e green Venetian blinds, that served so admirably for eyelids,
attached thereto--all of which stood, and beamed, and luxuriated, and
vegetated, and grew old in the centre of the town on the eastern
seaboard of America, whose name (for strictly private reasons) we have
firmly declined, and do still positively refuse to communicate.

Having walked up to the cottage, the letter-carrier hit it a severe
smash on its green nose, as good Captain Dunning had done many, many
months before. The result now, as then, was the opening thereof by a
servant-girl--the servant-girl of old. The letter-carrier was a
taciturn man; he said nothing, but handed in the letter, and went his
way. The servant-girl was a morose damsel; she said nothing, but took
the letter, shut the door, and laid it (the letter, not the door) on the
breakfast-table, and went her way--which way was the way of all flesh,
fish, and fowl--namely, the kitchen, where breakfast was being prepared.

Soon after the arrival of the letter Miss Jane Dunning--having put on an
immaculately clean white collar and a spotlessly beautiful white cap
with pink ribbons, which looked, if possible, taller than usual--
descended to the breakfast-parlour. Her eye instantly fell on the
letter, and she exclaimed--"Oh!" at the full pitch of her voice.
Indeed, did not respect for the good lady forbid, we would say that she
_yelled_ "Oh!"

Instantly, as if by magic, a faint "oh!" came down-stairs like an echo,
from the region of Miss Martha Dunning's bedroom, and was followed up by
a "What is it?" so loud that the most unimaginative person could not
have failed to perceive that the elder sister had opened her door and
put her head over the banisters.

"What is it?" repeated Miss Martha.

"A letter!" answered Miss Jane.

"Who from?" (in eager surprise, from above.)

"Brother George!" (in eager delight, from below.)

Miss Jane had not come to this knowledge because of having read the
letter, for it still lay on the table unopened, but because she could
not read it at all! One of Captain Dunning's peculiarities was that he
wrote an execrably bad and illegible hand. His English was good, his
spelling pretty fair, considering the absurd nature of the orthography
of his native tongue, and his sense was excellent, but the whole was
usually shrouded in hieroglyphical mystery. Miss Jane could only read
the opening "My dearest Sisters," and the concluding "George Dunning,"
nothing more