her heart there was always a fund of affection, admiration,
and respect for the idol of her childish days.

The morning but one after this Bessie's anxious desire that my lady and
her dear Harry should meet was unexpectedly gratified. It was about
halfway towards noon when she was considering whether or no she could
with peace and propriety bring forward her wish to go again to Brook,
when Lady Latimer hurried down from her sanctum, which overlooked the
drive, saying, "Elizabeth, here is young Mr. Musgrave on horseback; run
and bid him come in and rest. He is giving some message to Roberts and
going away."

"Oh, please ask him yourself," said Bessie, but at the same moment she
hastened out to the door.

It was a sultry, oppressive morning, and Harry looked languid and
ill--more ill than Bessie had ever seen him look. She felt inexpressibly
shocked and pained, and he smiled as if to relieve her, while he held
out a letter that he had been on the point of entrusting to Roberts:
"From that excellent fellow, Christie. Your independent criticism has
opened his eyes to the beauties of my story, and he declares that he
shall claim the landscape bits himself."

Lady Latimer advanced with a pale, grave face, and invited the young man
to dismount. There was something of entreaty in her voice: "The
morning-room is the coolest, Elizabeth--take Mr. Musgrave there. I shall
be occupied until luncheon, but I hope you will be able to persuade him
to stay."

Bessie's lips repeated, "Stay," and Harry not unthankfully entered the
house. He dropt into a great easy-chair and put up one hand to cover his
eyes, and so continued for several minutes. Lady Latimer stood an
instant looking at him with a pitiful, scared gaze, and then, avoiding
Bessie's face, she turned and left the lovers together. Bessie laid her
hand on Harry's shoulder and spoke kindly to him: he was tired, the
atmosphere was very close and took away his strength. After a while he
recovered himself and said something about Christie's friendliness, and
perhaps if _he_ illustrated the story they should see reminiscences of
the manor-garden and of Great-Ash Ford, and other favorite spots in the
Forest. They did not talk much or eagerly at all, but Christie's
commendation of the sad pretty story of true love was a distinct
pleasure to them both, and especially to Harry. His mother had begged
him to stop at home and let the letter be sent over to Fairfield, but he
wanted the