most modern volumes in the collection were
inscribed with the name of "Dorothy Fairfax," who reigned in the days of
Byron and Wordsworth, Keats and Shelley, and had through them (from the
contents of three white vellum-covered volumes of extracts in her
autograph) learnt to love the elder poets whose works in quarto
populated the library. To Bessie these volumes became a treasure out of
which she filled her mind with songs and ballads, lays and lyrics. The
third volume had a few blank pages at the end, and these were the last
lines in it:

"Absence, hear thou my protestation
Against thy strength,
Distance and length;
Do what thou canst for alteration:
For hearts of truest mettle
Absence doth join, and Time doth settle."

Twice over Bessie read this, then to herself repeated it aloud--all with
thoughts of her friends in the Forest.

The next minute her fortitude gave way, tears rushed to her eyes, Madame
Fournier's precepts vanished out of remembrance, and she cried like a
child wanting its mother. In which unhappy condition Mrs. Betts
discovered her, sitting upon the floor, when the little page came flying
to announce luncheon and visitors. It was two o'clock already.

CHAPTER XIX.

_NEIGHBORS TO ABBOTSMEAD._

Some recent duties of Mrs. Betts's service had given her, on occasion,
an authoritative manner, and she was impelled to use it when she
witnessed the forlornness of her young lady. "I am surprised that you
should give way, miss," said she. "In the middle of the day, too, when
callers are always liable, and your dear, good grandpapa expects a
smiling face! To make your eyes as red as a ferret--"

"Indeed, they are not!" cried Bessie, and rose and ran to the
looking-glass.

Mrs. Betts smiled at the effect of her tactics, and persevered: "Let me
see, miss: because if it is plain you have been fretting, you had better
make an excuse and stop up stairs. But the master will be vexed." Bessie
turned and submitted her countenance to inspection. "There was never a
complexion yet that was improved by fretting," was the waiting-woman's
severe insinuation. "You must wait five minutes, and let the air from
the window blow on you. Really, miss, you are too old to cry."

Bessie offered no rejoinder; she was ashamed. The imperative necessity
of controlling the tender emotions had been sternly inculcated by Madame
Fournier. "Now shall I do?" she humbly asked, feeli