"For Mitty," said John. "That is the person it's for; and another for Charles, with a picture in it." And a second sheet, suggestive of severe manual labour, was produced. "I see," said Mr. Goodwin, his hand laid carelessly over his mouth, "but--yes, I see. This for Charles, and this for--ahem!--Mitty. And you want them to go to-day?" "Yes." John was evidently relieved. He extracted from his trousers pocket two envelopes, not much the worse for seclusion, and laid one by each letter. One envelope was stamped. "I had two stamps," he explained; "one I put on, and the other I ate in a mistake. I licked it, and then I could not find it." "Well, we will put on another," said Mr. Goodwin, who was a person of resources. "Now, what next? Shall we put them into their envelopes?" John cautiously assented. "And perhaps you would like me to direct them for you?" "Yes." John certainly had a nice smile. "Well, here goes; we will do Charles first. Who is Charles?" "He lives with us. He brought me in the train." "Really! Well, what is his name? Charles what?" "He is not Charles anything," said John, anxiously. "That's just it; he's only Charles." Mr. Goodwin laid down the pen. He saw the difficulty. "He must have another name, Tempest," he said. "Try and think." "I _have_ thought," said John. "Before I came to you I thought. I thought in bed last night." "And don't you know Mitty's name either?" "No." John's voice was almost inaudible. "Dear me!" said Mr. Goodwin, smiling, and not realizing the gravity of the situation. "We can't put 'Mitty' on one letter, and 'Charles' on the other. That would never do, would it?" There was a moment's silence, in which hope went straight out of John's heart. If Mr. Goodwin could not see his way out of the difficulty, who could? He turned red, and then white. His harsh-featured, little face took an ugly look of acute distress. "I said I would write," he said, in a strangled voice. "I promised Charles in the pantry; it was a faithful promise." Mr. Goodwin looked up in surprise, and his manner changed. "Wait a minute," he said, eagerly; "the letters shall go. We will manage it somehow. Is Charles the butler at home?" "No; that is Mr. Parker." "What is he, then?" "He does things for Mr. Parker. Mr. Parker points, and Charles hands the plates." "Footman, perhaps?" "Yes," said John, with relief, "that's Charles." "Now," said Mr. Goodwin, with interest, "shall we put, 'The footman, Overleigh Castle,' on the envelope? Then it will be sure to reach him." "There's Francis; he's a footman, too," suggested John, but with dawning hope. "Francis might get it then. He took a kidney once!" "We will put 'Charles, the footman,' then," said Mr. Goodwin, writing it. "'Overleigh Castle,' Yorkshire. Now then, for the other." "When I write to father, what do I put at the end?" said John, his eyes still riveted on the envelope. "'J. Tempest,' and then something else." "Esquire?" suggested Mr. Goodwin.