his he
opened at once. It was in French, and ran, as translated:

"Ah! Little Brother,--I know all that has happened to you, nor did
your godmother need to wait to read about it in the journals.
Indeed, I saw it in my crystal before it happened; you with the
man hanging to your arm and the rest. But then a cloud came over
the crystal, and I could not see the end. I hoped that he would
pull you over the edge, so that in one short minute you became
nothing but a red plum-pudding at the bottom of the gulf. For you
know that the sweetest-tempered fairy godmother can be made cross
by wicked ingratitude and evil treatment. Do not think, little
Brother, that I have forgiven you for bringing that old
pasteur-fool to insult and threaten me. Not so. I pray the speerits night
and day to pay you back in your own coin, you who have insulted
them also. Indeed, it was they who arranged this little incident,
but they tell me that some other speerit interfered at the last
moment and saved you. If so, better luck next time, for do not
think you shall escape me and them. Had you been true to us you
should have had great good fortune and everything you desire in
life, including, perhaps, something that you desire most of all.
As it is, you shall have much trouble and lose what you desire
most of all. Have you been kissing that pretty Mademoiselle again
and trying to make her as bad as her mother? Well, I hope you
will, because it will hurt that old fool-pasteur. Wherever you go,
remember that eyes follow you, mine and those of the speerits.
Hate and bad luck to you, my little Brother, from your dear
godmamma, whose good heart you have so outraged. So fare ill till
you hear from me again, yes and always. Now you will guess my
name, so I need not sign it.

"P.S.--Eleanor also sends you her hate from another sphere."

This precious epistle, filled with malignity, reaching him in the midst
of so many congratulations, struck upon Godfrey like a blast of icy
wind at the zenith of a summer day. To tell the truth also, it
frightened him.

He had tried to forget all about Madame Riennes and now here she was
stabbing him from afar, for the letter bore a Venice postmark. It may
be foolish, but few of us care to be the object of a concentrated,
personal hate. Perhaps this is due to the inherited superstitions of
our race, not long emerged from the blackness of barbarism, but at
least we still