past and all his expectations in the future.  Since that Sunday evening in the old sitting-room at Brook her sweet, womanly figure had been the centre of his thoughts, his reveries.  He had imagined difficulties, obstacles, but none with her.  This real difficulty, this tangible obstacle, in the shape of Mr. Cecil Burleigh, a suitor chosen by her family and supported by Lady Latimer, gave him pause.  He could not affect to despise Mr. Cecil Burleigh, but he vowed a vow that he would not be cheated of his dear little Bessie unless by her own consent.  Was it possible that he was deceived in her—­that he and she mistook her old childish affection for the passion that is strong as death?  No—­no, it could not be.  If there was truth in her eyes, in her voice, she loved him as dearly as he loved her, though never a word of love had been spoken between them.  The young man wrought himself up into such a state of agitation and excitement that he never reached Marsh-End nor saw Mr. Moxon at all that day.  He turned, and bent his steps by a circuitous path to a woodland nook where he had left his friend Christie at work a couple of hours ago.

“Back again so soon?  Then you did not find Moxon at home,” said the artist, scarcely lifting an eye from the canvas.

Harry flung himself on the ground beside his friend and delivered his mind of its new burden.  Christie now condescended to look at him and to say calmly, “It is always well to know what threatens us, but there is no need to exaggerate facts.  Mr. Cecil Burleigh is a rival you may be proud to defeat; Miss Fairfax will please herself, and I think you are a match for him.  You have the start.”

“I know Bessie is fond of me, but she is a simple, warm-hearted girl, and is fond of all of us,” said Harry with a reflective air.

“I had no idea you were so modest.  Probably she has a slight preference for you.”  Christie went on painting, and now and then a telling touch accentuated his sentiments.

Harry hearkened, and grew more composed.  “I wish I had her own assurance of it,” said he.

“You had better ask her,” said Christie.

After this they were silent for a considerable space, and the picture made progress.  Then Harry began again, summing up his disadvantages:  “Is it fair to ask her?  Here am I, of no account as to family or fortune, and under a cloud as to the future, if my mother and Carnegie are justified in their warnings—­and sometimes it comes over me that they are—­why, Christie, what have I to offer her?  Nothing, nothing but my presumptuous self.”

“Let her be judge:  women have to put up with a little presumption in a lover.”

“Would it not be great presumption?  Consider her relations and friends, her rank and its concomitants.  I cannot tell how much she has learnt to value them, how necessary they have become to her.  Lady Latimer, who was good to me until the other day, is shutting her doors against me now as too contemptible.”