But I would like to see you once more, my precious young lady, before I go. I have cried about you often and often, and I always pray for you day and night--I did so specially that first night when you went away--that God would guard and protect you. And He did, didn’t He, or you would not now be writing to old Susan so peacefully? "You ask about Mr. Bernard Cameron. Don’t think any more of him, lovey. I have heard on the best authority that he is going to marry a rich young lady at Doncaster. It is his mother’s doing, no doubt; she always hankered after riches, and while he has been ill she has had him to talk to morning, noon, and night--and this is the result. So don’t think any more of him, dear Miss Doris, but look out for a good, honourable gentleman, and don’t marry at all unless you find him. "Please excuse bad writing--I know my spelling is all right, for I always was a good speller--and accept my love and duty. "Your faithful servant, "SUSAN GAUNT." There was no letter from Bernard; no letter, though Doris waited for it many days. It seemed clear, therefore, that he must be going to marry the young lady at Doncaster, of whom Susan wrote; and that being so, and poverty and starvation weighing heavily in the balance against prospective wealth and every comfort that money can give, Doris yielded at length to Sinclair’s persistent urging, and consented to become his wife. *CHAPTER XX.* *THE WELCOME LEGACY.* All things come round to him who will but wait. _Tales of a Wayside Inn_. "Late for breakfast again, Bernard! It’s idle you are! Bone idle, that’s what it is!" Mrs. Cameron’s tones were angry, and when angry they were very shrill. Bernard, who had entered the room languidly, did not hasten to reply, but stood leaning wearily against the mantelpiece. His face was pale, his eyes heavy and a little bloodshot; he looked unhappy and as if he had passed a sleepless night, which, indeed, was the case; but he had not spirit enough to plead that as an excuse for his lateness. Instead, he glanced at the clock, murmuring that it was scarcely half-past eight. "And late enough, too!" cried Mrs. Cameron, who was pouring out the coffee as she spoke. "I told you breakfast would be at eight. You are quite well now, and must get out of the lazy, lackadaisical habits of an invalid." "Yes, yes! All right." Bernard took his place at the table opposite his mother, looking askance at the large plate of porridge set there for him to eat. "Your porridge will be half cold by this time," continued the scolding voice. "It is." Bernard just tasted it, and pushed the plate away. "I cannot eat porridge yet," he said. "You must try. Porridge made as Jane makes it, of good Scotch oatmeal, is just what you want to put some life in you." Bernard did not think so. He drank his coffee disconsolately.