Bryda's spirits rose when she reached the farm once more. She had been very quiet during the ride, and Jack was not a person of many words, but when Bet came out to clasp her in her arms, and her friend Flick went nearly mad with joy, she felt a thrill of satisfaction that by her means those she loved were still left in peaceful enjoyment of the old home. Her grandfather was more like himself, and when she arrived had just returned from an inspection of the stock with Silas, with a colour on his cheek like that of russet apple, and leaning less heavily on his staff. 'Well, my lass,' he said, 'town air has taken some of your colour from your cheeks, but you look like a wild rose all the same. Well--' and then the old man sank down on the settle and surveyed his grandchild with some admiring glances. 'Quite the town miss!' Dorothy Burrow said. 'I hope you ain't putting all your earnings on your back, Biddy?' 'No, aunt, not I. Madam Lambert gave me this sacque which makes me so smart, and some lace ruffles, beside my half-year's wages. Oh, I am quite rich, I can tell you.' Bryda had time to hear all Bet's news in their own room before the evening meal. 'The Squire comes here sometimes,' Bet said; 'he is wonderfully kind. I can't help thinking he will never take the money, and leave grandfather in peace for the rest of his days.' Bryda, who was opening her box to bring out her presents for Bet--a large crimson neckerchief with a border, a bow of ribbon to match for her cap, and a pair of long mittens--did not reply. 'What do you think, Bryda? Shall we have all the trouble back again at Easter?' 'Oh, no; let's hope not,' Bryda said carelessly. 'See, do you like these things? They are all for you.' 'Oh! they _are_ beautiful! But, dear, you must have spent too much money on me.' 'Not I. Why, child, I had five pounds wages, and I have got a lot left, and I am going to give Aunt Doll this warm shawl, and the dear old daddy a pipe, and yet I have three pounds left to last me till midsummer.' 'Ah, midsummer!' Betty said. 'We shall know by then.' 'Know what?' Bryda said sharply. 'Know whether we are sold up or not.' 'Well, let us have peace now, and forget everything but how we love each other; and oh! Bet, I have so much to tell you. I have read so many books while madam is asleep. The _Vicar of Wakefield_, and _Paradise Lost_, and Mr Pope's poetry, and history--and then there is poor Tom Chatterton, his verses are lovely!' 'Chatterton!' Betty said, 'who is he? Oh, yes, I remember--the apprentice who lives in the kitchen, and you went to see his mother.' 'Of course he is very strange and queer sometimes,' Bryda went on, 'but he is what is called a genius.' 'Is he in love with you?' Betty asked. 'Not that I know of. He is too full of Rowley the priest, and Mr Walpole's horrible rudeness to him, to be much in love. Of course he talks about my eyes, and my grace, and all such rubbish, but that is not _love_, little Bet.'