Bessie acceded with alacrity. Castlemount was not the building of one generation, but it owed its chief glories to its present master. Mr. Chiverton had found it a spacious country mansion, and had converted it into a palace of luxury and a museum of art—one reason why Morte had thriven and Chiver-Chase become almost without inhabitant. Bessie Fairfax was half bewildered amongst its magnificences, but its winter-garden was to her the greatest wonder of all. She was not, however, sufficiently acclimatized to an artificial temperature to enjoy it long. "It is delicious, but as we are not hot-house ferns, a good stretch over that upland would be, perhaps, more delicious still: it is cold, but the sun shines," she said after two turns under the moist glass.
"We must not change the air too suddenly," Mrs. Chiverton objected. "The wind is very boisterous."
"There is a woman at work in it; is it your widow?" Bessie asked, pointing down a mimic orange-grove.
"Yes—poor thing! how miserably she is clothed! I must send her out one of my knitted kerchiefs."
"Oh yes, do," said Bessie; and the woollen garment being brought, she was deputed to carry it to the weeding woman.
On closer view she proved to be a lean, laborious figure, with an anxious, weather-beaten face, which cleared a little as she received the mistress's gift. It was a kerchief of thick gray wool, to cross over in front and tie behind.
"It will be a protection against the cold for my chest; I suffered with the inflammation badly last spring," she said, approving it.
"Put it on at once; it is not to be only looked at," said Bessie.
The woman proceeded to obey, but when she wanted to tie it behind she found a difficulty from a stiffness of one shoulder, and said, "It is the rheumatics, miss; one catches it being out in the wet."
"Let me tie it for you," said Bessie.