Young Musgrave furled over the pages of his book.  A sheet of paper, written, interlined, blotted with erasures, flew out.  He laid a quick hand upon it; not so quick, however, but that Bessie had caught sight of verses—­verses of his own, too.  She entreated him to read them.  He excused himself.  “Do, Harry; please do,” she urged, but he was inexorable.  He had read her many a fine composition before—­many a poem crowded with noble words and lofty sentiments; but for once he was reserved, firm, secret.  He told Bessie that she would not admire this last effort of his muse:  it was a parody, an imitation of the Greek.

“Girls have no relish for humor:  they don’t understand it.  It is sheer profanity to them,” said he.  Let him show her his prize-books instead.

Bessie was too humble towards Harry to be huffed.  She admired the prize-books, then changed the subject, and spoke of Lady Latimer, inquiring if he had availed himself of her invitation yet to call at Fairfield.

“No,” said he, “I have not called at Fairfield.  What business can her ladyship have with me?  I don’t understand her royal message.  Little Christie went to Fairfield with a portfolio of sketches in obedience to a summons of that sort, and was bidden to sit down to dinner in the servants’ hall while the portfolio was carried up stairs.  Her ladyship bought a sketch, but the money was no salve for Christie’s mortification.  I have nothing to sell.  I took warning by my friend, and did not go.”

Again Bessie was dumb.  She blushed, and did not know what to say.  She would not have liked to hear that Harry had been set down to dinner in the servants’ hall at Fairfield, though she had not herself been hurt by a present of a cheese-cake in the kitchen.  She was perfectly aware that the farmers and upper servants in the great houses did associate as equals.  Evidently the conduct of life required much discretion.

Less than a year ago young Christie had helped at the painting and graining of Lady Latimer’s house.  Somebody, a connoisseur in art, wandering last autumn in the Forest, had found him making a drawing of yew trees, had sought him in his home at the wheelwright’s, had told him he was a genius and would do wonders.  On the instant young Christie expected the greatest of all wonders to be done; he expected his friends and neighbors to believe in him on the strength of the stranger’s prediction.  Naturally, they preferred to reserve their judgment.  He and young Musgrave had learnt their letters under the same ferule, though their paths had diverged since.  Some faint reminiscence of companionship survived in young Christie’s memory, and in the absence of a generous sympathy at home he went to seek it at Brook.  A simple, strong attachment was the result.  Young Christie was gentle, vain, sensitive, easily raised and easily depressed, a slim little fellow—­a contrast to Harry Musgrave in every way.  “My friend” each called the other, and their friendship was a pure joy and satisfaction to them both.  Christie carried everything to Brook—­hopes, feelings, fears as well as work—­even his mortification at Fairfield, against a repetition of which young Musgrave offered counsel, wisdom of the ancients.