“Mahomedans never change, and never will change, until, having read history and science, they see themselves from another point of view. You can assure your friend that they, too, have their missionaries, who adopt street preaching and tract distribution, and that they may be found in countless bazaars, expounding the teaching of the Prophet. They make many converts, and among them some Christians! Pray tell the lady _that_.” “I shall do nothing of the kind, Uncle Pelham.” “Among the Hindoos, whose caste is so firm, the social conditions of the lower orders is so wretched and unchangeable, that numbers become Mahomedans, where all are alike, where severe asceticism is not necessary, and there are no outcasts, but scope for the indulgence of any ambition. There is your aunt’s old ayah; she does not know _what_ she is. She attends Hindoo and Mahomedan feasts impartially. She believes alike in Vishnu and Mahomed; she also believes in whisky schrab!” “My dear Pel, how can you say such a thing!” broke in his wife, indignantly. “Don’t be stuffing the child’s head with such dry rubbish, but just look at _this_.” And Mrs. Brande, who had risen, solemnly walked over and held out a photograph of a girl, and said, “Look here, P.; never mind your missionary talk, but tell me what you think of _that_? Who do you think she is?” “An angel to look at, at any rate,” was the emphatic reply. “Yes, did you ever see so perfect a face? Well, she is your own niece--Fairy Gordon?” Yes, it was indeed Fairy--an exquisite picture of her: soft, _posée_, touched up, showing the best side of Fairy’s face--with Fairy’s best expression. “My dear,” said Mrs. Brande, turning to Honor, “I would not exchange you for anybody, but _she_ is the beauty of the family, and no two words about it. Eh, P.?” “Beautiful indeed,” he assented; “but I prefer Honor’s bright little phiz and big inquiring eyes.” He was a judge of countenance, and even a flattering photograph could not deceive him; there was a cruel pinched expression about the beauty’s lips. “Come and look at this, Mr. Jervis,” cried the proud aunt. “Is she not lovely?” “Yes ... lovely,” he responded. She was undoubtedly “the pretty one,” though he secretly agreed with Mr. Brande. “I wonder what Mrs. Langrishe would say to her--eh? Eh, Honor?” What indeed! Honor flushed violently and smiled constrainedly, but made no reply. “And here is her nice little letter,” continued Mrs. Brande, dropping it into Honor’s lap. “I must send her something, poor child.” The missive was written over two sheets, in an enormous hand--a hand that would have befitted a giantess--and ran as follows:-- “DEAR AUNT SARA,