specimens of domestic architecture to be found in the kingdom.

In such perambulations time slips away fast. The squire looked at his
watch. It was eleven o'clock; at half-past he was due at a magistrate's
meeting two miles off; he must leave Bessie to amuse herself until
luncheon at two. Bessie was contented to be left. She replied that she
would now go indoors and write to her mother. Her grandfather paused an
instant on her answer, then nodded acquiescence and went away in haste.
Was he disappointed that she said nothing spontaneous? Bessie did not
give that a thought, but she said in her letter, "I do believe that my
grandfather wishes me to be happy here"--a possibility which had not
struck her until she took a pen in her hand, and set about reflecting
what news she had to communicate to her dear friends at Beechhurst. This
brilliant era of her vicissitudes was undoubtedly begun with a little
aversion.

In the absence of her young lady, Mrs. Betts had unpacked and carefully
disposed of Bessie's limited possessions.

"Your wardrobe will not give me much trouble, miss," said the
waiting-woman, with sly, good-humored allusion to the extent of it.

"No," answered Bessie, misunderstanding her in perfect simplicity. "You
will find all in order. At school we mended our clothes and darned our
stockings punctually every week."

"Did you really do this beautiful darning, miss? It is the finest
darning I ever met with--not to say it was lace." Mrs. Betts spoke more
seriously, as she held up to view a pair of filmy Lille thread stockings
which had sustained considerable dilapidation and repair.

"Yes. They were not worth the trouble. Mademoiselle Adelaide made us
wear Lille thread on dancing-days that we might never want stockings to
mend. She had a passion for darning. She taught us to graft also: you
will find one pair of black silk grafted toe and heel. I have thought
them much too precious ever to wear since. I keep them for a curiosity."

On the tables in Bessie's sitting-room were set out her humble
appliances for work, for writing--an enamelled white box with cut-steel
ornaments, much scratched; a capacious oval basket with a quilted red
silk cover, much faded; a limp Russia-leather blotting-book wrapped in
silver paper (Harry Musgrave had presented it to Bessie on her going
into exile, and she had cherished it too dearly to expose it to the risk
of blots at school). "I think," said she, "I shall begin to use it n