“My Dear Son: I enclose the money you desire for your journey home, which Nellie and I have managed to save during the last three months. I can hardly realize that I am to see you again after almost ten years.” Vickers looked up. “Why, the poor beggar,” he said, “he was just going home after ten years. I call that hard luck.” And then his eye lit on the date of the letter, which was many months old. “By Jove, no. He took the old man’s money and blew it in, instead. Isn’t that the limit? But who is Nellie?” The doctor shrugged his shoulders, and Vickers returned to the perusal of the papers. “Bills, bills, notes, letters from women. I seem to recognize that hand, but no matter. Ah, here is another from home. Ten years old, too.” The writing was feminine, neat, and childish. “Dear Bob,” it said, “if you left home on my account, you need not have gone. “Your affectionate cousin, “NELLIE.” There was a moment’s silence. A feeling of envy swept over Vickers. The mere sight of an American stamp made him homesick; the mail from the States never brought him anything; and yet somewhere at home there was a girl who would write like that to a worthless creature like Lee. “They were using those stamps when I was at home,” he said reminiscently, “but they don’t use them any more.” “Indeed,” said the doctor, without very much interest. “Ten years ago, just fancy it,” Vickers went on, turning the letter over. “And he did not go back. I would have, in his place. If I had an affectionate cousin Nellie--I have always been rather fond of the name Nellie. Can you understand his not going?” “We do not understand the Anglo-Saxon, nor pretend to,” returned the doctor. “You know very well, Don Luis, you all seem strangely cold to us.”