The comicality of Martin consisted, in the present instance, of singing in a harsh baritone the song of the Troubadour: "Gaily the Troubadour Touched his guitar, When he was hastening Home from the war; Singing, 'From Palestine Hither I come. Ladye love! ladye love! Welcome me home.'" Mrs. Martin gave a shriek. She had the presence of mind to pop her letter into her pocket. Then she approached the window, trembling and blushing. Bo-peep uttered a huge laugh of delight, let himself in by the back way, and ran up the stairs. "Little-sing!" he said, and clasped his wife in his arms. During dinner James Martin was in high good humor, and it was not until dessert was put on the table and he had helped himself liberally to port wine, and was filling his pipe for his evening smoke, that it occurred to him to speak to his wife about Maggie. "By the way," he said, "I did a right good turn for that girl of yours, Little-sing, before I left for Liverpool. I sent her a box of clothes--two smart everyday dresses, an evening dress, and no end of fal-lals. She wrote to thank me, I suppose?" "She wrote to me, dear," said Mrs. Martin, trembling a good deal. "She was very much obliged to you." "And well she ought to be. Did she clearly understand that I sent her the things--that you had nothing to do with them?" "Oh yes, yes," said Mrs. Martin. "Won't you have some coffee, James? I'll tell Matilda to bring it in." "Coffee--fiddlestick!" said Martin; "and you know I hate to be called 'James.' Where's Bo-peep?" "You are Bo-peep," said his wife with a funny smile. "Well, then, no 'Jamesing' of me. I think it is very queer of your daughter not to reply to me when I send her expensive and handsome things. What did she say in her letter to you?" "Oh, she was very grateful, of course, Bo-peep." "Well--but--where's the letter? I may as well see it. There's stuff in that girl. I don't despair of her yet. She has a head for business. I wouldn't have your dear little head muddled with business, but your daughter's a different person. She has nothing whatever to live on except what I allow her, and unless she is to starve she has got to please me." Mrs. Martin might have said, had she not been afraid, that Maggie was certainly entitled to her own father's money; but it is to be regretted that Little-sing had not much courage. Matilda came in with the coffee, which caused a slight diversion, more particularly as it was not to Martin's taste, who desired her to take it away again, and request Horniman to send him something fit to drink. When the door was closed behind Matilda he renewed the subject of the letter. "I saw you reading something as I came along," he said. "When I peeped in at the window you had a letter in your hand. Who has been writing to you?"