Still no news of my son. The time was getting on now, and it was
surely not unreasonable to look for some tidings of him.

To-day Morgan and I both finished our third and last stories. I
corrected my brother's contribution with no very great difficulty
on this occasion, and numbered it Nine. My own story came next,
and was thus accidentally distinguished as the last of the
series--Number Ten. When I dropped the two corresponding cards
into the bowl, the thought that there would be now no more to add
seemed to quicken my prevailing sense of anxiety on the subject
of George's return. A heavy depression hung upon my spirits, and
I went out desperately in the rain to shake my mind free of
oppressing influences by dint of hard bodily exercise.

The number drawn this evening was Three. On the production of the
corresponding man uscript it proved to be my turn to read again.

"I can promise you a little variety to-night," I said, addressing
our fair guest, "if I can promise nothing else. This time it is
not a story of my own writing that I am about to read, but a copy
of a very curious correspondence which I found among my
professional papers."

Jessie's countenance fell. "Is there no story in it?" she asked,
rather discontentedly.

"Certainly there is a story in it," I replied--"a story of a much
lighter kind than any we have yet read, and which may, on that
account, prove acceptable, by way of contrast and relief, even if