Yours truly,

Francis Buxton.

The other compliment was also a letter from a stranger.  It was dirty and misspelt, and enclosed a bill from an undertaker; the bill came to seven pounds and the letter ran as follows: 

Honoured Miss father passed away quite peaceful last Saturday, he set store by his funeral and often told us as much sweeping a crossing had paid him pretty regular, but he left nothing as one might speak of, and so we was put to it for the funeral, as it throws back so on a house not to bury your father proper, I remember you and all he thought of you and told the undertaker to go ahead with the thing for as you was my fathers friend I hoped you would understand and excuse me.

This was from the son of our one-legged crossing-sweeper, and I need hardly say I owed him a great deal more than seven pounds.  He had taken all our love-letters, presents and messages to and fro from morning till night for years past and was a man who thoroughly understood life.

To return to my fiance, I knew things could not go on as they were; scenes bored me and I was quite incapable of sustaining a campaign of white lies; so I reassured my friends and relieved my relations by telling the young man that I could not marry him.  He gave me his beautiful mare, Molly Bawn, sold all his hunters and went to Australia.  His hair when he returned to England two years later was grey.  I have heard of this happening, but have only known of it twice in my life, once on this occasion and the other time when the boiler of the Thunderer burst in her trial trip; the engine was the first Government order ever given to my father’s firm of Humphreys & Tennant and the accident made a great sensation.  My father told me that several men had been killed and that young Humphreys’ hair had turned white.  I remember this incident very well, as when I gave Papa the telegram in the billiard room at Glen he covered his face with his hands and sank on the sofa in tears.

About this time Sir William Miller, a friend of the family, suggested to my parents that his eldest son—­a charming young fellow, since dead—­should marry me.  I doubt if the young man knew me by sight, but in spite of this we were invited to stay at Manderston, much to my father’s delight.

On the evening of our arrival my host said to me in his broad Scottish accent: 

“Margy, will you marry my son Jim?”

“My dear Sir William,” I replied, “your son Jim has never spoken to me in his life!”

Sir William:  “He is shy.”

I assured him that this was not so and that I thought his son might be allowed to choose for himself, adding: 

“You are like my father, Sir William, and think every one wants to marry.”

Sir William:  “So they do, don’t they?” (With a sly look.) “I am sure they all want to marry you.”

Margot (mischievously):  “I wonder!”