cry.     

       Then she forgot the birds in the cart-shed, and turned to business again.     

       “Won't you read that letter?” she said. “Read it, so that I know what it says.”      

       “It's rather behind his back,” I said.     

       “Oh, never mind him,” she cried, “He's been behind my back long enough. If he never did no worse things behind my back than I do behind his, he wouldn't have cause to grumble. You read me what it says.”      

       Now I felt a distinct reluctance to do as she bid, and yet I began—“'My dear Alfred.'”      

       “I guessed that much,” she said. “Eliza's dear Alfred.” She laughed. “How do you say it in French? Eliza?”      

       I told her, and she repeated the name with great contempt—Elise.     

       “Go on,” she said. “You're not reading.”      

       So I began—“'I have been thinking of you sometimes—have you been thinking of me?'”      

       “Of several others as well, beside her, I'll wager,” said Mrs. Goyte.     

       “Probably not,” said I, and continued. “'A dear little baby was born here a week ago. Ah, can I tell you my feelings when I take my darling little brother into my arms——'”      

       “I'll bet it's his,” cried Mrs. Goyte.     

       “No,” I said. “It's her mother's.”      

       “Don't you believe it,” she cried. “It's a blind. You mark, it's her own right enough—and his.”      

       “No,” I said. “It's her mother's. 'He has sweet smiling eyes, but not like your beautiful English eyes——'”      

       She suddenly struck her hand on her skirt with a wild motion, and bent down, doubled with laughter. Then she rose and covered her face with her hand.     

       “I'm forced to laugh at the beautiful English eyes,” she said.     

       “Aren't his eyes beautiful?” I asked.     

       “Oh yes—very! Go on!—Joey dear, dee-urr Joey!”—this to the peacock.    

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