This recognition, and certain possible, even probable, results had been anticipated before Bessie was suffered to come into the Forest.  Lady Angleby had said to Mr. Fairfax:  “Entrust her to Lady Latimer for a short while.  Granting her humble friends all the virtues that humanity adorns itself with, they must want some of the social graces.  Those people always dispense more or less with politeness in their familiar intercourse.  Now, Cecil is exquisitely polite, and Miss Fairfax has a fine, delicate feeling.  She cannot but make comparisons and draw conclusions.  Solid worth apart, the charm of manner is with us.  I shall expect decisive consequences from this visit.”

What Bessie actually discerned was that all the old tenderness that had blessed her childhood, and that gives the true sensitive touch, was still abiding:  father, mother, Harry—­dearest of all who were most dear to her—­had not lost one whit of it.  And judged by the eye, where love looked out, Harry’s great frame, well knit and suppled by athletic sports, had a dignity, and his irregular features a beauty, that pleased her better than dainty, high-bred elegance.  He had to push his way over the obstacles of poverty and obscure birth, and she was a young lady of family and fortune, but she looked up to him with as meek a humility as ever she had done when they were friends and comrades together, before her vicissitudes began and her exalted kinsfolk reclaimed her.  Woldshire had not acquainted her with his equal.  All the world never would.

Their conversation was opened at last with a surprised smile at finding themselves where they were—­in the bare sitting-room at Brook, with the western light shining on them through the vine-trellised lattices after four years of growth and experience.  How often had Bessie made a picture in her day-dreams of their next meeting here since she went away!  In this hour, in this instant, love was new-born in both their hearts.  They saw it, each in the other’s eyes—­heard it, each in the other’s voice.  Tears came with Bessie’s sudden smile.  She trembled and sighed and laughed, and said she did not know why she was so foolish.  Harry was foolish too as he made her some indistinct plea about being so glad.  And a red spot burned on his own cheek as he dwelt on her loveliness.  Once more they were silent, then both at once began to talk of people and things indifferent, coming gradually round to what concerned themselves.

Harry Musgrave spoke of his friend Christie and his profession relatively to his own:  “Christie has distinguished himself already.  There are houses in London where the hostess has a pride in bringing forward young talent.  Christie got the entree of one of the best at the beginning of his career, and is quite a favorite.  His gentleness is better than conventional polish, but he has taken that well too.  He is a generous little fellow, and deserves the good luck that has befallen him.  His honors