a land of merry running waters, but little tranquil streams meander
hither and thither, making cool its shades. Three superb beeches laved
their silken leaves in the shallow flood, and amongst their roots were
rustic seats all sheltered from sun and wind. Here had Harry Musgrave
and Bessie Fairfax sat many a summer afternoon, their heads over one
poetry-book, reading, whispering, drawing--lovers in a way, though they
never talked of love.

"Shall we two ever walk together in this garden again, Harry?" said
Bessie, breaking a sentimental silence with a sigh as she gazed at the
sun-dimmed horizon.

"Many a time, I hope. I'll tell you my ambition." Young Musgrave spoke
with vivacity; his eyes sparkled. "Listen, Bessie, and don't be
astonished. I mean some day to buy Brook, and come to live here. That is
my ambition."

Bessie was overawed. To buy Brook was a project too vast for her
imagination. The traditions of its ancient glories still hung about it,
and the proprietor, even in his poverty, was a power in the country.
Harry proceeded with the confession of his day-dreams: "I shall pull
down the house--if it does not fall down of itself before--and build it
up again on the original plan, for I admire not all things new. With the
garden replanted and the fine old trees left, it will be a paradise--as
much of a paradise as any modern Adam can desire. And Bessie shall be my
Eve."

"You will see so many Eves between now and then, Harry, that you will
have forgotten me," cried Bessie.