Bristol Bells. Marshall Emma

fellows here to knock about the things. The stock must go. The sheep will fetch summat—and there's two fine young heifers, beside the milch cows.'

      Three hundred pounds looked an enormous sum in the eyes of the Somersetshire maiden, but she was determined to make an appeal to the hard-hearted young Squire.

      Binegar was some miles from the hamlet of Upton, where Bishop's Farm stood; but Bryda was well used to long rambles over hill and dale, and she ran up to her room full of her scheme.

      'I will tell no one—no, not even Bet,' she thought. 'They shall see for once I can be of use. And then I will go to Bristol and see Mr. Lambert, and tell him I will come and be the useful girl about the place his mother wants.'

      Bryda took some pains with her appearance, as she stood before a little glass, which gave but a distorted reflection of the fair face which gazed into it.

      Bryda exchanged her blue homespun skirt for a red camlet, a material then much used for women's dress. It was made with short elbow sleeves, and the bodice cut low. Over this Bryda pinned a white kerchief, confining the ends at the waist with a silver buckle which had belonged to her mother. Then she tied back her bright hair, which was the colour of a cornfield rippling in the sunshine, with a blue ribbon, and perched on the top of her pretty head a bonnet of Dunstable straw which would have disguised most faces so ugly was its shape. But Bryda's face could not lend itself to any disguise. Her luminous eyes seemed to shine the brighter under the shadow of the peak. Her clear rose-and-white complexion was set off by the clumsy knot of faded ribbon strings which passed under the high crown of the bonnet was tied under Bryda's dimpled chin, and defined its beautiful outline.

      Thus equipped, Bryda stepped quietly downstairs, and went out at the back door of the farm.

      In the yard, on a barrel turned up for a seat, sat Silas the shepherd.

      He was cutting huge slices of coarse bread with a clasp knife, and crowding them into his mouth, with morsels of Cheddar cheese.

      'I want to take one of the dogs for a walk, Silas. Which can you spare?'

      'Neither,' was the short response.

      'Oh, let me have one, Silas. Let me have Flick. Here, Flick, will you come?'

      'Where be thee going?'

      'For a long walk, that's all.'

      'You'll find it nearly broiling 'cross the hill. The old ewe died early this morning. There's another loss for the master. But, lor', he's dazed like. If I told him the whole flock was dead he wouldn't care. Master is queerish this morning.'

      'He is not well,' Bryda said. 'Don't trouble him, Silas, if you can help, and let me have Flick.'

      Flick was only waiting the word of command from his master, with anxious upturned nose and eyes scanning Silas's rugged face.

      'Get along with you,' was the not very gracious dismissal.

      And the old dog leaped for joy, gave his low, deep-mouthed bay, scuttled round the yard twice, sending two sedate cats clambering up the old wall, with its high lichen-covered coping, where they turned at bay, with swelled tails and arched backs, to spit at their enemy.

      So bright was the sky, and so full of life was everything around her, that as Bryda tripped lightly on her way she had almost forgotten what was her errand.

      The church clock of Dundry struck ten as she passed. The village was quiet, almost deserted.

      The people were out at their daily toil on the hills, and only a few white-headed children were making dust pies by the churchyard gate, two or three women, with babies in their arms, gossiping at their cottage doors.

      'Where's she off to, I wonder? That's Peter Palmer's girl, she is mighty proud, and never passes good-morning or the time of day, not she.'

      'Pride must have a fall,' said another. 'Look at her in her fine red gown as if 'twere a Fair day.'

      And then the women hushed their squalling babies with somewhat rough vehemence and turned to other subjects.

      Bryda was a little doubtful of the nearest road to Rock House when she came to the place where four roads met.

      The old sign-post had lost one of its arms, and the lettering on another was defaced. Bryda knew Rock House was several miles nearer Dundry than the town of Binegar, but she could not feel sure which of the four roads that looked so much alike was the right one.

      As she stood hesitating, a young man, with a gun under his arm, leaped over the hedge into the road.

      Flick growled as he approached, and Bryda, putting her hand through his collar, said—

      'Down, Flick.'

      Then, addressing the young man, she said—

      'Please, sir, can you tell me the way to Rock House, Squire Bayfield's?' Then she added demurely, 'I have business with him.'

      'Well,' was the reply, 'the Squire is a lucky man, that's all I have to say.'

      Bryda's colour rose, for this young man's gaze was a little too openly admiring.

      She curtsied, with a grace which was very different from the low bob of the country maiden generally, and said—

      'I beg you, sir, to be so good as to tell me which road I am to take, right or left.'

      'It's right ahead,' was the reply; 'I am going the same way. Your dog is not a very pleasant companion; he looks as if he would fly at my throat if he could.'

      'He knows his manners, sir,' Bryda said, 'and he will not fly at anyone without reason. Down!' she said, 'quiet, Flick.'

      This, with a pat on his shaggy head, was taken as a sign that Bryda's companion was not the foe Flick had at first imagined, and he walked gravely by her side, as if unconscious of a third person's presence.

      Bryda volunteered no conversation, and for some minutes there was silence. Presently the man asked—

      'Have you any acquaintance with Squire Bayfield?'

      'No, sir; not with the young Squire. He has been in foreign parts for years.'

      'Yes, that's true; he came home a week ago to find his father dead and buried, and the old place a ruin for him to build up, and money short to do it.'

      Again there was silence, till a pair of large gates came in sight and a long avenue of firs leading up to a house, of which the low front was seen at the end of the drive.

      'Is this Squire Bayfield's house, sir?'

      'Yes, and I have business there also, so we will walk up to the door together.'

      Bryda hesitated, and then said—

      'I have business with the Squire, sir; but it is of a private nature, and I must see him alone.'

      'That I'll warrant you shall do, madam,' and insensibly the man's manner became more respectful.

      This was no country maiden to whom he might offer any familiarity, praise her beauty, or rally her on her charms. Bryda had always about her that innate purity and refinement, which acts as a shield against the shafts of impertinent admiration which men of a certain type in the eighteenth century were apt to offer to win favour with the belles of town or country.

      A short flight of stone steps led to the front entrance of the house, and here the young man paused. After a moment's hesitation he opened the door, and a parcel of dogs of all shapes and sizes came rushing out, whining and capering with delight.

      Immediately Flick stood at bay, and a scrimmage seemed imminent, when the young man took a short whip from a peg in the hall, and thrashing right and left, with a great many oaths and curses, exclaimed, 'The brutes—the underbred brutes,' as the dogs went whining and yelping back to the place whence they came.

      'Now, madam,' the young man said, after apologising for this uproar, 'let me show you into the only habitable