“Literature by itself is not enough to depend on unless one draws a great prize of popularity.  I have not imagination enough to write a novel.  Have you forgotten the disasters of your heroes the poets, Bessie?  No—­I cannot give up after a year of difficulty.  I would rather rub out than rust out, if that be all.”

“Oh, Harry, don’t be provoking!  Why rub out or rust out either?” remonstrated Bessie.  “Your mother would rather keep her living son, though ever so unlucky, than bury the most promising that ever killed himself with misdirected labor.  Two young men came to Abbotsmead once to bid grandpapa good-bye; they were only nineteen and sixteen, and were the last survivors of a family of seven sons.  They were going to New Zealand to save their lives, and are thriving there in a patriarchal fashion with large families and flocks and herds.  You are not asked to go to New Zealand, but you had better do that than die untimely in foggy England, dear as it is.  Is not life sweet to you?—­it is very sweet to me.”

Harry got up, and walked to an open lattice that commanded the purple splendor of the western sky.  He stood there two or three minutes quite silent, then by a glance invited Bessie to come.  “Life is so sweet,” he said, “that I dare not risk marring it by what seems like cowardice; but I will be prudent, if only for the sake of the women who love me.”  There was the old mirthful light in Harry’s eyes as he said the last words very softly.

“Don’t make fun of us,” said Bessie, looking up with a faint blush.  “You know we love you; mind you keep your word.  It is time I was going back to Fairfield, the evening is closing in.”

The door opened and Mrs. Musgrave entered.  “Well, children, are you ready?” she inquired cheerfully.  “We are all thinking you have had quite time enough to tell your secrets, and the doctor has been wanting to leave for ever so long.”

“Bessie has been administering a lecture, mother, and giving me some serious advice; she would send me to the antipodes,” said her son.  Bessie made a gentle show of denial, and they came forward from the window.

“Never mind him, dear, that is his teasing way:  I know how much to believe of his nonsense,” said Mrs. Musgrave.  “But,” she added more gravely, turning to Harry, “if Bessie agrees with your mother that there is no sense in destroying your health by poring over dusty law in London when there are wholesome light ways of living to be turned to in sweet country air, Bessie is wise.  I wish anybody could persuade him to tell what is his objection to the Church.  Or he might go and be a tutor in some high family, as Lady Latimer suggested.  He is well fitted for it.”

“Did Lady Latimer suggest that, mother?” Harry asked with sharp annoyance in his voice and look.

“She did, Harry; and don’t let that vex you as if it was a coming-down.  For she said that many such tutors, when they took orders, got good promotion, and more than one had been made a bishop.”