was getting out of Bessie’s depth now; a little more of poetry and romance in his views would have brought them nearer to the level of her comprehension.  Then he talked to her of his school, of the old doctor, that great man, of his schoolfellows, of his rivals whom he had distanced—­not a depreciatory word of any of them.  “I don’t believe in luck for myself,” he said.  “But there is a sort of better and worse fortune amongst men, independent of merit.  It was the narrowest shave between me and Fordyce.  I would not have given sixpence for my chance of the scholarship against his, yet I won it.  He is a good fellow, Fordyce:  he came up and shook hands as if he had won.  That was just what I wanted:  I felt so happy!  Now I shall go to Oxford; in a year or two I shall have pupils, and who knows but I may gain a fellowship?  I shall take you to Oxford, Bessie, when the time comes.”

Bessie was as proud and as pleased in this indefinite prospect as if she were bidden to pack up and start to-morrow.  Harry went on to tell her what Mr. Moxon had told him, how Oxford is one of the most beautiful of cities, and one of the most famous and ancient seats of learning in the world (which she knew from her geography-book), and there, under the beeches, with the slow ripple at their feet, they sat happy as king and queen in a fairy-tale, until the shadow of Mrs. Musgrave came gliding over the grass, and her clear caressing voice broke on their ears:  “Children, children, are you never coming to tea?  We have called you from the window twice.  And young Christie is here.”

* * * * *

Young Christie came forward with a bow and a blush to shake hands.  He had dressed himself for Sunday to come to Brook.  He had an ingenuous face, but plain in feature.  The perceptive faculties were heavily developed, and his eyes were fine; and his mouth and chin suggested a firmness of character.

Mr. Musgrave, who was absent at dinner, was now come home tired from Hampton.  He leant back in his chair and held out a brown hand to Bessie, who took it, and a kiss with it, as part of the regular ceremony of greeting.  She slipped into the chair set for her beside him, and was quite at home, for Bessie was a favorite in the same degree at Brook as Harry was at Beechhurst.  Young Christie sat next to his friend and opposite to Bessie.  They had many things to say to each other, and Bessie compared them in her own mind silently.  Harry was serene and quiet; Christie’s color came and went with the animation of his talk.  Harry’s hands had the sunburnt hue of going ungloved, but they were the hands of a young man devoted to scholarly pursuits; Christie’s were stained with his trade, which he practised of necessity still, wooing art only in his bye-hours.  Harry’s speech was decisive and simple; Christie’s was hesitating and a little fine, a little over-careful.  He was self-conscious, and as he talked he watched who listened, his restless eyes glancing often towards Bessie.  But this had a twofold meaning, for while he talked of other things his faculty of observation was at work; it was always at work as an undercurrent.