"But what do the papers--what does the Cooing Column say ?" "The Cooing Column says that one of the world's greatest millionaires, Mr.David Helmsley, who has been abroad for nearly a year for the benefit of his health, will return to his mansion in Carlton House Terrace this month for the 'season.'" "Is that all ?" "That's all.

Mary, my bonnie Mary,"-- and Angus put an arm tenderly round the waist of his promised wife--"Your husband may, perhaps--only perhaps!--become famous--but you'll never, never be a Mrs.Millionaire!" She laughed and blushed as he kissed her.
"I don't want ever to be rich," she said.

"I'd rather be poor!" They went out into the little garden then, with their arms entwined,--and Helmsley, seated in his chair under the rose-covered porch, watched them half in gladness, half in trouble.

Was he doing well for them, he wondered?
Or ill?
Would the possession of wealth disturb the idyll of their contented lives, their perfect love?
Almost he wished that he really were in very truth the forlorn and homeless wayfarer he had assumed to be,--wholly and irrevocably poor! That night in his little room, when everything was quiet, and Mary was soundly sleeping in the attic above him, he rose quietly from his bed, and lighting a candle, took pen and ink and made a few additions to the letter of instructions which accompanied his will.

Some evenings previously, when Mary and Angus had gone out for a walk together, he had taken the opportunity to disburden his "workman's coat" of all the banknotes contained in the lining, and, folding them up in one parcel, had put them in a sealed envelope, which envelope he marked in a certain fashion, enclosing it in the larger envelope which contained his will.