“Godmother, godmother, godmother!” cried Miss Wren irritably, “I really lose all patience with you. One would think you believed in the Good Samaritan. How can you be so inconsistent?”

“Jenny dear,” began the old man gently, “it is the custom of our people to help⁠—”

“Oh! Bother your people!” interposed Miss Wren, with a toss of her head. “If your people don’t know better than to go and help Little Eyes, it’s a pity they ever got out of Egypt. Over and above that,” she added, “he wouldn’t take your help if you offered it. Too much ashamed. Wants to keep it close and quiet, and to keep you out of the way.”

They were still debating this point when a shadow darkened the entry, and the glass door was opened by a messenger who brought a letter unceremoniously addressed, “Riah.” To which he said there was an answer wanted.

The letter, which was scrawled in pencil uphill and downhill and round crooked corners, ran thus: