grandfather, cold, sarcastic, severe; and every ensuing day she experienced fits of dejection or fits of terror and repulsion, to which even the most healthy young creatures are liable when they find themselves cut adrift from what is dear and familiar.  Happily, these fits were intermittent, and at their worst easily diverted by what interested her on the voyage; and she did not encourage the murky humor:  she always tried to shake it off and feel brave, and especially she made the effort as the yacht drew towards its haven.  It was her nature to struggle against gloom and pain for a clear outlook at her horizon, and Madame Fournier had not failed to supply her with moral precepts for sustenance when cast on the shore of a strange and indifferent society.

The Foam touched at Hastings, at Dover, at semi-Dutch Harwich, and then no more until it put into Scarcliffe Bay.  Here Bessie’s sea-adventures ended.  She went ashore and walked with her uncle on the bridge, gazing about with frank, unsophisticated eyes.  The scenery and the weather were beautiful.  Mr. Frederick Fairfax had many friends now at Scarcliffe, the favorite sea-resort of the county people.  Greetings met him on every hand, and Bessie was taken note of.  “My niece Elizabeth.”  Her history was known, kindness had been bespoken for her, her prospects were anticipated by a prescient few.

At length one acquaintance gave her uncle news:  “The squire and your brother are both in the town.  I fell in with them at the bank less than an hour ago.”

“That is good luck:  then we will go into the town and find them.”  And he moved off with alacrity, as if in sight of the end of an irksome duty.  Bessie inquired if her uncle was going forward to Abbotsmead, to which he replied that he was not; he was going across to Norway to make the most of the fine weather while it lasted.  He might be at horns in the winter, but his movements were always uncertain.

Mr. Fairfax came upon them suddenly out of the library.  “Eh! here you are!  We heard that the Foam was in,” said he, and shook hands with his eldest son as if he had been parted with only yesterday.  Then he spoke a few words to Bessie, rather abruptly, but with a critical observance of her:  she had outgrown his recollection, and was more of a woman than he had anticipated.  He walked on without any attempt at conversation until they met a third, a tall man with a fair beard, whom her grandfather named as “Your uncle Laurence, Elizabeth.”  And she had seen all her Woldshire kinsmen.  For a miracle, she was able to put as cool a face upon her reception as the others did.  A warm welcome would have brought her to tears and smiles, but its quiet formality subdued emotion and set her features like a handsome mask.  She was too composed.  Pride tinged with resentment simulates dignified composure very well for a little while, but only for a little while when there is a heart behind.