“Already, Bessie!” cried Harry in a rallying, reproachful tone.

“Already what, Harry?  I am not giving myself airs, if that is what you mean,” said she blushing.

Harry shook his head, but only half in earnest:  “You are, Bessie.  You are pretending to have opinions on things that you had never thought of a month ago.  Give you a year amongst your grandees, and you will hold yourself above us all.”

Tears filled Bessie’s eyes.  She was very much hurt; she did not believe that Harry could have misunderstood her so.  “I shall never hold myself above anybody that I was fond of when I was little; they are more likely to forget me when I am out of sight.  They have others to love.”  Bessie spoke in haste and excitement.  She meant neither to defend herself nor to complain, but her voice imported a little pathos and tragedy into the scene.  Young Musgrave instantly repented and offered atonement.  “Besides,” Bessie rather inconsequently ran on, “I am very fond of Lady Latimer; she has nobody of her own, so she tries to make a family in the world at large.”

“All right, Bessie—­then she shall adopt you.  Only don’t be cross, little goosey.  Let us go into the garden.”  Young Musgrave made such a burlesque of his remorse that Bessie, wounded but skin-deep, was fain to laugh too and be friends again.  And thereupon they went forth together into the bosky old garden.

What a pleasant wilderness that old garden was, even in its neglected beauty!  Whoever planted it loved open spaces, turf, and trees of foreign race; for there were some rare cedars, full-grown, straight, and stately, with feathered branches sweeping the grass, and strange shrubs that were masses of blossom and fountains of sweet odors.  The flower-borders had run to waste; only a few impoverished roses tossed their blushing fragrance into the air, and a few low-growing, old-fashioned things made shift to live amongst the weeds.  But the prettiest bit of all was the verdant natural slope, below which ran the brook that gave the village and the manor their names.  The Forest is not a land of merry running waters, but little tranquil streams meander hither and thither, making cool its shades.  Three superb beeches laved their silken leaves in the shallow flood, and amongst their roots were rustic seats all sheltered from sun and wind.  Here had Harry Musgrave and Bessie Fairfax sat many a summer afternoon, their heads over one poetry-book, reading, whispering, drawing—­lovers in a way, though they never talked of love.

“Shall we two ever walk together in this garden again, Harry?” said Bessie, breaking a sentimental silence with a sigh as she gazed at the sun-dimmed horizon.

“Many a time, I hope.  I’ll tell you my ambition.”  Young Musgrave spoke with vivacity; his eyes sparkled.  “Listen, Bessie, and don’t be astonished.  I mean some day to buy Brook, and come to live here.  That is my ambition.”