"Mr. Stephen"—the housekeeper's hand lingered on the leather tablet without taking it from the desk across the room—"do you think you'd better try to write all those letters to-day? There's considerable many of the family and—you didn't sleep much last night."
"Didn't I? I shall sleep better to-night, Mrs. Griggs, if the letters are posted. Let me get them off my mind."
Reluctantly she gave him the tablet and his fountain-pen. Then she propped him up among his pillows and lighted a reading-lamp at his elbow; the day was dull and his eyesight not of the keenest—his physical eyesight. The spiritual vision reached far and away, quite out of the world altogether.
The letters went out. With five of them went five others, appendices in the hand of Mrs. Griggs.
At Samuel Kingsley's breakfast-table, twenty-four hours later, letter and appendix produced their effect. But due credit must certainly be given to the appendix. Mr. Stephen Kingsley's letter read thus:
"Dear Samuel:
"I am thinking of having a Christmas house-party. It seems a long time since I have seen the family all together. There are at least three new babies among the children. I am asking everybody to come on the day before Christmas—Wednesday—and remain over at least until Friday. Don't refuse me. I should write much more, but must send word to all the others, and you know my eyes.
"Believe me always
"Lovingly your brother,
STEPHEN."