Mr. Carnegie and Bessie Fairfax
stopped at the gate. He came out with flushed brow and ruffled hair to
keep Bessie company and hold the doctor's horse while he went up stairs
with Mr. Moxon to visit his wife. That room where she lay in pain often,
in weakness always, was a mean, poorly-furnished room, with a window in
the thatch, and just a glimpse of heaven beyond, but that glimpse was
all reflected in the blessedness of her peaceful face. Mr. Moxon's
threadbare coat hung loosely on his large lean frame, like the coat of a
poor, negligent gentleman, such as he was. He had the reputation of
being a capital scholar, but he had not made the way in the world that
had been expected of him. He was vicar of Littlemire when the Reverend
Geoffry Fairfax came into the Forest, and he was vicar of Littlemire
still, with no prospect of promotion. Perhaps he did not seek it. His
wife loved this buried nook, and he loved it for her sake. Mr. Carnegie
took it often in his rides, because they called him their friend and he
could help them. They had not many besides: Lady Latimer and Mr. Phipps
did not forget them, but they were quite out of the way of the visiting
part of the community.

"You have done with Hampton, then, Harry?" Bessie said, waiting with her
comrade at the gate.

"Yes, so far as school goes, except that I shall always have a kindness
for the old place and the old doctor. It was a grand thing, my winning
that scholarship, Bessie."

"And now you will have your heart's desire--you will go to Oxford."

"Yes; Moxon is an Oxford man, and the old doctor says out-and-out the
best classic of his acquaintance. You have not seen my prize-books yet.
When are you coming to Brook, Bessie?"

"The first time I have a chance. What are the books, Harry?"

"All standard books--poetry," Harry said.

The young people's voices, chiming harmoniously, sounded in Mrs. Moxon's
room. The poor suffering lady, who was extended on an inclined couch
below the window, looked down at them, and saw Harry standing at Miss
Hoyden's head, with docile Brownie's bridle on his left arm, and Bessie,
with the fine end of her slender whip, teasing the dark fuzz of his
hair. They made a pretty picture at the gate, laughing and chattering
their confidences aloud.

"What did Harry Musgrave say to your news, Bessie?" her father asked as
they rode away from the vicar's house.

"I forgot to tell him!" cried she, pulling up and half turning round.
"I had