get leave to speak, introduced her niece to Mr. Fairfax, and recommended Bessie to the attention of her contemporaries.  Forthwith they were polite.  Dora offered Dandy to Bessie’s notice; Margaret courted admiration for Beauty; the others looked on with much benevolence, and made cordial remarks and lively rejoinders.  Bessie was too shy to enjoy their affability; she felt awkward, and looked almost repulsively proud.  The younger ones gradually subsided.  Margaret had often met Bessie riding with Mr. Carnegie, and they knew each other to bow to.  Bessie patted Beauty’s neck and commended her—­a great step towards friendliness with her mistress—­and Margaret said enthusiastically, “Is she not a darling?  She shall have sugar, she shall!  Oh, Aunt Olympia, Beauty went so well to-day!” Then to Bessie:  “That is a handsome little mare you ride:  what a sharp trot you go at sometimes!”

“It is my father’s pace—­we get over the ground fast.  Miss Hoyden, she is called—­she is almost thoroughbred.”

“You ride, Elizabeth?  That is a good hearing,” said Mr. Fairfax.  “You shall have a Miss Hoyden at Abbotsmead.”

Bessie colored and turned her head for a moment, but said nothing.  Margaret whispered that would be nice.  Poor Bessie’s romance was now known to the young ladies of the neighborhood, and she was more interesting to them than she knew.

Lady Latimer led the way with Mr. Fairfax up the drive overhung with flowering trees and bushes.  On the steps before the open hall-door stood Mr. Wiley, whom my lady had bidden to call and stay to luncheon when his pastoral visits brought him into the vicinity of Fairfield.  He caught sight of his young neighbor, Bessie Fairfax, and on the instant, with that delicious absence of tact which characterized him, he asked brusquely, “How came you here?” Bessie blushed furiously, and no one answered—­no one seemed to hear but herself; so Mr. Wiley added confidentially, “It is promotion indeed to come to Fairfield.  Keep humble, Bessie.”

“Wait for me, Miss Fairfax,” said Margaret as she dismounted.  “Come to my room.”  And Bessie went without a word, though her lips were laughing.  She was laughing at herself, at her incongruousness, at her trivial mortifications.  Margaret would set her at her ease, and Bessie learnt that she had a rare charm in her hair, both from its color and the manner of its growth.  It was lovely, Margaret told her, and pressed its crisp shining abundance with her hand delicately.

“That is a comfort in adverse circumstances,” said Bessie with a light in her eyes.  Then they ran down stairs to find the morning-room deserted and all the company gone in to luncheon.

The elders of the party were placed at a round table, a seat for Bessie being reserved by Lady Latimer.  Two others were empty, into one of which dropt Margaret; the other was occupied by Mr. Bernard, the squire of the next parish, to whom Margaret was engaged.  Their marriage, in fact, was close at hand, and Beechhurst was already devising its rejoicings for the wedding-day.