A cloud of sadness passed over Bryda's face as that name was mentioned.

'Betty is not a fine lady,' she said; 'she is still the same dear unselfish Betty she ever was. She is very happy, and David Bayfield is a good husband. Betty is the mistress of Rock House, and the gentry all around respect her, for she never takes airs on herself—she is far, far above that.'

'I never knew he was alive till an hour ago,' Jack said, with a deep sigh; 'it is a burden lifted, it is a chain loosed from my neck—that it is, Bryda.'

Bryda's beautiful eyes were full of tears.

'Yes, dear,' she said gently, 'I know how great the relief must be. And now, Jack, let us forget the sad past. The Squire, David Bayfield, is not a strong man, and cannot hunt or ride to cover, but he has done much for the estate, and Bet and he are good to the poor, and kind—how kind—to the sad and sorrowful. Now I must go and tell your mother I have heard of you.'

'But first—first, Bryda, tell me, can you love me? It is too much to ask, I know; but I have made money out in America, and if you can care for a stupid fellow like me—you are so clever and so beautiful. Oh, Bryda, can you care for me at last?'

'I think I can, Jack,' she said, with a sweet smile. 'Ten years of separation have taught me many things, and one is—' He put his arm round her and drew her towards him. 'And one is,' she whispered, 'that I have always loved you, and that, though you never knew it, I should never, never have married any man but you.'

Sweet were the mutual happiness and thankfulness of that May day to Jack Henderson and Bryda; and as they sat for a few blissful minutes in the arbour, which had been Mrs Henderson's pride in earlier days, Bryda said,—

'All through these long years I have never lost hope, and although, as poor Chatterton said, "She did seem to take her high flight, shrouded in mist, and with her blinded eyes," I always knew I should greet her some day—"the holy sister, sweeping through the sky in crown of gold and robe of lily white." I shall have to make you love Chatterton's poetry, Jack. Poor boy, I never forget him. You must love poetry now, Jack.'

'I shall love you,' Jack said firmly. 'Won't that be enough for a dullard like me?'