"I've a great mind to cut your throat this minute. What do you
mean by meddling with my trunk?"

"I--doe--know." Outward turned Toddie's lower lip; I believe the
sight of it would move a Bengal tiger to pity, but no such thought
occurred to me just then.

"What made you do it?"

"BE--cause."

"Because what?"

"I--doe--know."

Just then a terrific roar arose from the garden. Looking out, I
saw Budge with a bleeding finger upon one hand, and my razor in
the other; he afterward explained he had been making a boat, and
that knife was bad to him. To apply adhesive plaster to the cut
was the work of but a minute, and I had barely completed this
surgical operation when Tom's gardener-coachman appeared and
handed me a letter. It was addressed in Helen's well-known hand,
and read as follows (the passages in brackets were my own
comments):--

"BLOOMDALE, June 21, 1875.

"DEAR HARRY:--I'm very happy in the thought that you are with my
darling children, and, although I'm having a lovely time here, I
often wish I was with you. [Ump--so do I.] I want you to know the