See, here is his telegram."

At this moment in ran Penfold, to tell them that the _Shannon_ was up at
Lloyd's, had anchored off Liverpool last night.

There was hearty shaking of hands, and Arthur Wardlaw was the happiest
man in London--for a little while.

"Got the telegram at Elmtrees, this morning, and came up by the first
express," said Wardlaw senior.

The telegram was from Sir Edward Rolleston. _"Reached Liverpool last
night; will be at Euston, two-fifteen."_

"Not a word from _her!"_

"Oh, there was no time to write; and ladies do not use the telegram." He
added slyly, "Perhaps she thought coming in person would do as well, or
better, eh!"

"But why does he telegraph you instead of me?"

"I am sure I don't know. What does it matter? Yes, I do know. It was
settled months ago that he and Helen should come to me at Elmtrees, so I
was the proper person to telegraph. I'll go and meet them at the station;
there is plenty of time. But, I say, Arthur, have you seen the papers?
Bartley Brothers obliged to wind up. Maple & Cox, of Liverpool, gone;
Atlantic trading. Terry & Brown suspended, International credit gone. Old
friends, some of these. Hopley & Timms, railway contractors, failed, sir;
liabilities, seven hundred thousand pounds and more."

"Yes, sir," said Arthur, pompously. "1866 will long be remembered for its
revelations of commercial morality."

The old gentleman, on this, asked his son, with excusable vanity, whether
he had done ill in steering clear of speculation; he then congratulated
him on having listened to good advice and stuck to legitimate business.
"I must say, Arthur," added be, "your books are models for any trading
firm."

Arthur winced in secret under this praise, for it occurred to him that in
a few days his father would discover those books were all a sham and the
accounts a fabrication.

However, the unpleasant topic was soon interrupted, and effectually, too;
for Michael looked in, with an air of satisfaction on his benevolent
countenance, and said, "Gentlemen, such an arrival! Here is Miss Rouse's
sweetheart, that she dreamed was drowned."

"What is the man to me?" said Arthur peevishly. He did not recognize
Wylie under that title.

"La, Mr. Arthur! why, he is the mate of the _Proserpine,_" said Penfold.

"What! Wylie! Joseph Wylie?" cried Arthur, in a sudden excitement that
contrasted strangely with his previous indifference.

"What is that?" cried Wardlaw senior; "the _P