“Mr. Musgrave once took me to see the hounds throw off.  I rode Harry’s pony that day.  I was staying at Brook for a week.”

Mr. Fairfax knew who “Mr. Musgrave” was and who “Harry” was, but Bessie did not recollect that he knew.  However, as he asked no explanation of them, she volunteered none, and they returned to the gardens.

The cultivated grounds of Abbotsmead extended round three sides of the house.  On the west, where the principal entrance was, an outer semicircle of lime trees, formed by the extension of the avenue, enclosed a belt of evergreens, and in the middle of the drive rose a mound over which spread a magnificent cedar.  The great hall was the central portion of the building, lighted by two lofty, square-headed windows on either side of the door; the advanced wings that flanked it had corresponding bays of exquisite proportions, which were the end-windows of the great drawing-room and the old banqueting-room.  The former was continued along the south, with one bay very wide and deep, and on either side of it a smaller bay, all preserving their dim glazing after the old Venetian pattern.  Beyond the drawing-room was the modern adaptation of the wing which contained the octagon parlor and dining-room:  from the outside the harmony of construction was not disturbed.  The library adjoined the banqueting-room on the north, and overlooked a fine expanse where the naturalization of American trees and shrubs had been the hobby of the Fairfaxes for more than one generation.  The flower-garden was formed in terraces on the south, and was a mixture of Italian and old English taste.  The walls were a mingled tapestry of roses, jessamine, sweet clematis, and all climbing plants hardy enough to bear the rigors of the northern winter.  Trimmed in though ever so closely in the fall of the year, in the summer it bushed and blossomed out into a wantonly luxuriant, delicious variety of color and fragrance.  If here and there a bit of gray stone showed through the mass, it seemed only to enhance the loveliness of the leaf and flower-work.

Bessie Fairfax stood to admire its glowing intricacy, and with a remarkable effort of candor exclaimed, “I think this is as pretty as anything in the Forest—­as pretty as Fairfield or the manor-house at Brook;” which amused her grandfather, for the south front of the old mansion-house of Abbotsmead was one of the most grandly picturesque specimens of domestic architecture to be found in the kingdom.

In such perambulations time slips away fast.  The squire looked at his watch.  It was eleven o’clock; at half-past he was due at a magistrate’s meeting two miles off; he must leave Bessie to amuse herself until luncheon at two.  Bessie was contented to be left.  She replied that she would now go indoors and write to her mother.  Her grandfather paused an instant on her answer, then nodded acquiescence and went away in haste.  Was he disappointed that she said nothing spontaneous?  Bessie did not give that a thought, but she said in her letter, “I do believe that my grandfather wishes me to be happy here”—­a possibility which had not struck her until she took a pen in her hand, and set about reflecting what news she had to communicate to her dear friends at Beechhurst.  This brilliant era of her vicissitudes was undoubtedly begun with a little aversion.