sometimes at the rate of one little stranger, and sometimes at the rate of twins.  The doctor received his blessings with a welcome, and a brisk assurance to his wife that the more they were the merrier.  And neither Mrs. Carnegie nor Bessie presumed to think otherwise; though seven tiny trots under ten years old were a sore handful; and seven was the number Bessie kept watch and ward over like a fairy godmother in the doctor’s nursery, when her own life had attained to no more than the discretion and philosophy of fifteen.  The chief of them were boys—­boys on the plan of their worthy father; five boys with excellent lungs and indefatigable stout legs; and two little girls no whit behind their brothers for voluble chatter and restless agility.  Nobody complained, however.  They had their health—­that was one mercy; there was enough in the domestic exchequer to feed, clothe, and keep them all warm—­that was another mercy; and as for the future, people so busy as the doctor and his wife are forced to leave that to Providence—­which is the greatest mercy of all.  For it is to-morrow’s burden breaks the back, never the burden of to-day.

A constant regret with Mrs. Carnegie (when she had a spare moment to think of it) was her inability, from stress of annually recurring circumstances, to afford Bessie Fairfax more of an education, and especially that she was not learning to speak French and play on the piano.  But Bessie felt no want of these polite accomplishments.  She had no accomplished companions to put her to shame for her deficiencies.  She was fond of a book, she could write an unformed, legible hand, and add up a simple sum.  The doctor, not a bad judge, called her a shrewd, reasonable little lass.  She had mother-wit, a warm heart, and a nice face, as sweet and fresh as a bunch of roses with the dew on them, and he did not see what she wanted with talking French and playing the piano; if his wife would believe him, she would go through life quite as creditably and comfortably without any fashionable foreign airs and graces.  Thus it resulted, partly from want of opportunity, and partly from want of ambition in herself, that Bessie Fairfax remained a rustic little maid, without the least tincture of modern accomplishments.  Still, the doctor’s wife did not forget that her dear drudge and helpful right hand was a waif of old gentry, whose restoration the chapter of accidents might bring about any day.  Nor did she suffer Bessie to forget it, though Bessie was mighty indifferent, and cared as little for her gentle kindred as they cared for her.  And if these gentle kindred had increased and multiplied according to the common lot, Bessie would probably never have been remembered by them to any purpose; she might have married as Mr. Carnegie’s daughter, and have led an obscure, happy life, without vicissitude to the end of it, and have died leaving no story to tell.