cousin. Look at ME! There are three sheets, closely written, in
ME. The lady to whom I am addressed--

A. V. Y. E.: Yes, sir, yes; you told me all about her
yesterday.

A. V. O. E.: And I shall do so to-day and to-morrow and
every day and all day long. That young lady was a widow. She stayed
here many times. She was delicate, and the air suited her. She was poor,
and the tariff was just within her means. She was lonely, and had need
of love. I have in me for her a passionate avowal and strictly honorable
proposal, written to her, after many rough copies, by a gentleman who
had made her acquaintance under this very roof. He was rich, he was
charming, he was in the prime of life. He had asked if he might write to
her. She had flutteringly granted his request. He posted me to
her the day after his return to London. I looked forward to being torn
open by her. I was very sure she would wear me and my contents next to
her bosom. She was gone. She had left no address. She never returned.
This I tell you, and shall continue to tell you, not because I want any of
your callow sympathy,--no, THANK you!--but that you may judge
how much less than slight are the probabilities that you yourself--

But my reader has overheard these dialogues as often as I. He
wants to know what was odd about this particular letter-board before
which I was standing. At first glance I saw nothing odd about it. But
presently I distinguished a handwriting that was vaguely familiar. It was
mine. I stared, I wondered. There is always a slight shock in seeing an
envelop of one's own after it has gone through the post. It looks as if it
had gone through so much. But this was the first time I had ever seen an
envelop of mine eating its heart out in bondage on a letter-board. This