idden. Did her grandfather
imagine that she was flattered by her domicile in his grand house? It
was exile to her quite as much as the old school at Caen. Nothing had
ever occurred to shake her original conviction that she was cruelly used
in being separated from her friends in the Forest. _They_ were her
family--not these strangers. Bessie dropped him her embarrassed
school-girl's curtsey, and said, "Good-night, sir"--not even a Thank
you! Mr. Fairfax thought her manner abrupt, but he did not know the
depth and tenacity of her resentment, or he would have recognized the
blunder he had committed in bringing her into Woldshire with unsatisfied
longings after old, familiar scenes.

Bessie was of a thoroughly healthy nature and warmly affectionate. She
felt very lonely and unfriended; she wished that her grandfather had
said he was glad to have her at Abbotsmead, instead of telling her that
she had a _right_ to be there; but she was also very tired, and sleep
soon prevailed over both sweet and bitter fancies. Premature resolutions
she made none; she had been warned against them by Madame Fournier as
mischievous impediments to making the best of life, which is so much
less often "what we could wish than what we must even put up with."

CHAPTER XVIII.

_THE NEXT MORNING._

Perplexities and distressed feelings notwithstanding, Bessie Fairfax
awoke at an early hour perfectly rested and refreshed. In the east the
sun was rising in glory. A soft, bluish haze hung about the woods, a
thick dew whitened the grass. She rose to look out of the window.

"It is going to be a lovely day," she said, and coiled herself in a
cushioned chair to watch the dawn advancing.

All the world was hushed and silent yet. Slowly the light spread over
the gardens, over the meadows and cornfields, chasing away the shadows
and revealing the hues of shrub and flower. A reach of the river stole
into view, and the red roof of an old mill on its banks. Then there was
a musical, monotonous, reiterated call not far off which roused the
cattle, and brought them wending leisurely towards the milking-shed. The
crowing of cocks near and more remote, the chirping of little birds
under the eaves, began and increased. A laborer, then another, on their
way to work, passed within sight along a field-path leading to the mill;
a troop of reapers came by the same road. Then there was the pleasant
sound of sharpening a scythe, and Bessie saw a gardener on the