“It would touch you more personally.  There was a young fellow drowned at Oxford whom I knew:  we were aghast for a day, but the next we were on the river again.  I recollect how bitterly you cried the morning your father was buried; all the afternoon you refused to be comforted, even by a sweet black puppy that I had brought over for the purpose, but in the evening you took to it and carried it about in your pinafore.  Oh, God and time are very good to us.  We lose one love, another steps in to fill the void, and soon we do not remember that ever there was a void.”

Bessie was gazing straight away into heaven, her eyes full of sunshiny tears, thoughts of the black puppy struggling with more pathetic thoughts.  “We are very dismal, Harry,” said she presently.  “Is the moral of it how easily we should be consoled for each other’s loss?  Would you not pity me if I died?  I should almost die of your death, I think.”

“And if I am to live and never do any good, never to be famous, Bessie?  If I come to you some day beaten and jaded—­no honors and glories, as I used to promise—­”

“Why, Harry, unless it were your mother no one would be kinder to you than I would,” she said with exquisite tenderness, turning to look in his face, for he spoke in a strained, low voice as if it hurt him.

He took her hands, she not refusing to yield them, and said, “It is my belief that we are as fond of each other as ever we were, Bessie, and that neither of us will ever care half so much for anybody else?”

“It is my belief too, Harry.”  Bessie’s eyes shone and her tongue trembled, but how happy she was!  And he bowed his head for several minutes in silence.

There was a rustling in the bushes behind them, a bird perhaps, but the noise recalled them to the present world—­that and a whisper from Bessie, smiling again for pure content:  “Harry dear, we must not make fools of ourselves now; my lady might descend upon us at any moment.”

Harry sighed, and looked up with great content.  “It is a compact, Bessie,” said he, holding out his right hand.

“Trust me, Harry,” said she, and laid hers softly in his open palm.

Mrs. Musgrave’s voice was heard from the sitting-room window:  “Bessie!  Bessie dear! where are you?—­Lady Latimer wishes to go.  Make haste—­come in.”  A bit of Bessie’s blue-gray dress had betrayed her whereabouts.  And lo! the two young people emerged from the shelter of the trees, and quite at their leisure sauntered up the lawn, talking with a sweet gay confidence, just as they used to talk when they were boy and girl, and Bessie came to tea at Brook, and they were the best friends in the world.  Harry’s mother guessed in a moment what had happened.  Lady Latimer caught one glance and loftily averted her observation.

They had to go round to the hall-door, and they did not hurry themselves.  They took time to assure one another how deep was their happiness, their mutual confidence—­to promise a frequent exchange of letters, and to fear that they would not meet again before Bessie left Fairfield.  Lady Latimer was seated in the carriage when they appeared in sight.  Bessie got in meekly, and was bidden to be quicker.  She smiled at Harry, who looked divinely glad, and as they drove off rapidly recollected that she had not said good-bye to his mother.