She
felt very lonely and unfriended; she wished that her grandfather had
said he was glad to have her at Abbotsmead, instead of telling her that
she had a _right_ to be there; but she was also very tired, and sleep
soon prevailed over both sweet and bitter fancies. Premature resolutions
she made none; she had been warned against them by Madame Fournier as
mischievous impediments to making the best of life, which is so much
less often "what we could wish than what we must even put up with."
CHAPTER XVIII.
_THE NEXT MORNING._
Perplexities and distressed feelings notwithstanding, Bessie Fairfax
awoke at an early hour perfectly rested and refreshed. In the east the
sun was rising in glory. A soft, bluish haze hung about the woods, a
thick dew whitened the grass. She rose to look out of the window.
"It is going to be a lovely day," she said, and coiled herself in a
cushioned chair to watch the dawn advancing.
All the world was hushed and silent yet. Slowly the light spread over
the gardens, over the meadows and cornfields, chasing away the shadows
and revealing the hues of shrub and flower. A reach of the river stole
into view, and the red roof of an old mill on its banks. Then there was
a musical, monotonous, reiterated call not far off which roused the
cattle, and brought them wending leisurely towards the milking-shed. The
crowing of cocks near and more remote, the chirping of little birds
under the eaves, began and increased.
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