'Hush.' she said, 'there are the bells, Bristol bells calling—they always seem to call me—but it's no use.'
Then, rallying, Bryda said,—
'Tell me about that boy—you know who I mean.'
'Oh! the mad fellow at Lambert's, he is as mad as ever, writing and scribbling verses. But, all the same, he is not a bad sort of chap. Old Lambert hates him, but masters always hate their apprentices, just as Uncle Tom hates me.'
'Have you brought me any more poems, Jack?'
'No. You must come for 'em. I'll lay a wager Chatterton will give you a lot of stuff like the "Friar's Bridge" when he sees you.'
'You might send me Felix Farley's Journal when you go back to business.'
'Look here, Bryda, you must come for it. I shall be off in the cart next Monday morning. I'll wait at the turn by the church till you come. Only old Tim will know, and he is as blind as a mole and deaf as a post. Now, come, there's a good girl.'
'But Mrs Lambert may not want me.'
'You are quick with your pen, write to the old lady and tell her you will come to be a grandchild to her, or what you like. Come, Bryda, say yes.'