“Well, yes.  Mrs. Carnegie would not easily let her go unless in the assurance that she will be taken care of.  She has been a good deal petted and spoiled.  She is a fine character, but she would give you nothing but trouble if you took her straight home.”

Lady Latimer, with whom Mr. Fairfax held further counsel, expressed much the same opinion.  She approved of Elizabeth, but it was impossible to deny that she had too much self-will, that she was too much of the little mistress.  She had been sovereign in the doctor’s house; to fall amongst her equals in age and seniors in school would be an excellent discipline.  Mr. Fairfax acquiesced, and two or three years was the term of purgatory to which Bessie heard herself condemned.  It was no use crying.  My lady encouraged her to anticipate that she would be very tolerably happy at school.  She was strong enough not to mind its hardships; some girls suffered miserably from want of health, but she had vigor and spirits to make the best of circumstances.  Bessie was flattered by this estimate of her pluck, but all the same she preferred to avert her thoughts from the contemplation of the strange future that was to begin in September.  It was July now, and a respite was to be given her until September.

Mr. John Short—­his business done—­returned to Norminster, and Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Carnegie met.  They were extremely distant in their behavior.  Mr. Carnegie refused to accept any compensation for the charges Bessie had put him to, and made Mr. Fairfax wince at his information that the child had earned her living twice over by her helpfulness in his house.  He did not mean to be unkind, but only to set forth his dear little Bessie’s virtues.

“She will never need to go a-begging, Bessie won’t,” said he.  “She can turn her hand to most things in a family.  She has capital sense, and a warm heart for those who can win it.”

Mr. Fairfax bowed solemnly, as not appreciating this catalogue of homely graces.  The doctor looked very stern.  He had subdued his mind to the necessity, but he felt his loss in every fibre of his affections.  No one, except Bessie herself, half understood the sacrifice he was put upon making, for he loved her as fondly as if she had been his very own; and he knew that once divided from his household she never would be like his own again.  But her fate was settled, and the next event in her experience seemed to set a seal upon it.

The day Mr. John Short left the Forest, Beechhurst began to set up its arches and twine its garlands for the wedding of Lady Latimer’s niece.  Bessie made a frantic effort to escape from the bridesmaid’s honors that were thrust upon her, but met with no sympathy except from her father, and even he did not come to her rescue.  He bade her never mind, it would soon be over.  One sensible relief she had in the midst of her fantastic distress:  Harry Musgrave was away, and would not see her in her preposterous borrowed plumes.  He had gone with Mr. Moxon on a week’s excursion to Wells, and would not return until after the wedding.  Bessie was full of anxieties how her dear old comrade would treat her now.  She found some people more distant and respectful, she did not wish that Harry should be more respectful—­that would spoil their intercourse.