Mr. Fairfax was in good-humor now, and recovered from his momentary loss
of self-possession at the sight of his granddaughter so thoroughly grown
up. Also, election business at Norminster was going as he would have it,
and bowling smoothly along in the quiet, early evening he had time to
think of Elizabeth, sitting bolt upright in the carriage beside him. She
had a pretty, pensive air, for which he saw no cause--only the
excitement of novelty staved off depression--and in his sarcastic vein,
with doubtful compliment, he said, "I did not expect to see you grown so
tall, Elizabeth. You look as healthy as a milkmaid."
She was very quick and sensitive of feeling. She understood him
perfectly, and replied that she _was_ as healthy as a milkmaid. Then she
reverted to her wistful contemplation of the landscape, and tried to
think of that and not of herself, which was too pathetic.
This country was not so lovely as the Forest. It had only the beauty of
high culture. Human habitations were too wide-scattered, and the
trees--there were no very great trees, nor any blue glimpses of the sea.
Nevertheless, when the carriage turned into the domain at a pretty
rustic lodge, the overarching gloom of an avenue of limes won Bessie's
admiration, and a few fir trees standing in single grace near the ruins
of the abbey, which they had to pass on their way to the house, she
found almost worthy to be compared with the centenarians of the Forest.
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