At the entrance of the village, to Bessie’s great joy, they fell in with Mr. Carnegie returning from a long round on horseback.

“Would Bessie like a ride with the old doctor to-morrow?” he asked her as the others strolled on.

“Oh yes—­I have brought my habit,” she said enthusiastically.

“Then Miss Hoyden shall trot along with me, and we’ll call for you—­not later than ten, Bessie, and you’ll not keep me waiting.”

“Oh no; I will be ready.  Lady Latimer has not planned anything for the morning, so I may be excused.”

Whether Lady Latimer had planned anything for the morning or not, she manifested a lofty displeasure that Miss Fairfax had planned this ride for herself.  Dora whispered to her not to mind, it would soon blow over.  So Bessie went up stairs to dress somewhat relieved, but still with a doubtful mind and a sense of indignant astonishment at my lady’s behavior to her.  She thought it very odd, and speculated whether there might be any reason for it beyond the failure in deference to herself.

An idea struck her when she saw Mrs. Betts unfolding her most sumptuous dress—­a rich white silk embroidered in black and silver for mourning—­evidently in the intention of adorning her to the highest.  “Oh, not that dress,” she said.  “I will wear my India muslin with black ribbons.”

“It is quite a set party, miss,” remonstrated Mrs. Betts.

“No matter,” said Bessie decisively.  No, she would not triumph over dear Harry with grand clothes.

When her young lady had spoken, Mrs. Betts knew that it was spending her breath in vain to contradict; and Bessie went down to the drawing-room with an air of inexpensive simplicity very becoming to her beauty, and that need not alarm a poor gentleman who might have visions of her as a wife.  Lady Latimer instantly accused and convicted her of that intention in it—­in her private thoughts, that is.  My lady herself was magnificent in purple satin, and little Dora Meadows had put on her finest raiment; but Bessie, with her wealth of fair hair and incomparable beauty of coloring, still glowed the most; and she glowed with more than her natural rose when Lady Latimer, after looking her up and down from head to foot with extreme deliberation, turned away with a scorny face.  Bessie’s eyes sparkled, and Mr. Logger, who saw all and saw nothing, perceived that she could look scorny too.

Mr. Cecil Burleigh was pacing to and fro the conservatory into which a glass door opened from the drawing-room.  His hands were clasped behind him, and his head was bent down as if he were in a profoundly cogitative mood.  “I am afraid Burleigh is rather out of sorts—­the effect of overstrain, the curse of our time,” said Mr. Logger sententiously.  Mr. Logger himself was admirably preserved.

“He is looking remarkably well, on the contrary,” said Lady Latimer.  My lady was certainly not in her most beneficent humor.  Dora darted an alarmed glance at Bessie, and at that moment Mr. Musgrave was announced.