habits Bessie's room looked very poor and
mean. The little strips of faded carpet, the small, curtainless
bedstead, the plain maple washstand and drawers, the few simple prints
and varnished bookcase were shabby enough in Edna's eyes. She could not
understand how any girl could be content with such a room; and yet
Bessie's happiest hours were spent there. What was a little shabbiness,
or the wear and tear of homely furniture, to one who saw angels'
footprints even in the common ways of life, and who dreamed sweet,
innocent dreams of the splendors of a heavenly home? To these sort of
natures even threadbare garments can be worn proudly, for to these free
spirits even poverty loses its sting. It is not "how we live," but "how
we think about life," that stamps our characters, and makes us the men
and women that we are.

CHAPTER III.

HATTY.

The brief silence was broken by Edna.

"What a nice boy your brother is!" she observed, in rather a patronizing
tone.

Bessie looked up in some surprise.

"Tom does not consider himself a boy, I assure you; he is
one-and-twenty, and ever since he has gone to Oxford he thinks himself
of great consequence. I dare say we spoil him among us, as he is our
only brother now. If Frank had lived," and here Bessie sighed, "he would
have been five-and-twenty by this time; but he died four years ago. It
was such a blow to poor father and mother; he was so good and clever,
and he was studying for a doctor; but he caught a severe chill, and
congestion of the lungs came on, and in a few days he was dead. I don't
think mother has ever been quite the same since his death--Frank was so
much to her."

"How very sad!" returned Edna sympathetically, for Bessie's eyes had
grown soft and misty as she touched this chord of sadness; "it must be
terrible to lose any one whom one loves." And then she added, with a
smile, "I did not mean to hurt your feelings by calling your brother a
boy, but he seemed very young to me. You see, I am engaged, and Mr.
Sinclair (that is my fiance) is nearly thirty, and he is so grave and
quiet that any one like your brother seems like a boy beside him."

"You are engaged?" ejaculated Bessie, in an awestruck tone.

"Yes; it seems a pity, does it not? at least mamma says so; she thinks I
am too young and giddy to know my own mind; and yet she is very fond of
Neville--Mr. Sinclair, I mean. She will have it that we are not a bit
suited to each other, and I dare sa