he writers of which are well-known to appreciate replies. Hey! what's
the matter, my friend?"

This exclamation was called forth by the sudden and extraordinary
change in Verty's physiognomy. As we have said, the young man had
received the letter with a radiant flush, and a brilliant flash of his
fine eye; and thus the reader will easily comprehend, when we inform
him, that Verty imagined the letter to be from Redbud. Redbud was his
one thought, the only image in his mind, and Roundjacket's words,
"post-mark, the Bower of Nature," had overwhelmed him with the
blissful expectation of a note from Redbud, with loving words of
explanation in it, recalling him, making him once more happy. He tore
open the letter, which was simply directed to "Mr. Verty, at Judge
Rushton's office," and found his dream dispelled. Alas! the name, at
the foot of the manuscript, was not "Redbud"--it was "Sallianna!"

And so, when the young man's hopes were overturned, the bright flash
of his clear eye was veiled in mist again, and his hand fell, with a
gesture of discouragement, which Roundjacket found no difficulty in
understanding.

Verty's face drooped upon his hand, and with the other hand, which
held the letter, hanging down at the side of his chair, he sighed
profoundly. He remained thus, buried in thought, for some time,
Roundjacket gazing at him in silence. He was aroused by something
pulling at the letter, which turned to be Longears, who was biting
Miss Sallianna's epistle in a literary way, and this aroused him. He
saw Roundjacket looking at him.

"Ah--ah!" said that gentleman, "it seems, young man, that the letter
is not to your taste."

Verty sighed.

"I hav'nt read it," he said.

"How then--?"

"It's not from Redbud."

Roundjacket chuckled.

"I begin to understand now why your face changed so abruptly when
you recognized the handwriting, Mr. Verty," said the poet; gently
brandishing the ruler, and directing imaginary orchestras; "you
expected a note from your friend, Miss Redbud--horrid habit you have,
that of cutting off the Miss--and now you are unhappy."

"Yes--unhappy," Verty said, leaning his head on his wrist.

"Who's the letter from?"

"It's marked private and confidential, sir; I ought not to tell
you--ought I."

"No, sir, by no means," said Roundjacket; "I would'nt listen to it for
a bag of doubloons. But you should read it."

"I will, sir," Verty said, sighing.

And he spread the letter out before hi