“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 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