diligence, that flattering anticipation made sunshine in the distance.  Every falling leaf, every chill breath of advancing winter, brought it nearer.  Janey and she used to talk of it half their recreation-time—­by the stagnant, weedy fountain in the garden at noon, and in the twilight windows of the classe, when thoughts of the absent are sweetest.  For the Petrel had not come into port at Caen since the autumn, and Janey was still left at school in daily expectation and uncertainty.

“I am only sorry, Janey, that you are not sure of going home too,” said Bessie, one day, commiserating her.

“If I am not sailing with father I would rather be here. I am not so lonely since you came,” responded Janey.

Then Bessie dilated on the pleasantness of the doctor’s house, the excellent kindness of her father and mother, the goodness of the boys, the rejoicing there would be at her return, both amongst friends at Beechhurst and friends at Brook.  Each day, after she had indulged her memory and imagination in this strain, her heart swelled with loving expectancy, and when the recess was spoken of as beginning “next week,” she could hardly contain herself for joy.

What a cruel pity that such natural delightsome hopes must all collapse, all fall to the ground!  It was ruled by Mr. Fairfax that his granddaughter had been absent so short a time that she need not go to England this winter season.  Came a letter from Mrs. Carnegie to express the infinite disappointment at home.  And there an end.

“I cried for three days,” Bessie afterward confessed.  “It seemed that there never could befall me such another misery.”

It was indeed terrible.  In a day the big house was empty of scholars.  Madame Fournier adjourned to Bayeux.  Miss Foster went to her mother.  The masters, the other teachers disappeared, all except Mademoiselle Adelaide, who was to stay in charge of the two girls for a fortnight, and then to resign her office for the same period to Miss Foster.  There was a month of this heartless solitude before Bessie and Janey.  Mademoiselle Adelaide bemoaned herself as their jailer, as much in prison as they.  They had good grounds of complaint.  A deserted school at Christmas-time is not a cheerful place.

But there was compensation preparing for Bessie.

* * * * *

“And when does Bessie Fairfax come?” was almost the first question of Harry Musgrave when he arrived from Oxford.

“Bessie is not to come at all,” was the answer.

What was that for?  He proceeded to an investigation.  There was a streak of lively, strong perversity in Harry Musgrave.  Remarks had been passed on his accompanying Mr. Carnegie when he conveyed Bessie to school—­quite uncalled-for remarks, which had originated at Fairfield and the rectory.  The impertinence of them roused Harry’s temper, and, boy-like, he instantly resolved that if his dear