Bessie was overawed.  To buy Brook was a project too vast for her imagination.  The traditions of its ancient glories still hung about it, and the proprietor, even in his poverty, was a power in the country.  Harry proceeded with the confession of his day-dreams:  “I shall pull down the house—­if it does not fall down of itself before—­and build it up again on the original plan, for I admire not all things new.  With the garden replanted and the fine old trees left, it will be a paradise—­as much of a paradise as any modern Adam can desire.  And Bessie shall be my Eve.”

“You will see so many Eves between now and then, Harry, that you will have forgotten me,” cried Bessie.

Harry rejoined:  “You are quite as likely to be carried away by a bluff Woldshire squire as I am to fall captive to other Eves.”

“You know, Harry, I shall always be fondest of you.  We have been like real cousins.  But won’t you be growing rather old before you are rich enough to buy Brook?”

“If I am, you will be growing rather old too, Bessie.  What do you call old—­thirty?”

“Yes.  Do you mean to put off life till you are thirty?”

“No.  I mean to work and play every day as it comes.  But one must have some great events to look forward to.  My visions are of being master of Brook and of marrying Bessie.  One without the other would be only half a good fortune.”

“Do you care so much for me as that, Harry?  I was afraid you cared for little Christie more than for me now.”

“Don’t be jealous of little Christie, Bessie.  Surely I can like you both.  There are things a girl does not understand.  You belong to me as my father and mother do.  I have told you everything.  I have not told anybody but you what I intend about Brook—­not even my mother.  I want it to be our secret.”

“So it shall, Harry.  You’ll see how I can keep it,” cried Bessie delighted.

“I trust you, because I know if I make a breakdown you will not change.  When I missed the English verse-prize last year (you remember, Bessie?) I had made so sure of it that I could hardly show my face at home.  Mother was disappointed, but you just snuggled up to me and said, ’Never mind, Harry, I love you;’ and you did not care whether I had a prize or none.  And that was comfort.  I made up my mind at that minute what I should do.”

“Dear old Harry!  I am sure your verses were the best, far away,” was Bessie’s response; and then she begged to hear more of what her comrade meant to do.

Harry did not want much entreating.  His schemes could hardly be called castles in the air, so much of the solid and reasonable was there in the design of them.  He had no expectation of success by wishing, and no trust in strokes of luck.  Life is a race, and a harder race than ever.  Nobody achieves great things without great labors and often great sacrifices.  “The labor I shall not mind; the sacrifices I shall make pay.”  Harry