her a kiss, being absorbed in some chemical experiment that smelt abominably when her mother called her to bed.  The denial was singularly unkind, and even ungrateful that evening, because Bessie had not screamed when he electrified her round, wee nose.  She was still so tender at heart for him that she would probably have cried now if he had roughed her.  But they were friends, the best of friends—­as good as brother and sister.  Harry talked of himself incessantly; but what hero to her so interesting?  Not even his mother was so indulgent to his harmless vanities as Bessie, or thought him so surely predestined to be one of the great men of his day.

It was early yet to say that Harry Musgrave was born under a lucky star, but his friends did say it.  He was of a most popular character, not too wise or good to dispense with indulgence, or too modest to claim it.  At twelve he was a clumsy lad, bold, audacious, pleasant-humored, with a high, curly, brown head, fine bright eyes, and no features to mention.  At twenty he had grown up into a tall, manly fellow, who meant to have his share in the world if courage could capture it.  Plenty of staying power, his schoolmasters said he had, and it was the consciousness of force in reserve that gave him much of his charm.  Jealousy, envy, emulation could find no place in him; he had been premature in nothing, and still took his work at sober pace.  He had a wonderful gift of concentrativeness, and a memory to match.  He loved learning for its own sake far more than for the honor of excelling, and treated the favors of fortune with such cool indifference that the seers said they were sure some day to fall upon him in a shower.  He had his pure enthusiasms and lofty ambitions, as what young man of large heart and powerful intellect has not?  And he was now in the poetic era of life.

Bessie Fairfax had speculated much and seriously beforehand how Harry Musgrave would receive the news that she was going to be a lady.  He received it with most sovereign equanimity.

“You always were a lady, and a very nice little lady, Bessie.  I don’t think they can mend you,” said he.

The communication and flattering response were made at Brook, in the sitting-room of the farm—­a spacious, half-wainscoted room, with dark polished floor, and a shabby old Persian carpet in the centre of it.  A very picture-like interior it was, with the afternoon sun pouring through its vine-shaded open lattice, though time and weather-stains were on the ceiling and pale-colored walls, and its scant furniture was cumbrous, worn, and unbeautiful.  The farm-house had been the manor once, and was fast falling to pieces.  Mr. Musgrave’s landlord was an impoverished man, but he could not sell a rood of his land, because his heir was a cousin with whom he was at feud.  It was a daily trial to Mrs. Musgrave’s orderly disposition that she had not a neat home about her, but its large negligence suited her husband and son.  This bare sitting-room was Harry’s own, and with the wild greenery outside was warm, sweet, and fresh in hot summer weather, though a few damp days filled it with odors of damp and decay.  It was a cell in winter, but in July a bower.