Her husband still turned his eyes over the shop, whistling half under his breath. “We ain’t going up to Chamouni. We’re going back to New York City straight.” “Well, I’m glad to hear that,” she made answer. “Don’t you suppose we want to take something home?” “If we’re going straight back I must have that bracelet,” her daughter declared. “Only I don’t want a velvet case; I want a satin case.” “I must bid you good-bye,” I observed all irrelevantly to the ladies. “I’m leaving Geneva in an hour or two.” “Take a good look at that bracelet, so you’ll know it when you see it,” was hereupon Miss Sophy’s form of farewell to me. “She’s bound to have something!” her mother almost proudly attested. Mr. Ruck still vaguely examined the shop; he still just audibly whistled. “I’m afraid he’s not at all well,” I took occasion to intimate to his wife. She twisted her head a little and glanced at him; she had a brief but pregnant pause. “Well, I must say I wish he’d improve!” “A satin case, and a nice one!” cried Miss Ruck to the shopman. I bade her other parent good-bye. “Don’t wait for me,” he said, sitting there on his stool and not meeting my eye. “I’ve got to see this thing through.” I went back to the Pension Beaurepas, and when an hour later I left it with my luggage these interesting friends had not returned. A BUNDLE OF LETTERS I FROM MISS MIRANDA HOPE IN PARIS TO MRS. ABRAHAM C. HOPE AT BANGOR MAINE _September_ 5, 1879. MY DEAR MOTHER, I’ve kept you posted as far as Tuesday week last, and though my letter won’t have reached you yet I’ll begin another before my news accumulates too much. I’m glad you show my letters round in the family, for I like them all to know what I’m doing, and I can’t write to every one, even if I do try to answer all reasonable expectations. There are a great many unreasonable ones, as I suppose you know—not yours, dear mother, for I’m bound to say that you never required of me more than was natural. You see you’re reaping your reward: I write to you before I write to any one else. There’s one thing I hope—that you don’t show any of my letters to William Platt. If he wants to see any of my letters he knows the right way to go to work. I wouldn’t have him see one of these letters, written for circulation in the family, for anything in the world. If he wants one for himself he has got to write to me first. Let him write to me first and then I’ll see about answering him. You can show him this if you like; but if you show him anything more I’ll never write to you again.