There is kite-flying in the park at Pleskow; Bethsaba is in high glee at her kite always flying straight up and remaining aloft, while Alexander's is always coming to grief. Her kite, too, is much handsomer than his. In the form of a dragon, it has two large eyes, a mouth, nose, and movable ears; while Alexander's is just a commonplace thing, made out of old scraps of manuscripts pasted together. The wide expanse affords the two grown-up children room enough to run with their kites. No eyes to see them but those of the stag on the edge of the forest. A post-chaise rolls quickly along the highway skirting the park walls; the postilion blows his horn cheerily. "I think that post-chaise must have stopped at our gate," observes Bethsaba. "So it has. It means either a guest or a letter." "Oh, I hope no guest," sighed the little wife. Newly married folk are not hospitable, as a rule. Still, somebody appeared to have come. The dvornik came out towards them from the castle. They hastily let down their kites; they must not be caught at such childish amusements. In the hurry the dragon caught in the withered bough of a pine-tree and lost one eye. "What a pity!" murmured Bethsaba, in vexation. "Now my dragon has only got one eye. Have you a scrap of paper about you to repair the damage?" "Where should I get it from? Haven't you already seized upon every vestige of paper to make your dragon with?" "Do look! Perhaps you'll find some old bill or other." Meanwhile the dvornik had come up to them. "Well, Tanaschi, what is it?" "A letter." "To whom?" Bethsaba seized the letter from the dvornik. "Oh, oh! A woman's handwriting! Take it. A love-letter. Some former flame writing to reproach you. Read it. Of course it is to make an appointment." "You are right enough. It is a woman's handwriting, but addressed to you, not to me, my dear." "To me?" cried Bethsaba, in surprise. "Who can have written to me? Perhaps Zeneida?" "No, it's not Zeneida. I know her handwriting." "Perhaps too well. But who else could have written to me?" And they began guessing who the writer could have been while the letter passed from one to the other. At last Alexander proposed that the best way to see who had written the letter would be to open it. As they saw the signature both simultaneously cried, "My godmother!" "Your godmother!" "What can she have written about?" Presently, as if it were intended for a joke, Bethsaba laughed heartily over the letter. "Ha, ha, ha! She wants me to go to the Masinka Fête! Alone! Without Alexander! 'It is to be a grand affair; the Czar and Czarina and several foreign princes will be there; I shall have an opportunity to entreat the Czar to grant Alexander permission to go back to St. Petersburg!' Ha, ha, ha! Did you hear that, Alexander Sergievitch? My godmother sends me an invitation to a ball without you! The letter could not have come at a more opportune moment--I just wanted it!"