“Aren’t you sleepy? I’ve been here listening to the wind; the weather is something fearful. Captain Kloot is on his way from Riga....” “Oh, Father, with God’s help all will be well.” “Well, do you think I can depend on that? I know you are on intimate terms with the Almighty--” The Consul felt his courage rise at this display of good humour. “Well, to get to the point,” he began, “I came in here not to bid you good night, but to--you won’t be angry, will you, Papa?... I didn’t want to disturb you with this letter on such a festive occasion ... it came this afternoon....” “_Monsieur Gotthold, voilà!_” The old man affected to be quite unmoved as he took the sealed blue paper. “Herr Johann Buddenbrook, Senior. Personal. A careful man, your step-brother, Jean! Have I answered his second letter, that came the other day? And so now he writes me a third.” The old man’s rosy face grew sterner as he opened the seal with one finger, unfolded the thin paper, and gave it a smart rap with the back of his hand as he turned about to catch the light from the candles. The very handwriting of this letter seemed to express revolt and disloyalty. All the Buddenbrooks wrote a fine, flowing hand; but these tall straight letters were full of heavy strokes, and many of the words were hastily underlined. The Consul had drawn back a little to where the row of chairs stood against the wall; he did not sit down, as his father did not; but he grasped one of the high chair-backs nervously and watched the old man while he read, his lips moving rapidly, his brows drawn together, and his head on one side. FATHER,