we need never want unless by our own fault. And the little money that
was left for me when my real father died has never been touched: it was
put into the funds to save up and be a nest-egg for me when I marry."

Mr. Wiley's teeth gleamed his appreciation of this _naïve_ bit of
information. And even her grandfather could not forbear a smile, though
he was touched. "I am convinced that you have been in good hands,
Elizabeth," said he warmly. "It was not against Mr. Carnegie that any
neglect of natural duty was insinuated, but against me."

Bessie looked down and sighed. Mr. Wiley deprecated the charge of
casting blame anywhere. Mr. Fairfax brusquely turned the conversation to
matters not personal--to the forest-laws, the common-rights and
enclosure acts--and Bessie kept their pace, which quickened
imperceptibly, ruminating in silence her experiences of the day.
Mortification mingled with self-ridicule was uppermost. To be a
bridesmaid amongst the grand folks at Fairfield--could anything be more
absurdly afflicting? To be a seamstress at Madame Michaud's--the odious
idea of it! Poor Bessie, what a blessing to her was her gift of humor,
her gift for seeing the laughable side of things and people, and
especially the laughable side of herself and her trials!

Mr. Wiley was shaken off on the outskirts of the village, where a
ragged, unkempt laborer met him, and insisted on exchanging civilities
and conventional objections to the weather. "We wants a shower, parson."

"A shower! You're _wet_ enough," growled Mr. Wiley with a gaze of severe
reprobation. "And you were drunk on Sunday."

"Yes! I'se wet every day, and at my own expense, too," retorted the