One day, about three months after her adventure in the Sheen Valley, Bessie was climbing up the steep road that led to the Lamberts’ house. It was a lovely spring afternoon, and Bessie was enjoying the fresh breeze that was blowing up from the bay. Cliffe was steeped in sunshine, the air was permeated with the fragrance of lilac blended with the faint odors of the pink and white May blossoms. The flower-sellers’ baskets in the town were full of dark-red wallflowers and lovely hyacinths. The birds were singing nursery lullabies over their nests in the Coombe Woods, and even the sleek donkeys, dragging up some invalids from the Parade in their trim little chairs, seemed to toil more willingly in the sweet spring sunshine.

“How happy the world looks to-day!” said Bessie to herself; and perhaps this pleasant thought was reflected in her face, for more than one passer-by glanced at her half enviously. Bessie did not notice them; her soft gray eyes were fixed on the blue sky above her, or on the glimpses of water between the houses. Just before she turned into the avenue that led to the house, she stopped to admire the view. She was at the summit of the hill now; below her lay the town; where she stood she could look over the housetops to the shining water of the bay, with its rocky island in the middle. Bessie always called it the bay, but in reality it resembled a lake, it was so landlocked, so closed in by the opposite shore, except in one part; but the smooth expanse of water, shining in the sunlight, lacked the freedom and wild freshness of the open sea, though Bessie would look intently to a distant part, where nothing, as she knew, came between her and the Atlantic. “If we only went far enough, we should reach America; that gives one the idea of freedom and vastness,” she thought.

Bessie held the idea that Cliffe-on-Sea was one of the prettiest places in England, and it was certainly not devoid of picturesqueness.

The houses were mostly built of stone, hewn out of the quarry, and were perched up in surprisingly unexpected places—some of them built against the rock, their windows commanding extensive views of the surrounding country. The quarry was near the Lamberts’ house, and the Coombe Woods stretched above it for miles. Bessie’s favorite walk was the long road that skirted the woods. On one side were the hanging woods, and on the other the bay. Through the trees one could see the gleam of water, and on summer evenings the Lambert girls would often sit on the rocks with their work and books, preferring the peaceful stillness to the Parade crowded with strangers listening to the band. When their mother or Tom was with them, they would often linger until the stars came out or the moon rose. How glorious the water looked then, bathed in silvery radiance, like an enchanted lake! How dark and sombre the woods! What strange shadows used to lurk among the trees! Hatty would creep to Bessie’s side, as they walked, especially if Tom indulged in one of his ghost stories.

“What is the use of repeating all that rubbish, Tom?” Bessie would say, in her sturdy fashion. “Do you think any one would hear us if we sung one of our glees? That will be better than talking about headless bogies to scare Hatty. I like singing by moonlight.”

Well, they were just healthy, happy young people, who knew how to make the most of small pleasures. “Every one could have air and sunshine and good spirits,” Bessie used to say, “if they ailed nothing and kept their consciences in good order. Laughing cost nothing, and talking was the cheapest amusement she knew.”“That depends,” replied her father oracularly, on overhearing this remark. “Words are dear enough sometimes. You are a wise woman, Bessie, but you have plenty to learn yet. We all have to buy experience ourselves. I don’t want you to get your wisdom second-hand; second-hand articles don’t last; so laugh away, child, as long as you can.”

“I love spring,” thought Bessie, as she walked on. “I always did like bright things best. I wonder why I feel so hopeful to-day, just as though I expected something pleasant to happen. Nothing ever does happen, as Chriss says. Just a letter from Tom, telling us his news, or an invitation to tea with a neighbor, or perhaps a drive out into the country with father. Well, they are not big things, but they are pleasant, for all that. I do like a long talk with father, when he has no troublesome case on his mind, and can give me all his attention. I think there is no treat like it; but I mean Hatty to have the next turn. She has been good lately; but she looks pale and dwindled. I am not half comfortable about her.” And here Bessie broke off her cogitations, for at that moment Katie rushed out of the house and began dancing up and down, waving a letter over her head.

“What a time you have been!” cried the child excitedly. “I have been watching for you for half an hour. Here is a letter for your own self, and it is not from Aunt Charlotte nor Uncle Charles, nor any old fogy at all.”

“Give it to me, please,” returned Bessie. “I suppose it is from Tom, though why you should make such a fuss about it, as though no one ever got a letter, passes my comprehension. No, it is from Miss Sefton; I recognize her handwriting;” which was true, as Bessie had received a note from Edna a few days after she had left them, conveying her own and her mother’s thanks for the kind hospitality she had received.

“Of course it is from Miss Sefton; there’s the Oatlands post-mark. Ella and I were trying to guess what was in it; we thought that perhaps, as Mrs. Sefton is so rich, she might have sent you a present for being so kind to her daughter; that was Ella’s idea. Do open it quickly, Bessie; what is the use of looking at the envelope?”

“I am afraid I can’t satisfy your curiosity just yet, Kitty. Hatty is waiting for the silks I have been matching, and mother will want to know how old Mrs. Wright is. Duty before pleasure,” finished Bessie, with good-humored peremptoriness, as she marched off in the direction of the morning-room.

“Bessie is getting dreadfully old-maidish,” observed Katie, in a sulky voice. “She never used to be so proper. I suppose she thinks it is none of my business.”When Bessie had got through her list of commissions she sat down to enjoy her letter quietly, but before she had read many lines her color rose, and a half-stifled exclamation of surprise came from her lips; but, in spite of Hatty’s curious questions, she read steadily to the end, and then laid the letter on her mother’s lap.

“Oh, mother, do let me hear it,” implored Hatty, with the persistence of a spoiled child. “I am sure there is something splendid about Bessie, and I do hate mysteries.”

“So do I, Hatty; we think alike there. Shall I read it aloud, my dear?” and as Bessie nodded, Mrs. Lambert read the letter in her quiet, silvery voice:

“Oh, Bessie, how delightful! But I don’t like to spare you again so soon.”

“Now, Hatty, don’t be selfish. You must not grudge Bessie the first real treat she has ever had offered to her. We have none of us had such a chance before. Fancy staying at a place like The Grange, and seeing lots of nice people.”

“I wish you could go in my place, Chrissy, dear. I am not quite sure how I should like staying with strange people; we have got into homely ways, never going anywhere except to Aunt Charlotte’s or Uncle Charles’, and I don’t know how I should get on with rich people like the Sefton’s; besides, father and mother may not wish me to accept the invitation,” glancing at her mother’s thoughtful face.

“We must see what your father says about it,” returned Mrs. Lambert, rousing herself with difficulty from her abstraction. “I would not talk about it any more, girls, until we know his wishes. It will only disappoint Bessie if she makes up her mind that she would like to accept the invitation, and father thinks it wiser to refuse. Let us put it out of our heads until he comes home, and he and I will have a talk about it.”

“Yes, that will be best,” returned Bessie, putting the letter in the envelope. “Father will not be home until late, but that does not matter; to-morrow will do quite well.” And, to her sister’s surprise and disappointment, she refused to say any more on the subject.

“Mother is quite right,” she observed, as Hatty fussed and grumbled at her silence. “If we talk about it, I shall just long to go, and shall be vexed and disappointed if father wishes me to refuse.”

“But you might coax him to change his mind. Father never likes disappointing us when we set our hearts on anything,” urged Hatty.“No, indeed; I never like arguing things with father. He is not one to make up his mind in a hurry, like some people; he thinks over a thing thoroughly, and then he gives his opinion. If he does not wish me to go, he will have a good reason for saying so. I never found either father or mother wrong yet, and I am not going to find fault with them now. Don’t let us talk any more about it, Hatty. I want to think of something else.” But, in spite of this wise resolution, Bessie did think a good deal about the letter, and in her heart she hoped that her father would allow her to accept Miss Sefton’s tempting invitation.

Dr. Lambert did not return home that night until long after his girls had retired to rest, and to Bessie’s surprise he said nothing to her at breakfast; but just as she was leaving the room to give out the stores, as usual, he called her back. “Oh, by the by, Bessie,” he observed, “I have to drive out as far as Castleton this afternoon. I will take you with me if you care to go.”

“I always care to go with you, father dear,” replied Bessie, and then she hesitated, as she remembered Hatty’s pale cheeks; “but I think you ought to take Hatty instead; it would do her so much good, and she does so love a drive.”

“No, I think you shall be my companion this afternoon; I will take Hatty to-morrow,” replied the doctor, as he took up his paper again.“Good child, she always thinks of poor Hatty,” he said to himself, and his eyes glistened. “They are all good girls, but not one of them is so unselfish as my little Betty; she takes after her mother in that. Dora never thinks of herself.”

Bessie went about her household tasks with a light heart, for she had the prospect of a pleasant afternoon before her. The drive to Castleton would be lovely, and she would hear what her father had to say about the letter. So she was ready and waiting by the time the pretty little victoria came around to the door, and as Dr. Lambert stood on the porch, he thought the happy, sunshiny face looked very attractive under the new gray hat.

“You look very smart, Bessie,” he said, smiling. “Have I seen that very becoming hat before?”

“Only last Sunday,” returned Bessie brightly; “but I always put on my best things when I drive with you, that your daughter may do you credit;” for Bessie in her heart thought her father the handsomest man in Cliffe; and indeed many people admired the doctor’s clever, refined face, and quiet, genial manners.

The sturdy little roan trotted briskly down the lower road, as it was called, and Bessie leaned back and looked dreamily at the golden ripples that lay on the water, while the branches overhead threw flickering shadows on the road before them, until her father’s voice roused her.

“You and I are to have some talk together, I believe. Would you like to see Mrs. Sefton’s letter, Bessie? Your mother showed me the one you received from her daughter.” And as Bessie eagerly assented, he handed it to her.

“It is a very nice letter,” she observed, as soon as she had finished it; “it could not be more kindly expressed.”

“No; Mrs. Sefton is a ladylike woman, and she knows exactly what to say. It is a grand thing to have tact.” And then he paused for a moment, and continued in an amused voice, “The world is a very small place after all. I have lived long enough in it not to be surprised at running against all sorts of odd people in all sorts of odd places, but I must own I was a little taken aback when you brought Miss Sefton into my house that night.”

“You knew Mrs. Sefton when you were a young man, father?”

“I suppose I knew her fairly well, for I was engaged to her for six months.” And as Bessie started, “Well, you will think that an odd speech for a father to make to his daughter, but, you see, I know our Bessie is a reliable little woman, who can keep her tongue silent. I have my reasons for telling you this. You have always been your mother’s companion, as well as my right hand, and I would not let you go to The Grange in ignorance of the character of its inhabitants.”

“Oh, father, do you really mean me to go?”

“We will come to that presently; let me finish what I was saying. I was fool enough to engage myself to a beautiful girl, knowing her to be unsuitable in every way for a poor man’s wife, and I dare say I should have persisted in my blindness to the bitter end, if I had not been jilted by the young lady.”

“My dear father!”

“My dear little Betty, please don’t speak in that pitying tone; it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I dare say I had a bad time of it; young men are such fools; but I soon met your mother, and she healed all wounds; but if Eleanor Sartoris treated me badly, she met with her punishment. The man she married was a worthless sort of a fellow; he is dead, so I need not mind saying so now. He was handsome enough and had all the accomplishments that please women, but he could not speak the truth. I never knew a man who could lie so freely, and in other respects he was equally faulty, but Eleanor was infatuated, and she would marry him against the advice of her friends, and the first thing she found out was that he had deceived her on one point. She knew that he had married when almost a boy, and his wife had been long dead, but he kept from her that he had a son living. His excuse was that he had heard her say that nothing would induce her to undertake the duties of a stepmother, and that he feared a refusal on account of Richard. In this he had overreached himself; she never forgave the deception, and she barely tolerated the poor boy. I am afraid, from what I heard, that their short married life was not a happy one. Eleanor had a proud, jealous temper, but she was truthful by nature, and nothing was so odious in her eyes as falsehood and deceit. I can feel sorry for her, for no woman could respect a character like Sefton’s, but I have always blamed her for her hardness to her stepson. His father doted on him, and Richard was the chief subject of their dissension on his death bed. He begged his wife to be kinder to the boy, but I do not know if this appeal softened her. The property belongs, of course, to her stepson, and in a sense she and her daughter are dependent on him, but it is not a united household. I know very little about the young man, except that he is industrious and fond of out-of-door pursuits, and farms his own estate; but I hear he is a little clownish in appearance. Now we are stopping, because I have a patient to see here, but I shall not be ten minutes, and we will resume our conversation presently.”

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