oldshire folk.
Once Geoffry had appealed to his father to help him to change his
benefice, but had experienced a harsh refusal. This was after Elizabeth
had suffered from an attack of rheumatism and ague, when she longed to
escape from the lovely, damp screens of the Forest to fresh Wold
breezes. She died, and Geoffry took another wife. Then he died of what
was called in the district marsh-fever. Mr. Fairfax was not impervious
to regret, but no regret would bring them to life again.

The next morning, while the dew was on the grass, he made his way into
the churchyard, and sought about for Geoffry's grave. He discovered it
in a corner, marked by a plain headstone and shaded by an elder bush. It
was the stone Geoffry had raised in memory of his Elizabeth, and below
her name his was inscribed, with the date of his death. The churchyard
was all neatly kept--this grave not more neatly than the others. Mrs.
Carnegie's affections had flowed into other channels, and Bessie had no
turn for meditation amongst the tombs. Mr. Fairfax felt rather more
forlorn after he had seen his son's last home than before, and might
have sunk into a fit of melancholy but for the diversion of his mind to
present matters. Just across the road Mr. Carnegie was mounting his
horse for his morning ride to the union workhouse, and Bessie was at the
gate seeing him off.

The little girl was not at all tired, flushed, or abstracted now. She
was cheerful as a lark, fresh, fair, rosy--more like a Fairfax than
ever. But when she caught sight of her grandfather over the churchyard
wall, she put on her grave airs and mentioned the fact to Mr. Carnegie.
Mr. John Short had written already to bespeak an interview with Bessie's
guardian, and to announce the arrival of Mr. Fairfax at the "King's
Arms." But at the same moment had come an imperative summons from the
workhouse, and Mr. Carnegie was not the doctor to neglect a sick poor
man for any business with a rich one that could wait. He had bidden his
wife receive the lawyer, and was leaving her to appoint the time when
Bessie directed his attention to her grandfather. With a sudden movement
he turned his horse, touched his hat with his whip-handle, and said,
"Sir, are you Mr. Fairfax?" The stranger assented. "Then here is our
Bessie, your granddaughter, ready to make your acquaintance. My wife
will see your agent. As for myself, I have an errand elsewhere this
morning." With that, and a reassuring nod to Bessi