exchange her mourning-weeds for bride-clothes again when Mr. Carnegie
asked her; for she was of a dependent, womanly character, and the doctor
was well-to-do and well respected, and ready with all his heart to give
little Bessie a home. The child was young enough when she lost her own
parents to lose all but a reflected memory of them, and cordially to
adopt for a real father and mother those who so cordially adopted her.

Still, she was Bessie Fairfax, and as the doctor's house grew populous
with children of his own, Bessie was curtailed of her indulgences, her
learning, her leisure, and was taught betimes to make herself useful.
And she did it willingly. Her temper was loving and grateful, and Mrs.
Carnegie had her recompense in Bessie's unstinting helpfulness during
the period when her own family was increasing year by year; sometimes at
the rate of one little stranger, and sometimes at the rate of twins. The
doctor received his blessings with a welcome, and a brisk assurance to
his wife that the more they were the merrier. And neither Mrs. Carnegie
nor Bessie presumed to think otherwise; though seven tiny trots under
ten years old were a sore handful; and seven was the number Bessie kept
watch and ward over like a fairy godmother in the doctor's nursery, when
her own life had attained to no more than the discretion and philosophy
of fifteen. The chief of them were boys--boys on the plan of their
worthy father; five boys with excellent lungs and indefatigable stout
legs; and two little girls no whit behind their brothers for voluble
chatter and restless agility. Nobody complained, however. They had their
health--that was one mercy; there was enough in the domestic exchequer
to feed, clothe, and keep them all warm--that was another mercy; and as
for the future, people so busy as the doctor and his wife are forced to
leave that to Providence--which is the greatest mercy of all. For it is
to-morrow's burden breaks the back, never the burden of to-day.

A constant regret with Mrs. Carnegie (when she had a spare moment to
think of it) was her inability, from stress of annually recurring
circumstances, to afford Bessie Fairfax more of an education, and
especially that she was not learning to speak French and play on the
piano. But Bessie felt no want of these polite accomplishments. She had
no accomplished companions to put her to shame for her deficiencies. She
was fond of a book, she could write an unformed, legible hand,