After writing and despatching the above epistle, over the composition of which he chuckled to himself several times, Mr. Madgin was obliged to wait, with what contentment was possible to him, the receipt of a communication from his son.  But one day passed after another without bringing news from Bon Repos, till Mr. Madgin grew fearful that some disaster had befallen both James and his scheme.  At length he made up his mind to wait two days longer, and should no letter come within that time, to start at once for Windermere.  Fortunately his anxiety was relieved and the journey rendered unnecessary by the receipt, next day, of a long letter from his son.  It was Mirpah who took it from the postman’s hand, and Mirpah took it to her father in high glee.  She knew the writing and deciphered the post-mark.  For once in his life Mr. Madgin was too agitated to read.  He put his hand to his side, and motioned Mirpah to open the letter.

“Read it,” he said in a husky voice, as she was about to hand it to him.  So Mirpah sat down near her father and read what follows:—­

                          “Bon Repos, July
                    “(some date, but I’ll be hanged if I know what).

“MY DEAR DAD,—­In some rustic nook reclining, silken tresses softly twining, Far-off bells so faintly ringing, While we list the blackbird singing, Merrily his roundelay.  There!  I composed those lines this morning during the process of shaving.  I don’t think they are very bad.  I put them at the beginning of my letter so as to make sure that you will read them, a process of which I might reasonably be doubtful had I left them for the fag end of my communication.  Learn, sir, that you have a son who is a born poet!!!

     “But now to business.

“Don’t hurry over my letter, dear dad; don’t run away with the idea that I have any grand discovery to lay before you.  My epistle will be merely a record of trifles and commonplaces, and that simply from the fact that I have nothing better to write about.  To me, at least, they seem nothing but trifles.  For you they may possess an occult significance of which I know nothing.

“In the first place.  On the day following that of your departure from Windermere, I was duly inducted by Cleon into my new duties.  They are few in number, and by no means difficult.  So far I have contrived to get through them without any desperate blunder.  Another thing I have done of which you will be pleased to hear:  I have contrived to ingratiate myself with the mulatto, and am in high favour with him.  You were right in your remarks; he is worth cultivation, in so far that he is all-powerful in our little establishment.  M. Platzoff never interferes in the management of Bon Repos.  Everything is left to Cleon; and whatever the mulatto may be in other respects, so far as I can judge he is quite worthy of the trust reposed in him.  I believe him to be thoroughly attached to his