education there, and Mrs. Wiley knew the school.

It was a beautiful season in the Forest--never more beautiful--and
Bessie rode with her father whenever he could go with her. Then young
Musgrave came back from Wells. Perhaps it is unnecessary to repeat that
Bessie was very fond of young Musgrave. It was quoted of her, when she
was a fat little trot of seven years old and he a big boy of twelve,
that she had cried herself to sleep because he had refused her a kiss,
being absorbed in some chemical experiment that smelt abominably when
her mother called her to bed. The denial was singularly unkind, and even
ungrateful that evening, because Bessie had not screamed when he
electrified her round, wee nose. She was still so tender at heart for
him that she would probably have cried now if he had roughed her. But
they were friends, the best of friends--as good as brother and sister.
Harry talked of himself incessantly; but what hero to her so
interesting? Not even his mother was so indulgent to his harmless
vanities as Bessie, or thought him so surely predestined to be one of
the great men of his day.

It was early yet to say that Harry Musgrave was born under a lucky star,
but his friends did say it. He was of a most popular character, not too
wise or good to dispense with indulgence, or too modest to claim it. At
twelve he was a clumsy lad, bold, audacious, pleasant-humored, with a
high, curly, brown head, fine bright eyes, and no features to mention.
At twenty he had grown up into a tall, manly fellow, who meant to have
his share in the world if courage could capture it. Plenty of staying
power, his schoolmasters said he had, and it was the consciousness of
force in reserve that gave him much of his charm. Jealousy, envy,
emulation could find no place in him; he had been premature in nothing,
and still took his work at sober pace. He had a wonderful gift of