sitting there with the troubled look on her
face, because he was leaving, lest he should turn back and, taking her
in his arms, say the words he must not say.

And so he went his way to busy London, and heard from Blanche that the
white-haired old earl in the north of England was dead, and the puny
Dick master in his place.

"Only two between you and a fortune," seemed whispered in his ear, and
with it came a thought of Bessie sitting under the old yew tree in the
summer sunshine and looking after him.

"Murderer!" he said to himself again, "do you wish Dick dead and Hal,
too, the finest fellow that ever lived, for the sake of a young girl
whose mind is full of a prig like Neil McPherson?"

And so he put all thoughts of Bessie aside, and wore mourning for his
great-uncle, and wrote a letter to the new heir, Sir Dick, and sent his
love to Flossie, and went no more to Stoneleigh. But Neil was coming
again, and his letter to Bessie was as follows:

"LONDON, Dec, 20th, 18--,

"MY SWEETEST COUSIN: and when I say that I mean it, for though
Blanche is just as much my cousin as you are, and is in her way
sweet as sugar, she bears no comparison to you, my little Dot, as I
used to call you when you were a wee thing and let me kiss you as
often as I liked. My Welsh rose I call you now, when you wear long
dresses and will not let me kiss you, or at least will not kiss me
as you did before you made that trip to London two years ago last
June. Something happened to you then which shot you up into a woman,
and I lost my little Bessie. But how absurdly I am writing, as if I
were your lover, instead of your cousin, and as good as engaged to
Blanche. I suppose mother would break her heart if I did not marry
that L10,000 a year. I used to say I wouldn't, you know; but, _nous
verrons_; what I wish to tell you now is, that I am coming to
Stoneleigh for the holidays. Mother wishes me to go with her and
Blanche to some stupid place near Edinburgh, and we have had a jolly
row about it, but I prefer Stoneleigh and you; so you may expect me
the 23rd, on the evening train from Bangor; and please tell old
Dorothy to have a roasting fire in my room, which you know is
something after the stable order, and oh, if she would have
plum-pudding and chicken-pie for dinner! You see, I make myself
quite at home at Stoneleigh, and I have a weakness for the good