y to execute at
Hampton, never more would he return to his mechanical painting and
graining. It was an epoch that they all dated from, this shining day of
September, when Bessie Fairfax bade farewell to the Forest, and little
Christie set out on his career of honor with a knapsack on his back and
seven guineas in his pocket. As for Harry Musgrave, his leading-strings
were broken before, and he was in some sort a citizen of the world
already.

CHAPTER X.

_BESSIE GOES INTO EXILE._

The rapid action and variety of the next few days were ever after like a
dream to Bessie Fairfax. A tiring day in Hampton town, a hurried walk to
the docks in the sunset, the gorgeous autumnal sunset that flushed the
water like fire; a splendid hour in the river, ships coming up full
sail, and twilight down to the sea; a long, deep sleep. Then sunrise on
rolling green waves, low cliffs, headlands of France; a vast turmoil,
hubbub, and confusion of tongues; a brief excursion into Havre, by gay
shops to gayer gardens, and breakfast in the gayest of glass-houses.
Then embarkation on board the boat for Caen; a gentle sea-rocking;
soldiers, men in blouses, women in various patterns of caps; the mouth
of the Orne; fringes on the coast of fashionable resort for sea-bathers.
Miles up the stream, dreary, dreary; poplars leaning aslant from the
wind, low mud-banks, beds of osiers, reeds, rushes, willows; poplars
standing erect as a regiment in line, as many regiments, a gray monotony
of poplars; the tide flowing higher, laving the reeds, the sallows, all
pallid with mist and soft driving rain. A gleam of sun on a lawn, on
roses, on a conical red roof; orchards, houses here and there, with
shutters closed, and the afternoon sun hot upon them; acres of
market-garden, artichokes, flat fields, a bridge, rushy ditches, tall
array of poplars repeated and continued endlessly.

"I think," said Bessie, "I shall hate a poplar as long as I live!"

Mr. Carnegie agreed that the scenery was not enchanting. Beautiful
France is not to compare with the beautiful Forest. Harry Musgrave was
in no haste with his opinion; he was looking out for Caen, that ancient
and famous town of the Norman duke who conquered England. He had been
reading up the guide-book and musing over history, while Bessie had been
letting the poplars weigh her mind down to the brink of despondency.

A repetition of the noisy landing at Havre, despatch of baggage to
Madame Fournier's, ev