disappointment, he was probably buried in the wrong tomb, inasmuch
as the fatality of such people never deserts them, and, whether
alive or dead, they are invariably out of place.

Almost immediately another foot was heard on the threshold. A youth
entered hastily, and threw a glance around the office to ascertain
whether the man of intelligence was alone. He then approached close
to the desk, blushed like a maiden, and seemed at a loss how to
broach his business.

"You come upon an affair of the heart," said the official personage,
looking into him through his mysterious spectacles. "State it in as
few words as may be."

"You are right," replied the youth. "I have a heart to dispose of."

"You seek an exchange?" said the Intelligencer. "Foolish youth, why
not be contented with your own?"

"Because," exclaimed the young man, losing his embarrassment in a
passionate glow,--"because my heart burns me with an intolerable
fire; it tortures me all day long with yearnings for I know not
what, and feverish throbbings, and the pangs of a vague sorrow; and
it awakens me in the night-time with a quake, when there is nothing
to be feared. I cannot endure it any longer. It were wiser to
throw away such a heart, even if it brings me nothing in return."

"O, very well," said the man of office, making an entry in his
volume. "Your affair will be easily transacted. This species of
brokerage makes no inconsiderable part of my business; and there is