“P.S.—When you write don’t tell me all about Switzerland and snow-covered mountains and blue, bottomless lakes, etc., which I can read in books. Tell me about yourself and what you are doing and thinking—especially what you are thinking. “P.P.S.—That man in armour isn’t really good-looking; he has a squint. Also he puts scent upon his hair and can’t spell. I know because he tried to write a bit of poetry on my programme and got it all wrong.” When she had finished this somewhat laboured epistle Isobel remembered that she had forgotten to ask Godfrey to write down his address. Bethinking her that it would be known to Mrs. Parsons, she took it round to the Abbey House, proposing to add it there. As it happened Mrs. Parsons was out, so she left it with the housemaid, who promised faithfully to give it to her when she returned, with Isobel’s message as to writing the address on the sealed envelope. In order that she might not forget, the maid placed it on a table by the back door. By ill luck, however, presently through that door, came, not Mrs. Parsons, but the Rev. Mr. Knight. He saw the letter addressed to Godfrey Knight, Esq., and, though he half pretended to himself that he did not, at once recognized Isobel’s large, upright hand. Taking it from the table he carried it with him into his study and there contemplated it for a while. “That pernicious girl is communicating with Godfrey,” he said to himself, “which I particularly wish to prevent.” A desire came upon him to know what was in the letter, and he began to argue with himself as to his “duty”—that was the word he used. Finally he concluded that as Godfrey was still so young and so open to bad influences from that quarter, this duty clearly indicated that he should read the letter before it was forwarded. In obedience to this high impulse he opened and read it, with the result that by the time it was finished there was perhaps no more angry clergyman in the British Empire. The description of himself looking as though he had eaten a hatful of crab-apples; the impious remarks about the Thirty-nine Articles; the suggestion that Godfrey, instead of going to bed as he had ordered him to do that evening, was wandering about London at midnight; the boldly announced intention of the writer of not going to church—indeed, every word of it irritated him beyond bearing. “Well,” he said aloud, “I do not think that I am called upon to spend twopence-halfpenny” (for Isobel had forgotten the stamp) “in forwarding such poisonous trash to a son whom I should guard from evil. Hateful girl! At any rate she shall have no answer to this effusion.” Then he put the letter into a drawer which he locked.