It was early yet to say that Harry Musgrave was born under a lucky star,
but his friends did say it. He was of a most popular character, not too
wise or good to dispense with indulgence, or too modest to claim it. At
twelve he was a clumsy lad, bold, audacious, pleasant-humored, with a
high, curly, brown head, fine bright eyes, and no features to mention.
At twenty he had grown up into a tall, manly fellow, who meant to have
his share in the world if courage could capture it. Plenty of staying
power, his schoolmasters said he had, and it was the consciousness of
force in reserve that gave him much of his charm. Jealousy, envy,
emulation could find no place in him; he had been premature in nothing,
and still took his work at sober pace. He had a wonderful gift of
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.
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