things of this world. I do not believe I was cut out for a poor man.
I might be poor and honest, but never poor and happy.

"By the way, I am to bring a friend with me, or rather he is to stop
first at Carnarvon, to hunt up somebody by the name of Rogers, whom
he is very anxious to find."

"Rogers--Rogers," Bessie repeated, thoughtfully. "Seems to me I have
heard that name before. Who is Neil's friend, I wonder? I am sorry he is
coming, for that means another fire, and another plate at table, and we
are so poor. Neil is right; it is not so easy to be poor and happy as
one might think," and the look of care habitual to Bessie's face
deepened upon it, for funds were very low at Stoneleigh just then.

It was weeks since they had received anything from Daisy, and Archie's
slender income would barely suffice for absolute necessaries, leaving
nothing for extra fires and extra mouths to feed with plum-pudding and
chicken-pie, and all the etceteras of a regular Christmas dinner such as
Neil would expect.

Resuming the letter at last, Bessie read on:

"I have asked him to spend a day at Stoneleigh after he has finished
his business in Carnarvon, and he has accepted and will be with us
at Christmas. He is an American--Grey Jerrold, from Boston--and the
right sort of a fellow, too: not a bit of a cad, if he did thrash me
unmercifully the first time I ever saw him. He served me just right,
and we are great friends now. He was at Eton with me and at Oxford,
too, and took the wind out of all our sails in both places. No sneak
about him, and though he seems more English than American from
having lived with us so long, he would knock me down now if I were
to say a word against his star spangled banner. His father and
mother are in Boston, and he has crossed, I don't know how many
times, mostly, I think, to see an old Aunt Hannah, whom he seems to
worship, and whose photograph he actually kissed the day he got it
at Eton. Such an old fashioned woman, too, as she must be, judging
from her dress and hair; but such a sweet, patient, sorry face, with
an expression about the mouth like you when 'la petite madame' is
under discussion. I hear she is at Monte Carlo still. A friend saw
her there flirting with and fleecing an Italian count, who has quite
cut out that poodle of a Hardy."

"Oh, Neil! oh, mother!" Bessie cried, and the look about her mo