at has to wane and wither. Soured beyond measure these old
envelops are. They are not nearly so nice as they should be to the
young ones. They lose no chance of sneering and discouraging. Such
dialogues as this are only too frequent:

A Very Young Envelop: Something in me whispers that he will come to-day!

A Very Old Envelop: He? Well, that's good! Ha, ha, ha! Why didn't he
come last week, when YOU came? What reason have you for supposing
he'll ever come now? It isn't as if he were a frequenter of the place.
He's never been here. His name is utterly unknown here. You don't
suppose he's coming on the chance of finding YOU?

A. V. Y. E.: It may seem silly, but--something in me whispers--

A. V. O. E.: Something in YOU? One has only to look at you to see
there's nothing in you but a note scribbled to him by a 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 p