coursing after the chaise with damp pocket-handkerchiefs a-flutter; and
then she turned her face the way she was going, and said with a shudder,
"It is a beautiful, sunny morning, but for all that it is cold."

"Have my coat-sleeve, Bessie," suggested Harry, and they both laughed,
then became quiet, then merry.

About two miles out of Hampton the travellers overtook little Christie
making the road fly behind him as he marched apace, a knapsack at his
back and his chin in the air.

"Whither away so fast, young man?" shouted the doctor, hailing him.

"To Hampton Theatre," shouted Christie back again, and he flourished his
hat round his head. Harry Musgrave repeated the triumphant gesture with
a loud hurrah. The artist that was to be had got that commission for the
new drop-scene at the theatre. His summons had come by this morning's
post.

The toil-worn, dusty little figure was long in sight, for now the road
ran in a direct line. Bessie wished they could have given him a lift on
his journey. Harry Musgrave continued to look behind, but he said
nothing. It is some men's fortune to ride cock-horse, it is some other
men's to trudge afoot; but neither is the lot of the first to be envied,
nor the lot of the last to be deplored. Such would probably have been
his philosophy if he had spoken. Bessie, regarding externals only, and
judging of things as they seemed, felt pained by the outward signs of
inequality.

In point of fact, little Christie was the happiest of the three at that