This generous letter made Bessie very glad, and having shown it to Lady Latimer at breakfast, she went off with it to Brook directly after.  She found Harry in the sitting-room, turning out the contents of his old desk.  In his hand at the moment of her entrance was the white rose that he had taken from her at Bayeux; it kept its fragrance still.  She gave him her uncle’s letter to read, and when he had read it he said, “If I did not love you so much, Bessie, this would be a burden painful to bear.”

“Then don’t let us speak of it—­let me bear it.  I am pleased that my uncle Laurence should be so good to us.  When you meet I know you will be friends.  He is in elysium when he can get a good scholar to talk to, and he will want you to send him all sorts of archaeological intelligence from Rome.”

“I have a piece of news too—­hopeful news from Christie,” said Harry, producing one of the artist’s rapid scratches.  “It is to tell me that he is on the committee of a new illustrated magazine of art which is to start at Christmas, and that he is sure I can help them with the letter-press department while we are in Italy.”

“Of course you can.  And they will require a story:  that sweet story of yours has some picture bits that would be exquisite if they fell into the hands of a sympathetic artist.  Let us send it to Christie, Harry dear.”

“Very well:  nothing venture, nothing have.  The manuscript is with you.  Take Christie’s letter for his address; you will see that he wants an answer without loss of time.  He is going to be married very shortly, and will be out of town till November.”

“I will despatch the story by to-day’s post, and a few lines of what I think of it:  independent criticism is useful sometimes.”

Harry looked at her, laughing and saying with a humorous deprecation, “Bessie’s independent criticism!”

Bessie blushed and laughed too, but steadfastly affirmed, “Indeed, Harry, if I did not think it the prettiest story I ever read I would not tell you so.  Lady Latimer said it was pretty, and you cannot accuse her of loving you too much.”

“No.  And that brings me to another matter.  I wish you would come away from Fairfield:  come here, Bessie.  In this rambling old house there is room enough and to spare, and you shall have all the liberty you please.  I don’t see you as often or for as long as I want, and the order of things is quite reversed:  I would much rather set out to walk to you than wait and watch for your appearance.”

“Had I not better go home?  My little old nest under the thatch is empty, and the boys are away.”

“Come here first for a week; we have never stayed in one house together since we were children.  I want to see my dear little Bessie every hour of the day.  At Fairfield you are caged.  When her ladyship puts on her grand manner and towers she is very daunting to a poor lover.”

“She has not seen you since you left London, Harry.  I should like you to meet; then I think she might forgive us,” said Bessie, with a wistful regret.  Sometimes she was highly indignant with my lady, but in the depths of her heart there was always a fund of affection, admiration, and respect for the idol of her childish days.