“‘There is generally a fair sprinkling of young men, and of course we entertain a great deal. She shall have a nice quiet pony, and a new _rickshaw_, so we shall expect her without fail. Love to your daughters, and especially to _our_ one. “‘Yours truly, “‘SARABELLA BRANDE.’ “Now, what do you think of that?” inquired Jessie, looking alternately at her two staring sisters. “I say that it is a hoax, of course! Some joke of yours, Jessie,” returned Honor, with a playful snatch at the letter. “What is all that gibberish about Uncle Pelham being a mother to one, and mother not being a blind horse, and the climatological condition of the hills, not to mention the snakes and the _beaux_? You ought to be ashamed--I could have done it better myself.” “Read it--examine the post-mark,” said Jessie, now flinging it on the table. Yes, there was no room for doubt; it was a _bona-fide_ Indian epistle. As Honor turned it over critically, she suddenly exclaimed-- “Have you seen _this_--the gem of the whole production--the postscript?” Both sisters bent forward eagerly, and there, just at the top of the last and otherwise blank sheet, was scribbled as a hasty afterthought-- “P.S.--Be sure you send the _pretty_ one.” “She must be a most original old person,” said Honor, with sparkling eyes. “And, in the name of Dr. Johnson, what is a ‘tamasha’?” “Ask me something easier,” rejoined Jessie. “Then what does mother say to this remarkable invitation?” “You might know better than to ask that!” broke in Fairy, who had been listening with evident impatience. “In this family it is, ‘What does Jessie say?’ What _do_ you say, Jess?” “I say, never refuse a good offer. It is only for twelve months; and, of course, one of us must go!” “Then, will _you_ go?” inquired Fairy, with elevated brows. “Am I the pretty one?” Jessie demanded sarcastically. “I should be bundled back by the next steamer.” “No, of course; I never thought of that,” rejoined her sister, meditatively. “I am the pretty one; there has never been any question of that--has there, girls?” “No, never,” returned Jessie, in her most matter-of-fact tone, and she and Honor exchanged stealthy glances. For some seconds Fairy seemed buried in thought, as she drew patterns on the table-cloth with a fork. At last she looked up, and exclaimed-- “It is only for twelve months as you say, Jess; twelve months soon fly round.” And she threw back her shawl, and leant her elbows on the table. “Never refuse a good offer--such as a pony, a rickshaw--whatever that is--the new dresses, the best society, the best _beaux_!” and she burst into a peal of shrill laughter, as she exclaimed, “Do you know, girls, that I think I shall go!” A pause, the result of utter stupefaction, followed this unexpected announcement.