"Did papa say that, Edward?" she whispered; "did he really say that?"
"Did he really say what, darling?"
"That he left me to you as a legacy?"
"He did indeed, Polly," answered the young man. "I'll bring you the letter to–morrow."
And the next day he showed Mary Marchmont the yellow sheet of letter–paper and the faded writing, which had once been black and wet under her dead father's hand. Mary looked through her tears at the old familiar Oakley–street address, and the date of the very day upon which Edward Arundel had breakfasted in the shabby lodging. Yes––there were the words: "The legacy of a child's helplessness is the only bequest I can leave to the only friend I have."
"And you shall never know what it is to be helpless while I am near you, Polly darling," the soldier said, as he refolded his dead friend's epistle. "You may defy your enemies henceforward, Mary––if you have any enemies. O, by–the–bye, you have never heard any thing of that Paul Marchmont, I suppose?"
"Papa's cousin––Mr Marchmont the artist?"
"Yes."
"He came to the reading of papa's will."
"Indeed! and did you see much of him?"