“I wish people would mind their own business.”

“There is no harm done.  But the remembrance of what you have been saved from should keep you meek and lowly in spirit, Bessie.  I have been grieved to-day, deeply grieved, to see that you already begin to feel uplifted.”  Mr. Wiley dwelt in unctuous italics on his regret, and waved his head slowly in token of his mournfulness.  Bessie turned scarlet and held her peace.

“You must be very benevolent people here,” said Mr. Fairfax sarcastically.  “Is Mr. Carnegie so poor and helpless a man that his kind neighbors must interfere to direct his private affairs?”

Mr. Wiley’s eyes glittered as he replied, parrying the thrust and returning it:  “No, no, but he has a large and increasing family of his own; and with little Bessie thrown entirely on his hands besides, friends might well feel anxious how she was to be provided for—­Lady Latimer especially, who interests herself for all who are in need.  Her ladyship has a great notion that women should be independent.”

“My father is perfectly able and perfectly willing to do everything that is necessary for his children.  No one would dream of meddling with us who knew him,” cried Bessie impetuously.  Her voice shook, she was so annoyed that she was in tears.  Mr. Fairfax took her hand, squeezed it tight, and retained it as they walked on.  She felt insulted for her dear, good, generous father.  She was almost sobbing as she continued in his praise:  “He has insured his life for us.  I have heard him say that we need never want unless by our own fault.  And the little money that was left for me when my real father died has never been touched:  it was put into the funds to save up and be a nest-egg for me when I marry.”

Mr. Wiley’s teeth gleamed his appreciation of this naive bit of information.  And even her grandfather could not forbear a smile, though he was touched.  “I am convinced that you have been in good hands, Elizabeth,” said he warmly.  “It was not against Mr. Carnegie that any neglect of natural duty was insinuated, but against me.”

Bessie looked down and sighed.  Mr. Wiley deprecated the charge of casting blame anywhere.  Mr. Fairfax brusquely turned the conversation to matters not personal—­to the forest-laws, the common-rights and enclosure acts—­and Bessie kept their pace, which quickened imperceptibly, ruminating in silence her experiences of the day.  Mortification mingled with self-ridicule was uppermost.  To be a bridesmaid amongst the grand folks at Fairfield—­could anything be more absurdly afflicting?  To be a seamstress at Madame Michaud’s—­the odious idea of it!  Poor Bessie, what a blessing to her was her gift of humor, her gift for seeing the laughable side of things and people, and especially the laughable side of herself and her trials!

Mr. Wiley was shaken off on the outskirts of the village, where a ragged, unkempt laborer met him, and insisted on exchanging civilities and conventional objections to the weather.  “We wants a shower, parson.”