orters, for a note of the proper description. The prover, having
ascertained that her money is correct according to the accompanying
label, puts her initials to the latter, as well as upon each package of
notes, wraps and ties the bundle, and carries it to a table, where, in
her presence, the knots are sealed. First, however, the unfit notes are
cancelled by removing a triangular piece from each of the lower corners.
This is done by means of a knife, which is moved by hand with a lever,
which easily cuts through two hundred notes at a time. The sealed
packages are then put in the hands of the delivery clerk. At his counter
the fit parcels are enveloped in a stout outside wrapper and directed to
the various banks whose notes are contained in each. In this shape these
parcels are taken to the office of the Adams Express Company for
shipment. The unfit notes are delivered to the Comptroller of the
Currency, by whose clerks they are again counted. When there is no
longer any possibility of incorrectness either in the amount or the
description, orders are made out for the issue of new currency, and the
redeemed notes are carried to the basement of the Treasury, where they
are put in a machine and reduced to pulp. This product is sold to paper
makers, who, in consideration of its quality, are willing to buy it at a
good price. There is a possibility, therefore, that the banker who
several months ago forwarded his shipment of currency for redemption,
may have the substance of his note return to him in these pages, bearing
this account of the experiences of the journey.

FRANK W. LAUTZ.

UNKNOWN PERSONS.

I was wandering through the Uffizi gallery in Florence one day, with my
guide-book open in my hand, when I met the subjects of this story. They
were by a large window, nine of them, framed in a little gilt frame a
foot or so square. I looked at them, and then, by force of habit, I
looked at the guide-book. "Portraits of nine unknown persons," it said.
I went nearer and looked at them again, and after that I saw the
guide-book no more. They were not portraits or unknown persons, but nine
new friends who told me the story of their lives as I stood by the
window gazing.

There were eight brothers of them, of a noble family, and dwelling in
happy Tuscany. They lived in the country. Their mother was dead--died
when Barnaba first opened his wondering eyes at her. Their father was a
student, and loved his boys, and his bo