A constant regret with Mrs. Carnegie (when she had a spare moment to
think of it) was her inability, from stress of annually recurring
circumstances, to afford Bessie Fairfax more of an education, and
especially that she was not learning to speak French and play on the
piano. But Bessie felt no want of these polite accomplishments. She had
no accomplished companions to put her to shame for her deficiencies. She
was fond of a book, she could write an unformed, legible hand, and add
up a simple sum. The doctor, not a bad judge, called her a shrewd,
reasonable little lass. She had mother-wit, a warm heart, and a nice
face, as sweet and fresh as a bunch of roses with the dew on them, and
he did not see what she wanted with talking French and playing the
piano; if his wife would believe him, she would go through life quite as
creditably and comfortably without any fashionable foreign airs and
graces. Thus it resulted, partly from want of opportunity, and partly
from want of ambition in herself, that Bessie Fairfax remained a rustic
little maid, without the least tincture of modern accomplishments.
Still, the doctor's wife did not forget that her dear drudge and helpful
right hand was a waif of old gentry, whose restoration the chapter of
accidents might bring about any day. Nor did she suffer Bessie to forget
it, though Bessie was mighty indifferent, and cared as little for her
gentle kindred as they cared for her. And if these gentle kindred had
increased and multiplied according to the common lot, Bessie would
probably never have been remembered by them to any purpose; she might
have married as Mr. Carnegie's daughter, and have led an obscure, happy
life, without vicissitude to the end of it, and have died leaving no
story to tell.

But many things had happened at Abbotsmead since the love-match of
Geoffry Fairfax and Elizabeth Bulmer. When Geoffry married, his brothers
were both single men. The elder, Frederick, took to himself soon after a