ation a dash of romance as well as of keen
desire to do something to help her grandfather in his sore strait.

Of course it may be questioned whether Betty, pursuing the even tenor of
her way, and letting nothing interfere with her household work, was not
more in the line of duty than her beautiful sister. But the two sisters
were, as often happens, so entirely different in character that one
cannot be judged by the same rules as the other. The impulsive
enthusiast and the matter-of-fact, practical labourer in the field see
things from a different standpoint.

In this case there was no division of heart between the two.

Betty believed in Bryda, and had for the whole of her short life looked
on her as superior to herself, and to any of the few acquaintances of
their own age whom the sisters knew, and she was quite content to take
the subordinate place and sit at the feet of her beautiful sister.

Betty fetched an inkhorn and two quills from a cupboard by their bed,
and placed them on a somewhat rickety table, where Bryda's few books
lay--books well worn and studied, books which fed her romance--two
volumes of the _Rambler_ and _Spectator_, Pope's verses, and last, but
not least, Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_.

On the style of these English classics Bryda had formed hers, and thus
her expressions were somewhat quaint, and yet she was free from the
stilted and flowery mannerism of the women of her time who had received
a superficial education.

Bryda might be said to be self-educated. Her schooling had been of the
narrow type afforded by a 'decayed gentlewoman' in a neighbouring large
village, who had undertaken to instruct her pupils in reading, writing,
and arithmetic, with fine needlework and the rudiments of French.

These rudiments seldom advanced beyond the auxiliary verbs and the
pronouns, but Miss Darcy still kept school at Pensford, and spoke with
pride of her late talented pupil Miss Palmer.

Bryda wrote her letter on a sheet of blue Bath post, and folding it,
sealed it with a pink wafer, and addressed it to 'Mrs Lambert, Dowry
Square, Bristol,' and wrote in the corner, 'By the hand of Mr J.
Henderson.'

In the evening, when everyone was going or gone to bed, Bryda stepped
out and placed the letter under the loose coping-stone of the wall, and
then with a sense of relief went through the dewy orchard and out on the
moor, where the purple hues of evening had gathered, and indulged in
those castles in th