aste than good speed."

Harry sank back in his chair with laughing resignation; it was too bad,
he said, to talk of him to his face so dismally. Bessie Fairfax was
looking at him, her eyebrows raised, and fancying she saw a change; he
was certainly not so brown as he used to be, nor so buoyant, nor so
animated. But it would have perplexed her to define what the change she
fancied was. Conscious of her observation, Harry dissembled a minute,
then pushed back his chair, and invited her to come away to the old
sitting-room, where the evening sun shone. No one offered to follow
them; they were permitted to go alone.

The sitting-room looked a trifle more dilapidated, but was otherwise
unaltered, and was Harry's own room still, by the books, pens, ink, and
paper on the table. Being by themselves, silence ensued. Bessie sadly
wondered whether anything was really going wrong with her beloved Harry,
and he knew that she was wondering. Then she remembered what young
Christie had said at Castlemount of his being occasionally short of
money, and would have liked to ask. But when she had reflected a moment
she did not dare. Their boy-and-girl days, their days of plain,
outspoken confidence, were for ever past. That one year of absence spent
by him in London, by her at Abbotsmead, had insensibly matured the
worldly knowledge of both, and without a word spoken each recognized the
other's position, but without diminution of their ancient kindness.

This recognition, and certain possible, even probable, results had been
anticipated before Bessie was suffered to come into the Forest. Lady
Angleby had said to Mr. Fairfax: "Entrust her to Lady Latimer for a
short while. Granting her humble friends all the virtues that humanity
adorns itself with, they must want some of the social graces. Those
people always dispense more or less with politeness in their familiar
intercourse. Now, Cecil is exquisitely polite, and Miss Fairfax has a
fine, delicate feeling. She cannot but make comparisons and draw
conclusions. Solid worth apart, the charm of manner is with us. I shall
expect decisive consequences from this visit."

What Bessie actually discerned was that all the old tenderness that had
blessed her childhood, and that gives the true sensitive touch, was
still abiding: father, mother, Harry--dearest of all who were most dear
to her--had not lost one whit of it. And judged by the eye, where love
looked out, Harry's great frame, well knit and