“It has done you no harm to sup your share of Spartan broth; hard living is good for us young,” was the squire’s comment.  “You never complained—­your dry little letters always confessed to excellent health.  When I was at school we fed roughly.  The joints were cut into lumps which had all their names, and we were in honor bound not to pick and choose, but to strike with the fork and take what came up.”

“Of course,” said Bessie, pricked in her pride and conscience lest she should seem to be weakly complaining now—­“of course we had treats sometimes.  On madame’s birthday we had a glass of white wine at dinner, which was roast veal and pancakes.  And on our own birthdays we might have galette with sugar, if we liked to give Margotin the money.”

“I trust the whole school had galette with sugar on your birthday, Elizabeth?” said her grandfather, quietly amused.  He was relieved to find her younger, more child-like in her ideas, than her first appearance gave him hopes of.  His manner relaxed, his tone became indulgent.  When she smiled with a blush, she was his sweet sister Dolly; when her countenance fell grave again, she was the shy, touchy, uncertain little girl who had gone to Fairfield on their first acquaintance so sorely against her inclination.  After Jonquil and his assistant retired, Elizabeth was invited to tell how the time had passed on board the Foam.

“Pleasantly, on the whole,” she said.  “The weather was so fine that we were on deck from morning till night, and often far on into the night when the moon shone.  It was delightful cruising off the Isle of Wight; only I had an immense disappointment there.”

“What was that?” Mr. Fairfax asked, though he had a shrewd guess.

“I did not remember how easy it is to send a letter—­not being used to write without leave—­and I trusted Mr. Wiley, whom I met on Ryde pier going straight back to Beechhurst, with a message to them at home, which he forgot to deliver.  And though I did write after, it was too late, for we left Ryde the same day.  So I lost the opportunity of seeing my father and mother.  It was a pity, because we were so near; and I was all the more sorry because it was my own fault.”

Mr. Fairfax was silent for a few minutes after this bold confession.  He had interdicted any communication with the Forest, as Mr. Carnegie prevised.  He did not, however, consider it necessary to provoke Bessie’s ire by telling her that he was responsible for her immense disappointment.  He let that pass, and when he spoke again it was to draw her out on the more important subject of what progress Mr. Cecil Burleigh had made in her interest.  It was truly vexatious, but as Bessie told her simple tale she was conscious that her color rose and deepened slowly to a burning blush.  Why?  She vehemently assured herself that she did not care a straw for Mr. Cecil Burleigh, that she disliked him rather than otherwise, yet at the mere sound of his name she blushed.  Perhaps it was because she dreaded lest anybody should suspect the mistake her vanity had made before.  Her grandfather gave her one acute glance, and was satisfied that this business also went well.