"Never is a long day. I shall find you out; and if I don't, you'll hear of me. I mean to be heard of, Bessie."
"Oh yes, Harry, I am sure you will. Shall you write a book? Will it be a play? They always seem to walk to London with a play in their pockets, a tragedy that the theatres won't look at; and then their troubles begin."
Young Musgrave smiled superior at Bessie's sentiment and Bessie's syntax. "There is the railway, and Oxford is on the road. I intend always to travel first-class," said he.
Bessie understood him to speak literally. "First-class! Oh, but that is too grand! In the Lives they never have much money. Some are awfully poor—starving: Savage was, and Chatterton and Otway."
"Shabby, disreputable vagabonds!" answered young Musgrave lightly.
"And Samuel Johnson and ever so many more," continued Bessie, pleading his sympathy.
"There is no honor in misery; it is picturesque to read about, but it is a sorry state in reality to be very poor. Some poets have been scamps. I shall not start as the prodigal son, Bessie, for I love not swinish company nor diet of husks."
"The prodigal came home to his father, Harry."
"So he did, but I have my doubts whether he stayed."
There was a silence. Bessie had always believed in the prodigal as a good son after his repentance. Any liberty of speculation as concerning Scripture gave her pause; it was a new thing at Beechhurst and at Brook.