Again Bessie was dumb. She blushed, and did not know what to say. She
would not have liked to hear that Harry had been set down to dinner in
the servants' hall at Fairfield, though she had not herself been hurt by
a present of a cheese-cake in the kitchen. She was perfectly aware that
the farmers and upper servants in the great houses did associate as
equals. Evidently the conduct of life required much discretion.

Less than a year ago young Christie had helped at the painting and
graining of Lady Latimer's house. Somebody, a connoisseur in art,
wandering last autumn in the Forest, had found him making a drawing of
yew trees, had sought him in his home at the wheelwright's, had told him
he was a genius and would do wonders. On the instant young Christie
expected the greatest of all wonders to be done; he expected his friends
and neighbors to believe in him on the strength of the stranger's
prediction. Naturally, they preferred to reserve their judgment. He and
young Musgrave had learnt their letters under the same ferule, though
their paths had diverged since. Some faint reminiscence of companionship
survived in young Christie's memory, and in the absence of a generous
sympathy at home he went to seek it at Brook. A simple, strong
attachment was the result. Young Christie was gentle, vain, sensitive,
easily raised and easily depressed, a slim little fellow--a contrast to
Harry Musgrave in every way. "My friend" each called the other, and
their friendship was a pure joy and satisfaction to them both. Christie
carried everything to Brook--hopes, feelings, fears as well as
work--even his mortification at Fairfield, against a repetition of which
young Musgrave offered counsel, wisdom of the ancients.

"It is art you are in pursuit of, not pomps and vanities? Then keep
clear of Fairfield. The first thing for success in imaginative work is a