ou must see him
that day, Tottie dear, though I fear it will be too late. How did you
find him out? There must be many Peters among the telegraph-boys."

"To be sure there are, but there are not many Peters who have helped to
save a little girl from a fire, you know," said Tottie, with a knowing
look. "They knew who I wanted at once, and his other name is such a
funny one; it is Pax--"

"What?" exclaimed Mrs Bones, with a sudden look of surprise.

"Pax, mother; Peter Pax."

Whatever Mrs Bones might have replied to this was checked by the
entrance of her husband. She cautioned Tottie, in earnest, hurried
tones, to say nothing about Rosebud Cottage unless asked, and especially
to make no mention whatever of the name of Pax.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

BUSINESS INTERFERED WITH IN A REMARKABLE MANNER.

The modest estimate which Mrs Bones had formed of her penmanship turned
out to be erroneous, and her opinion that there was not a man in the
Post-Office able to read it was ill-founded. She was evidently ignorant
of the powers and intelligence of the Blind Division.

To make this more plain we will follow the letter. You and I, reader,
will post ourselves, as it were, and pass through the General
Post-Office unstamped. At a few minutes to six p.m. the mouth is wide
enough to admit us bodily. Mr Bones has just put in his epistle and
walked away with the air of a man who feels that he has committed
himself, and is "in for it." He might have posted it at an office or a
pillar nearer home, but he has an idea, founded no doubt on experience,
that people, especially policemen, are apt to watch his movements and
prefers a longish walk to the General.

There! we take a header and descend with the cataract into the basket.
On emerging in the great sorting-room, somehow, we catch sight of the
Bones epistle at once. There is no mistaking it. We should know its
dirty appearance and awry folding--not to mention bad writing--among ten
thousand. Having been turned with its stamp in the right direction at
the facing-tables and passed under the stamping-machines without notice,
it comes at last to one of the sorters, and effectually, though briefly,
stops him. His rapid distributive hand comes to a dead pause. He looks
hard at the letter, frowns, turns it upside down, turns his head a
little on one side, can make nothing of it, puts it on one side, and
continues his work.

But at the Blind Division, to which it is speedi