'I don't want to talk any more about the apprentice, though I pity him just as I should pity a young eagle shut up in a close cage, and feeling all his strength to rise to the sun of no use. Oh, yes, I do pity him, and so ought you.' 'I shall pity myself more if you give him all your company another Sunday and shut me out.' 'Don't be silly, Jack; I am not one to cast off old friends for new. But, Jack, I am so frightened when I think the Squire is in Bristol. What did he come for?' 'What was he saying to you by the orchard gate that evening I came upon you?' 'Oh, that I could not tell you; it was all meant to flatter me, and I hate him.' 'Why did he say he would give your grandfather a month before he sold off?' Bryda hesitated. 'He said something about he would have me instead of the money.' Jack Henderson's honest face flushed with indignation. 'The villain--the cursed villain! I see what he is driving at, but I will be quits with him.' Bryda grew calm as Jack waxed more and more vehement, and his loud voice attracted the passers-by. 'Hush, Jack, people are staring at you! Do you suppose I would be bought like that? No! What would Bet say? I would sooner die than strike a bargain like that!' 'I'd sooner see you dead,' Jack replied. Bryda was afraid to say more that would rouse Jack's wrath, so she asked him to be sure to let her hear any news of home. 'I sha'n't hear any news. No one ever writes to me. When the farm produce comes in once a month on market days the old carter asks if I am in good health--with the missus' love--that's about all.' 'I am writing to Bet, little bits every day. I have got an ink-pot and a quill pen up in the garret, and Mr Chatterton gave me some paper from the office, but I don't think that is quite honest, so please buy me a little. I can give you a shilling,' she said, putting her hand in the large pocket which was fastened to her waist under the short skirt. Jack pushed her hand away. 'I don't want your shilling,' he said. 'Oh, Jack, why are you so cross-grained,' Bryda said, 'it is not like you.' 'I don't feel like myself neither,' poor Jack said, 'but I'll be in a better temper when I see you next Sunday, and don't have that mad boy at your heels. Take care what you do in Bristol; it is full of people, and some of them are bad enough. So take care, for you know you are--well, you have only to look in a glass to see. Good-bye, Bryda, I won't come up to the door.' Bryda found Mrs Lambert only half awake in her easy-chair, with the best china teacups and a small teapot before her. Blair's sermons and the port wine together had caused a prolonged slumber, and Sam had brought in the tray all unobserved at five o'clock. Mr Lambert generally spent his Sunday afternoons with a friend at Long Ashton, and sometimes one of Mrs Lambert's cronies looked in on her for a dish of tea and a gossip. But no one had arrived on this afternoon, and the good lady had thus slept on undisturbed.