concentrativeness, and a memory to match. He loved learning for its own
sake far more than for the honor of excelling, and treated the favors of
fortune with such cool indifference that the seers said they were sure
some day to fall upon him in a shower. He had his pure enthusiasms and
lofty ambitions, as what young man of large heart and powerful intellect
has not? And he was now in the poetic era of life.

Bessie Fairfax had speculated much and seriously beforehand how Harry
Musgrave would receive the news that she was going to be a lady. He
received it with most sovereign equanimity.

"You always were a lady, and a very nice little lady, Bessie. I don't
think they can mend you," said he.

The communication and flattering response were made at Brook, in the
sitting-room of the farm--a spacious, half-wainscoted room, with dark
polished floor, and a shabby old Persian carpet in the centre of it. A
very picture-like interior it was, with the afternoon sun pouring
through its vine-shaded open lattice, though time and weather-stains
were on the ceiling and pale-colored walls, and its scant furniture was
cumbrous, worn, and unbeautiful. The farm-house had been the manor once,
and was fast falling to pieces. Mr. Musgrave's landlord was an
impoverished man, but he could not sell a rood of his land, because his
heir was a cousin with whom he was at feud. It was a daily trial to Mrs.
Musgrave's orderly disposition that she had not a neat home about her,
but its large negligence suited her husband and son. This bare
sitting-room was Harry's own, and with the wild greenery outside was
warm, sweet, and fresh in hot summer weather, though a few damp days
filled it with odors of damp and decay. It was a cell in winter, but in
July a bower.