ended. She went ashore and walked with her uncle on the bridge, gazing
about with frank, unsophisticated eyes. The scenery and the weather were
beautiful. Mr. Frederick Fairfax had many friends now at Scarcliffe, the
favorite sea-resort of the county people. Greetings met him on every
hand, and Bessie was taken note of. "My niece Elizabeth." Her history
was known, kindness had been bespoken for her, her prospects were
anticipated by a prescient few.

At length one acquaintance gave her uncle news: "The squire and your
brother are both in the town. I fell in with them at the bank less than
an hour ago."

"That is good luck: then we will go into the town and find them." And he
moved off with alacrity, as if in sight of the end of an irksome duty.
Bessie inquired if her uncle was going forward to Abbotsmead, to which
he replied that he was not; he was going across to Norway to make the
most of the fine weather while it lasted. He might be at horns in the
winter, but his movements were always uncertain.

Mr. Fairfax came upon them suddenly out of the library. "Eh! here you
are! We heard that the Foam was in," said he, and shook hands with his
eldest son as if he had been parted with only yesterday. Then he spoke a
few words to Bessie, rather abruptly, but with a critical observance of
her: she had outgrown his recollection, and was more of a woman than he
had anticipated. He walked on without any attempt at conversation until
they met a third, a tall man with a fair beard, whom her grandfather
named as "Your uncle Laurence, Elizabeth." And she had seen all her
Woldshire kinsmen. For a miracle, she was able to put as cool a face
upon her reception as the others did. A warm welcome would have brought
her to tears and smiles, but its quiet formality subdued emotion and set