"No," she replied. "I was only told of it afterwards. Mother heard papa talking loudly in his study this morning, as if he was angry with somebody, and at last she grew so uneasy she couldn't bear it any longer, and went in to see what was the matter with him. Dad was quite alone and looked as usual, only a little excited; and then, without the slightest warning, just as she entered the room, he--he changed slowly into a mule before her eyes! Anybody but mamma would have lost her head and roused the whole house." "Thank Heaven she didn't!" said Horace, fervently. "That was what I was most afraid of." "Then--oh, Horace, it _was_ you! It's no use denying it. I feel more certain of it every moment!" "Now, Sylvia!" he protested, still anxious, if possible, to keep the worst from her, "what could have put such an idea as that into your head?" "I don't know," she said slowly. "Several things last night. No one who was really nice, and like everybody else, would live in such queer rooms like those, and dine on cushions, with dreadful black slaves, and--and dancing-girls and things. You pretended you were quite poor." "So I am, darling. And as for my rooms, and--and the rest, they're all gone, Sylvia. If you went to Vincent Square to-day, you wouldn't find a trace of them!" "That only shows!" said Sylvia. "But why should you play such a cruel, and--and ungentlemanly trick on poor dad? If you had ever really loved me----!" "But I do, Sylvia, you can't really believe me capable of such an outrage! Look at me and tell me so." "No, Horace," said Sylvia frankly. "I don't believe _you_ did it. But I believe you know who _did_. And you had better tell me at once!" "If you're quite sure you can stand it," he replied, "I'll tell you everything." And, as briefly as possible, he told her how he had unsealed the brass bottle, and all that had come of it. She bore it, on the whole, better than he had expected; perhaps, being a woman, it was some consolation to her to remind him that she had foretold something of this kind from the very first. "But, of course, I never really thought it would be so awful as this!" she said. "Horace, how _could_ you be so careless as to let a great wicked thing like that escape out of its bottle?" "I had a notion it was a manuscript," said Horace--"till he came out. But he isn't a great wicked thing, Sylvia. He's an amiable old Jinnee enough. And he'd do anything for me. Nobody could be more grateful and generous than he has been." "Do you call it generous to change the poor, dear dad into a mule?" inquired Sylvia, with a little curl of her upper lip. "That was an oversight," said Horace; "he meant no harm by it. In Arabia they do these things--or used to in his day. Not that that's much excuse for him. Still, he's not so young as he was, and besides, being bottled up for all those centuries must have narrowed him rather. You must try and make allowances for him, darling."