Captain Burnett had finished his troublesome piece of business, and was thinking of his return home. His friend was, metaphorically speaking, on his feet again, and Michael was now free to leave London. He had waited, however, for another day or two on Kester's account; the friendly doctor who had undertaken to look into his case had already done wonders. Kester was making rapid progress under his care, and his bright looks and evident enjoyment of his town life reconciled Michael to their long, protracted stay. 'We must certainly go back to Rutherford next week,' he observed one morning, as they sat at breakfast together. Kester had some appointment with Fred Somers that called him out early, and Captain Burnett good-naturedly left his letters unread, that he might pour out the coffee and attend to his wants. 'They will keep, and I have nothing to do this morning,' he remarked carelessly, as he took them up and laid them down again. After all, he would not be sorry to read them alone. There was an Indian letter, and one from Audrey, and several notes that were evidently invitations. When Kester had left him, he sat down in an easy-chair by the window. There was a little table beside him, with a red jar full of brown leaves and chrysanthemums. He picked out one and played with it for a moment, and then Booty jumped up uninvited and curled himself up on his knee. He read the invitations first, and then threw them aside. 'I shall be at Rutherford,' he thought; and then he opened his Indian letter. It was from a fellow-officer, and contained an amusing account of a visit he had lately paid to Calcutta. Just at the end it said: 'By the bye, somebody told me the other day that your uncle, Mr. Carlisle, was ill. He has got a nasty attack, and the doctors are shaking their heads over him. The fellow who told me--it was Donarton--mentioned that you were likely to take a lively interest in the news. Is that true, old man, or has Mr. Carlisle any nearer relative than yourself? From what I hear, he is a sort of nabob in these parts.' Captain Burnett put down this letter, and looked dreamily out of the window. Was it really so, he wondered? Major Glenyow was not the sort of fellow to mention a mere report. His uncle was by no means an old man, and once or twice a rumour of his intended marriage had reached his ears, but it had never been verified. If it were true that his uncle were in a bad way, that he should not recover, then, indeed, there was a possibility. And here, in spite of himself, Michael fell into a day-dream. If he were rich, if he had sufficient to offer a comfortable home and some of the luxuries of life to the woman he wished to make his wife, would it be right for him to speak? For years his poverty and ill-health had kept him silent; he had made no sign: he had been her faithful friend and cousin--that was all!