behind. But suddenly his manner changed, and he said,-- 'No. I will not sing to you of death, you who are so full of life and beauty. The minstrel sang in a sad refrain,-- My love is dead, Gone to his deathbed All under the willow tree. Your love shall have a happier fate. Hark!' he said, 'you shall have a song of springtime, not of the grave--the dark grave, where I wish myself a dozen times a day.' 'Do not say so. Life is so sweet and beautiful,' Bryda exclaimed. 'Though I have many cares at this time, yet I love life, and even in Dowry Square I think it is good to be alive.' 'Aye, to you, doubtless,' was the reply. 'But now for the verse from the "History of Painting." When spring came dancing on a flowery bed, Clothed in green raiment of a changing kind, The leaves of hawthorn budding o'er his head, And with fair primroses waving in the wind, Then did the shepherd his white garment spread Upon the green bank, and danced all around, Whilst the sweet flowerets nodded on his head, And his fair lambs were scattered on the ground; Beneath his foot the brooklet ran along, Which strolleth round the vale to hear his joyous song. 'There, Miss Palmer, you have a song of spring, wrote hundreds of years ago. I tell it to you in the language of to-day, but it is ten times sweeter in the beauteous rhythm of the olden time.' 'It would not be sweeter to me,' Bryda said; 'for though I found the "History of the Opening of the Bristol Bridge" full of beauty, yet it teased me to scan the words though I made out their meaning at last. How could you find them out--who helped you?' Chatterton laughed.