"Here is Mr Brettison, sir," and she drew back to admit a spare looking, grey man, dressed in dark tweed, who removed his soft felt hat and threw it, with a botanist's vasculum and a heavy oaken stick, upon an easy-chair, as he watched the departure of the porter's wife before turning quickly and, with tears in his eyes, grasping Stratton's hands and shaking them warmly. "My dear boy," he said, in a voice full of emotion, "God bless you! Happiness to you! God bless you both!" "My dear old friend!" cried Stratton. "Thank you; for Myra, too. But come, you've repented. You will join the wedding party after all?" "I? Oh, no, no, my boy. I'm no wedding guest. Why, Malcolm, I should be a regular ancient mariner without the glittering eye." "I am sorry. I should have liked you to be present," said Stratton warmly. "I know it, my boy, I know it; but no; don't press me. I couldn't bear it. I was to have been married, my dear boy. I was young, if not as handsome as you. But,"--there was a pause--"she died," he added in a whisper. "I could not bear to come." "Mr Brettison!" "There," cried the visitor with forced gaiety, "just what I said. No, my dear Malcolm. No, no, my boy. I'm better away." Stratton was silent, and his neighbour went on hastily: "I heard you packing, and knocking about, but I wouldn't disturb you, my dear boy. I'm off, too: a week's collecting in the New Forest. Write to me very soon, and my dear love to your sweet wife--an angel, Malcolm--a blessing to you, my boy. Tell her to let you gather a few of the mountain flowers to send me. Ask her to pick a few herself and I'll kiss them as coming from her." "I'll tell her, sir." "That's right; and, Malcolm, my boy, I'm quite alone in the world, where I should not have been now if you had not broken in my door and came and nursed me back to life, dying as I was from that deadly fever." "My dear Mr Brettison, if ever you mention that trifle of neighbourly service again we are no longer friends," cried Stratton. "Trifle of neighbourly service!" said the old man, laying his hands affectionately upon the other's shoulders. "You risked your life, boy, to save that of one who would fain have died. But Heaven knows best, Malcolm, and I've been a happier man since, for it has seemed to me as if I had a son. Now, one word more and I am going. I've a train to catch. Tell your dear young wife that Edward Brettison has watched your career--that the man who was poor and struggled so hard to place himself in a position to win her will never be poor again: for I have made you my heir, Malcolm, and God bless you, my boy. Good-bye; write soon." "Mr Brettison!" cried Stratton, in amaze. "Hush!" The door opened, and Mrs Brade reappeared with a black reticule in one hand and a ruddy telegram envelope in the other. "I see, wanted already," said the old man, hastily catching up hat, stick, and collecting box, and hurrying out without another word.