"I have been speaking to her of one, Miss Cattledon," said Dr. Knox, catching the words as he came in. "I think she will accept it." "Where is it?" asked Cattledon. "At Lefford." "She shall never go back to Rose Villa with my consent, sir. And I think you ought to know better than to propose it to her." "To Rose Villa! Certainly not: at least at present. Rose Villa will be hers, though; the only little settlement that can be made upon her." The words struck Cattledon silent. But she could see through a brick wall. "Perhaps _you_ want her, young man?" "Yes, I do. I should have wanted her before this, but that I had no home to offer her. I have one now; and good prospects too. Janet has had it all explained to her. Perhaps you will allow me to explain it to you, Miss Cattledon." "I'm sure it's more than Janet Carey could have expected," said Cattledon, growing pacified as she listened. "She's a poor thing. I hope she will make a good wife." "I will risk it, Miss Cattledon." "And she shall be married from my house," struck in Miss Deveen. "Johnny, if you young Oxford blades can get here for it, I will have you all to the wedding." And we did get there for it: I, and Tod, and William Whitney, and saw the end, so far, of Janet Carey. HELEN WHITNEY'S WEDDING. I. "What a hot day it is going to be!" cried the Squire, flinging back his thin light coat, and catching the corner of the breakfast-cloth with it, so that he upset the salt-cellar. "Yesterday was about the hottest day _I_ ever felt, but to-day will be worse." "And all the jam-making about!" added Mrs. Todhetley. "You need not go near the jam-making." "I must to-day. Last year Molly made a mistake in the quantity of sugar: and never could be brought to acknowledge it." "Molly---- There's the letter-man," broke off the Squire. "Run, lad." I went through the open glass-doors with all speed. Letters were not everyday events with us. In these fast and busy days a hundred letters are written where one used to be in those. It was one only that the man handed me now. "That's all this morning, Mr. Johnny." I put it beside the Squire's plate, telling him it was from Sir John Whitney. There was no mistaking Sir John's handwriting: the popular belief was that he used a skewer. "From Whitney, is it," cried he. "Where are my spectacles? What's the postmark! Malvern? Oh, then, they are there still." "_Belle Vue Hotel, Malvern._ "DEAR TODHETLEY,