ing eyes, 'there
is a limit to such questions. I decline to answer them.'

'Now, see here,' Mr Bayfield went on, 'I give you a proof of my ardent
affection. Name a time for the further consideration of this matter, and
as I ride back to-day I will give them warning at Bishop's Farm that I
extend the time for claiming my dues. Name the time, and I grant it, for
your sweet sake, and for yours alone. Speak, and I obey--command me as
your slave.'

Bryda hastily went over in her mind the probability that after all this
was but a subterfuge, and that Mr Bayfield would not be true to his
word. Then she thought of what the joy and relief at the farm would be
when a long delay was granted--much might happen in six months--the
winter might be hard, and there would be a terrible pinch, perhaps, for
the necessaries of life at Bishop's Farm.

But could she trust Mr Bayfield?

She felt a strange recoil from him, and yet something like admiration,
for he was a distinctly handsome man, and had an air and bearing far
above good Jack Henderson, or any of her old admirers in her native
village. After a moment's pause, while she nervously pinched the corners
of the paper bag containing the Bath buns, she looked up with her clear
guileless eyes into the Squire's face.

'Will you grant a delay of a year, sir?' she asked.

'A year--_no_! I am not made of the stuff of patient Job,' he replied,
with a little laugh. 'No, madam, I will _not_ wait a year.'

'Till Eastertide next year, then?'

'Well, you are a little witch. I think you have cast a spell over me. I
will wait till then. Come, thank me--give me a sign of gratitude.'

Bryda put out her little hand, and the Squire took it, bowed over it,
raised it to his lips, and then said,--

'If I keep this hand your grandfather shall keep the money.'

'But I do not promise, sir--mind, I do not promise. I only crave for
delay--understand me, sir.'

'I do understand,' was the reply, and then there were steps along the
pavement of the square, as the apprentice hurried home for his midday
meal in the kitchen.

Bryda reached the door at the same moment, but Chatterton made no
remark.

He was in one of his unquiet moods. No news from Horace Walpole--no
reply to his repeated demands for his manuscripts--nothing but
complaints of him at the office--nothing but indignities in the house
where he lived as a servant. What was it to him that Bryda's sweet face
was clouded by distress--that tear