"Look here, what Edith says about you!" said he, somewhat bitterly. He read as follows:
"Dearest Charles,—Your own true Edith writes to you in the flesh by our common but well-meaning enemy, Dr. Bleedem."
"There!" he said, "that's what she thinks of you."
"Enemy!" I cried, in astonishment.
"Yes, enemy; but well-meaning, you see, she says," he continued, in a softened tone.
He then continued to read:
"The poor man thinks, no doubt, that he has achieved a great thing in bringing us privileged seers into the world of spirits back into this mundane sphere, fit only for beings of his order. Of course, what else could be expected of him? The nature of his profession, the grossness of his being, compel him to think and act in the way of grovelling mortals; but let us not be too hard upon him; he is a good man, and means well."
"There!" he observed, "you see, she is charitably disposed towards you. I don't know that I feel disposed to be so lenient."
At this odd beginning of a love-letter, and still odder allusion to myself, I fairly burst out laughing.
"Oh! laugh away," he said; "it is a fine triumph to rob two beings of the very essence of their happiness."