There was a silence. Bessie had always believed in the prodigal as a
good son after his repentance. Any liberty of speculation as concerning
Scripture gave her pause; it was a new thing at Beechhurst and at Brook.

Young Musgrave furled over the pages of his book. A sheet of paper,
written, interlined, blotted with erasures, flew out. He laid a quick
hand upon it; not so quick, however, but that Bessie had caught sight of
verses--verses of his own, too. She entreated him to read them. He
excused himself. "Do, Harry; please do," she urged, but he was
inexorable. He had read her many a fine composition before--many a poem
crowded with noble words and lofty sentiments; but for once he was
reserved, firm, secret. He told Bessie that she would not admire this
last effort of his muse: it was a parody, an imitation of the Greek.

"Girls have no relish for humor: they don't understand it. It is sheer
profanity to them," said he. Let him show her his prize-books instead.

Bessie was too humble towards Harry to be huffed. She admired the
prize-books, then changed the subject, and spoke of Lady Latimer,
inquiring if he had availed himself of her invitation yet to call at
Fairfield.

"No," said he, "I have not called at Fairfield. What business can her
ladyship have with me? I don't understand her royal message. Little
Christie went to Fairfield with a portfolio of sketches in obedience to
a summons of that sort, and was bidden to sit down to dinner in the
servants' hall while the portfolio was carried up stairs. Her ladyship
bought a sketch, but the money was no salve for Christie's
mortification. I have nothing to sell. I took warning by my friend, and
did not go."