"The fathers and mothers, yours and mine, are not an hour altered,"
Harry Musgrave said. "The boys are grown. Jack is a sturdy little
ruffian, as you might expect; no boy in the Forest runs through so many
clothes as Jack--that's the complaint. There is a talk of sending him to
sea, and he is deep in Marryat's novels for preparation."

"Poor Jack, he was a sad Pickle, but _so_ affectionate! And Willie and
the others?" queried Bessie rather mournfully.

Concerning Willie and the others there was a favorable account. Of all
Bessie's old friends and acquaintances not one was lost, not one had
gone away. But talk of them was only preliminary to more interesting
talk of themselves, modestly deferred, but well lingered over once it
was begun. Harry Musgrave could not tell Bessie too much--he could not
explain with too exact a precision the system of college-life, its
delights and drawbacks. He had been very successful; he had won many
prizes, and anticipated the distinction of a high degree--all at the
cost of work. One term he had not gone up to Oxford. The doctor had
ordered him to rest.

"Still, you are not quite killed with study," said Bessie gayly,
rallying him. She thought the school-life of girls was as laborious as
the college-life of young men, with much fewer alleviations.

"That was never my way. I can make a spurt if need be. But it is safer
to keep a steady, even pace."

"And what are you going to do for a profession, Harry? Have you made up
your mind yet?"