"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.
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