ed upon any enterprise with a lighter or more hopeful
heart.

Intent on my task, I went straight to the post-office, and after coming
to an understanding with the postmaster, proceeded at once to look over
the mail addressed to the mysterious X. Y. Z.

I found it to consist entirely of letters. They were about a dozen in
number, and were, with one exception, similar in general appearance and
manner of direction, though inscribed in widely different handwritings,
and posted from various New England towns. The exception to which I
allude had these few extra words written in the lower left-hand corner
of the envelope: "_To be kept till called for._" As I bundled up the
letters preparatory to thrusting them back into the box, I noticed that
the latter was the only one in a blue envelope, all the others being in
the various shades of cream-color and buff.

"Who is in the habit of calling for these letters?" I asked of the
postmaster.

"Well," said he, "I don't know his name. The fact is nobody knows him
around here. He usually drives up in a buggy about nightfall, calls for
letters addressed to X. Y. Z., and having got them, whips up his horse
and is off again before one can say a word."

"Describe him," said I.

"Well, he is very lean and very lank. In appearance he is both green and
awkward. His complexion is pale, almost sickly. Were it not for his eye,
which is keen and twinkling, I should call him an extremely
inoffensive-looking person."

The type was not new to me. "I should like to see him," said I.

"You will have to wait till nightfall, then," returned the postmaster.
"He never comes till about dusk. Drop in here, say at seven o'clock, and
I will see that you have the opportunity of handing him his mail."

I nodded acquiescence to this and sauntered out of the enclosure devoted
to the uses of the post-office. As I did so I ran against a young man
who was hurriedly approaching from the other end of the store.

"Your pardon," he cried; and I turned to look at him, so gentlemanly was
his tone, and so easy the bow with which he accompanied this simple
apology.

He was standing before the window of the post-office, waiting for his
mail; a good-looking, well-made young man, of a fine countenance, but
with a restless eye, whose alert yet anxious expression I could not but
note even in the casual glance I gave him. There appeared to be some
difficulty in procuring him his mail, and each minute he was kept
wai