accompanied him to his house on West Newton Street, where I remained
until the following morning. Upon consulting the time-table, we found
that the Albany express would leave at 11.30 a.m. This left several
hours at my disposal, and we sallied forth immediately after breakfast
to visit some of the lions of the American Athens.

In the course of our peregrinations through the streets, we dropped
into the post-office, which had recently been established in the
Merchants' Exchange Building, on State Street. Seeing the countless
piles of mail-matter, I jestingly remarked to my friend that there
seemed to be letters enough there to go around the whole human family.
He replied in the same mood, whereupon I banteringly suggested the
probability that among so many letters, surely there ought to be one
for me.

"Nothing more reasonable," he replied. "We Bostonians are always
bountiful to strangers. Here is the General Delivery, and here is the
department where letters addressed to the Furlong family are kept in
stock. Pray inquire for yourself."

The joke I confess was not a very brilliant one; but with a grave
countenance I stepped up to the wicket and asked the young lady in
attendance:

"Anything for W. F. Furlong?"

She took from a pigeon-hole a handful of correspondence, and proceeded
to run her eye over the addresses. When about half the pile had been
exhausted she stopped, and propounded the usual inquiry in the case of
strangers: