great spiders' webs, and that there are steamboats bummin' an' buzzin'—ay, an' bu'stin' too—all over the ocean, like huge wasps, an' a pretty mess they make of it too among them! Why, there was a poor old lady the other day that was indooced by a young nephy to send a telegraphic message to her husband in Manchester—she bein' in London. She was very unwillin' to do it, bein' half inclined to regard the telegraph as a plant from the lower regions. The message sent was, 'Your lovin' wife hopes you 'll be home to-morrow.' It reached the husband, 'Your lowerin' wife hopes you 'll be hung to-morrow.' Bad writin' and a useless flourish at the e turned home into hung. The puzzled husband telegraphs in reply, 'Mistake somewhere—all right—shall be back three o'clock—to-morrow—kind love.' And how d'ye think this reached the old lady?—'Mistake somewhere—all night—stabbed in back—through cloak—two more rows—killed, love.' Now, d'you call that successful telegraphing?"
"Not very," admitted Robin, with a laugh, "but of the thousands of messages that pass to and fro daily there cannot be many like these, I should think."
"But what did the poor wife do?" asked Madge anxiously.
"Do?" repeated Rik indignantly, as though the misfortune were his own—for he was a very sym-
