y confines of sleep,
which are the only refuge to the lacerated heart; and then the weapon of
time on the mantelpiece would clash on the shield of the past, and
she was wide awake again. At last, in desperation, she got out of bed,
hurried to the fireplace, caught the little sharp-tongued recorder in a
nervous grasp, and stopped it.

As she was about to get into bed again, she saw a pile of letters lying
on the table near her pillow. In her agitation she had not noticed
them, and the devoted Heaver had not drawn her attention to them.
Now, however, with a strange premonition, she quickly glanced at the
envelopes. The last one of all was less aristocratic-looking than the
others; the paper of the envelope was of the poorest, and it had a
foreign look. She caught it up with an exclamation. The handwriting was
that of her cousin Lacey.

She got into bed with a mind suddenly swept into a new atmosphere,
and opened the flimsy cover. Shutting her eyes, she lay still for a
moment--still and vague; she was only conscious of one thing, that a
curtain had dropped on the terrible pictures she had seen, and that her
mind was in a comforting quiet. Presently she roused herself, and turned
the letter over in her hand. It was not long--was that because its news
was bad news? The first chronicles of disaster were usually brief! She
smoothed the paper out-it had been crumpled and was a little soiled-and
read it swiftly. It ran:

DEAR LADY COUSIN--As the poet says, "Man is born to trouble as the
sparks fly upward," and in Egypt the sparks set the stacks on fire
oftener than anywhere else, I guess. She outclasses Mexico as a
"precious example" in this respect. You needn't go looking for
trouble in Mexico; it's waiting for you kindly. If it doesn't find
you to-day, well, manana. But here it comes running like a native
to his cooking-pot at sunset in Ramadan. Well, there have been
"hard trials" for the Saadat. His cotton-mills were set on fire-
can't you guess who did it? And now, down in Cairo, Nahoum runs
Egypt; for a messenger that got through the tribes worrying us tells
us that Kaid is sick, and Nahoum the Armenian says, you shall, and
you shan't, now. Which is another way of saying, that between us
and the front door of our happy homes there are rattlesnakes that
can sting--Nahoum's arm is long, and his traitors are crawling under
the canvas of our tents!

I'm not complaining for my