James Dugdale stood by the fire for a few minutes, then glancing round at the breakfast-table, he muttered, "The post is not in--behind time--the snow, I suppose," and went to the large window, against which he leaned, idly watching the birds as they hopped about on the snow-laden ground, and extracted bits of leaves and dry morsels of twig from its niggard breast. He was still standing there when Mr. Carteret came in, closely followed by a servant with a small tray laden with letters, which he duly sorted and placed before their respective claimants. There was a large foreign letter among those addressed to James Dugdale, but he let it lie beside his plate unnoticed; all his attention was for the letter which Mr. Carteret was deciphering with laborious difficulty. "From Margaret," said the old gentleman at length, taking off his double glasses with an air of relief, and laying them on the table. "She _does_ write such a scratchy hand, it quite makes my head ache to read it." "Where are they now?" asked James. "At Sorrento. Margaret writes in great delight about the place and the climate, and the people they meet there, and the beauty and health of little Gerty. And Baldwin adds a postscript about the _cicale_, which is just what I wanted to know; he considers there's no doubt about their chirp being much stronger and more prolonged than our grasshopper's, and he has carefully examined the articulations." "Does Margaret say anything about her own health?" interrupted James, so impatiently that he felt ashamed of himself the next minute, although Mr. Carteret took the sudden suppression of his favourite topic with perfect meekness, as he made answer: "Yes, a good deal. Here it is, read the letter for yourself, James,"--and he handed over the document to his companion, and betook himself to the perusal of a scientific review,--a production rarer in those days than now,--and for whose appearance Mr. Carteret was apt to look with eagerness. James Dugdale read the letter which Margaret Baldwin had written to her father from end to end, and then he turned back to the beginning, and read it through again. No document which could come from any human hand could have such a charm and value for him as one of her letters.