"By the way, I am to bring a friend with me, or rather he is to stop first at Carnarvon, to hunt up somebody by the name of Rogers, whom he is very anxious to find."
"Rogers--Rogers," Bessie repeated, thoughtfully. "Seems to me I have heard that name before. Who is Neil's friend, I wonder? I am sorry he is coming, for that means another fire, and another plate at table, and we are so poor. Neil is right; it is not so easy to be poor and happy as one might think," and the look of care habitual to Bessie's face deepened upon it, for funds were very low at Stoneleigh just then.
It was weeks since they had received anything from Daisy, and Archie's slender income would barely suffice for absolute necessaries, leaving nothing for extra fires and extra mouths to feed with plum-pudding and chicken-pie, and all the etceteras of a regular Christmas dinner such as Neil would expect.
Resuming the letter at last, Bessie read on: "I have asked him to spend a day at Stoneleigh after he has finished his business in Carnarvon, and he has accepted and will be with us at Christmas. He is an American--Grey Jerrold, from Boston--and the right sort of a fellow, too: not a bit of a cad, if he did thrash me unmercifully the first time I ever saw him. He served me just right, and we are great friends now. He was at Eton with me and at Oxford, too, and took the wind out of all our sails in both places. No sneak about him, and though he seems more English than American from having lived with us so long, he would knock me down now if I were to say a word against his star spangled banner. His father and mother are in Boston, and he has crossed, I don't know how many times, mostly, I think, to see an old Aunt Hannah, whom he seems to worship, and whose photograph he actually kissed the day he got it at Eton. Such an old fashioned woman, too, as she must be, judging from her dress and hair; but such a sweet, patient, sorry face, with an expression about the mouth like you when 'la petite madame' is under discussion. I hear she is at Monte Carlo still. A friend saw her there flirting with and fleecing an Italian count, who has quite cut out that poodle of a Hardy."
"Oh, Neil! oh, mother!" Bessie cried, and the look about her mouth, of which Neil had spoken, was pitiable to see, as the lips quivered and the great tears sprang to her eyes and stood on her long lashes. "Fleecing an Italian count!" she whispered. "If mother were to send us money now, I do not believe I would touch it."