Leonard Ross was betrothed to
Rosamond Bellew. Her father was surprised,
at first:—acute perceptions do not always
accompany a shrewd intellect, and the
merchant might have gone on not seeing that
which was before his eyes, to the end of his
days. He was surprised, and at first, scarcely
pleased, perhaps. His clerk suddenly
transformed into a millionnaire was an idea that
he could not at once get accustomed to. That
the millionnaire should become his son-in-law
was more easy of acceptation. Still it was
all very strange. He was confounded, too, by
his daughter's frank, almost proud, avowal
of her love for Leonard. Of course, no
objections could be urged: he gave his
consent. But it was some time before he grew
easy under the new state of things. It was
curious; puzzling; perplexing, he thought,
that Leonard Ross should be a rich man—
able to marry his daughter.

To Rosamond and Leonard it never
seemed strange or new. They were
very happy. That golden fortnight had
held for them riches enough to dower many
a long life. Existence is more evenly balanced
than we think. Perhaps we all drink nectar
sometimes; only to some it comes drop by
drop, sweetening the daily draught; while
others quaff it from the full goblet in one
draught and live, thereafter, on the
remembered glory.

At the fortnight's end Leonard was to go
down to Blishford, the large town near which
his property lay, and where his uncle had
died, to take possession of the estate, and to
arrange various legal matters in connection,
not only with it, but with his approaching
marriage. Two weddings would take place
early in the spring. Agnes was to be claimed
by her sailor lover, who would then return
from the West Indies, and Rosamond and
Leonard were to be married at the same time.
The fond dream of many, many years was to
be realised; and the birthplace of Leonard
was to be the dear home to which he would
take his bride. He described it to her, again
and again, and sketched faithful vignettes of
well-remembered places on stray scraps of
paper, all of which she kept and treasured as
the costliest works of art. She listened, never
tired—asking question upon question with
the persistency of an interest that could never
be exhausted, for it arose out of a depth of
tenderness that could never be fathomed.

But—at the fortnight's end, Leonard was
to go. The time came, and he went. Only
for a week—a week would suffice for every-
thing, and he was to be back at Christmas-
time. It was scarcely like a parting
Rosamond said; although her lip quivered
like a grieved child's, and her eyes shone
through large tears she tried hard to
conceal.

Nevertheless, whether at first or at last,
separation brings with it the inevitable
penalty of suffering, and love will not be
constrained into submission. So Rosamond
ran into her little fairy bower and could not
be won thence, even by Agnes; who, it had
been planned, was to stay with her during
Leonard's absence, and who would fain have
soothed the passionate grief away.

Meanwhile Leonard pursued his journey;
thoughts, memories, and hopes, thronging his
brain; new feelings and old, stirring at his
heart. Verily there can be few things,

                   Sweeter than the dream
                Dreamed by a happy man.

Great resolves mixed themselves with those
happy hopes; ardent yearnings for the future,
yearnings in which self was the beginning
but not the end of aspiration.

So he went on his way—through the long
railway journey, to the great, looming, London-
like town near which was his destination.
Business, now, grows thick upon him—we
may leave him for awhile:

We may leave him sitting in the old oak-
panelled parlour, with its quaint furniture,
its massive chairs and table, and carved
bureau; the room that had been his uncle's
study, and where, as the grave housekeeper
informs him, her master transacted all his
business. Large and various must that
business have been. The management of the
huge property, which chiefly consisted of
houses in Blishford, was only part of it. He
still kept up his connection with the
merchant's house in Calcutta wherein he
had originally made his fortune; he had
large speculations afloat, grand schemes,
even at the very time of his death—when
paralysis cut short in one instant all the
old man's hopes and ambitions for ever.
Leonard, during the days he passed in that
old house, thought often with much marvelling
as to the manner of man his unknown
uncle had been. He asked many questions of
the demure housekeeper.

"He was a hard gentleman, sir, though I
say it. Many a time, in the bad winters,
with fever about, and half Blishford a'most
driven to famine, he's been begged of for
money to help the poor; and he, out of all
his wealth, would never give a fraction. And
his poor tenants in some o' them miserable
courts and places—where a body hardly likes
to go, they're so foul and wretched—if in the
worst of times they were backward with
their rent, it fared sorely with them."

Leonard heard and mused within himself,
gravely and sadly, for a long time as he
pursued his task of examining the papers,
letters, deeds and memoranda, which had
been kept for the heir's arrival, with the
lawyer's seal affixed upon the locks of the
drawers which held them.

So, in the old oak-panelled parlour, with
the bronze lamp shedding a flickering light
on the carved bureau, and the thoughtful face
bent over it with the firelight glowing in the
wide grate, and the polished walls shining