quarter, the stone-yard of the cathedral; but there was no visible
worshipper--nothing to interrupt her mood of reverie.

For a long while, that is. Presently chimed in with the music of chisel
and mallet the ring of eager young footsteps outside, young men's
footsteps, voices and dear English speech. One was freely translating
from his guide-book: "The cathedral, many times destroyed, was rebuilt
after the fire of 1106, and not completed until the eighteenth century.
It is therefore of several styles. The length is one hundred and two
mètres and the height twenty-three mètres from floor to vault."

Bessie's breath came and went very fast; so did the blood in her cheeks.
Surely that voice she knew. It was Harry Musgrave's voice, and this was
why thoughts of the Forest had haunted her all the morning.

The owner of the voice entered, and it was Harry Musgrave--he and two
others, all with the fresh air of British tourists not long started on
their tour, knapsack on back and walking-stick in hand. They pulled off
their gray wideawakes and stared about, lowering their manly tones as
they talked; stood a few minutes considering the length, breadth,
height, and beauty of general effect in the nave and the choir, and then
descended the steps, and in the true national spirit of inquiry walked
straight to the stream of sunshine that revealed a door opening into
some place unseen. Bessie, sitting in retired shade, escaped their
observation. She laughed to herself with an inexpressible gladness. It
was certainly not by accident that Harry was here. She would have liked
to slip along the aisle in his shadow, to have called him by his name,
but the presence of his two unknown companions, and some diffidence in
herself, restrained her until the opportunity was gone, and he
disappeared, inveigled by the sacristan into making the regular tour of