Lady Latimer thought again what a nice voice Bessie had, and regarded her with a growing interest, that arose in part out of her own recollections.  She questioned her concerning her father’s death, and the circumstances of her adoption by Mr. and Mrs. Carnegie, and reflected that, happily, she was too simple, too much of a child yet, for any but family attachments—­happily, because, though Bessie had no experience to measure it by, there would be a wide difference between her position as the doctor’s adopted daughter amongst a house full of children, and as heiress presumptive of Mr. Fairfax of Abbotsmead.

“Have you ever seen Abbotsmead, Bessie?” she said.

“No, my lady, I have never been in Woldshire since I was a baby.  I was born at Kirkham vicarage, my grandfather Bulmer’s house, but I was not a year old when we came away.  I have a drawing of Abbotsmead that my mother made—­it is not beautiful.”

“But Abbotsmead is very beautiful—­the country round about is not so delicious as the Forest, for it has less variety:  it is out of sight of the sea, and the trees are not so grand, but Abbotsmead itself is a lovely spot.  The house stands on a peninsula formed by a little brawling river, and in the park are the ruins that give the place its name.  I remember the garden at Abbotsmead as a garden where the sun always shone.”

Bessie was much cheered.  “How glad I am!  In my picture the sun does not shine at all.  It is the color of a dark day in November.”

The concise simplicity of Bessie’s talk pleased Lady Latimer.  She decided that Mrs. Carnegie must be a gentlewoman, and that Bessie had qualities capable of taking a fine polish.  She would have held the child in conversation longer had not Mrs. Wiley come up, and after a word or two about the success of the feast, bade Bessie run away and see that her little brothers were not getting into mischief.  Lady Latimer nodded her a kind dismissal, and off she went.

Six o’clock struck.  By that time the buns were all eaten, the prizes were all distributed, and the cream of the company had driven or walked away, but cricket still went on in the meadow, and children’s games in the orchard.  One or two gentlemen had come on the scene since the fervor of the afternoon abated.  Admiral Parkins, who governed Beechhurst under Lady Latimer, was taking a walk round the garden with his brother church-warden, Mr. Musgrave, and Mr. Carnegie had made his bow to the rector’s wife, who was not included in his aversion for the rector.  Mr. Phipps, also a gentleman of no great account in society, but a liberal supporter of the parish charities, was there—­a small, grotesque man to look at, who had always an objection in his mouth.  Was any one praised, he mentioned a qualification; was any one blamed, he interposed a plea.  He had a character for making shrewd, incisive remarks, and was called ironical, because he had a habit of dispersing flattering delusions and wilful pretences