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CHAPTER XXXVIII.
_SUNDAY EVENING AT BROOK._
That still Sunday afternoon across the glowing heath to Great-Ash Ford
was most enchanting. Every step of the way was a pleasure to Bessie. And
when they came to the ford, whom should they see resting under the shade
of the trees but Harry Musgrave and young Christie? Harry's attitude was
somewhat weary. He leant on one elbow, recumbent upon the turf, and with
flat pebbles dexterously thrown made ducks and drakes upon the surface
of the shallow pool where the cattle drank. Young Christie was talking
with much earnestness--propounding some argument apparently--and neither
observed the approach of Mr. Carnegie and his companion until they were
within twenty paces. Then a sudden flush overspread Harry's face. "It
_is_ Bessie Fairfax!" said he, and sprang to his feet and advanced to
meet her. Bessie was rosy too, and her eyes dewy bright. Young Christie,
viewing her as an artist, called her to himself the sweetest and most
womanly of women, and admired her the more for her kind looks at his
friend. Harry's _ennui_ was quite routed.
"We were walking to Brook--your mother will give us a cup of tea,
Harry?" said Mr. Carnegie.
Harry was walking home to Brook too, with Christie for company; his
mother would be only too proud to entertain so many good friends. They
went along by the rippling water together, and entered the familiar
garden by the wicket into the wood.
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