gain,
old man, but don't write any more of that sort of thing."

I said nothing. I felt wounded; but I had a dim idea that Jack's
criticism was just. It _was_ rather sentimental. So I tried again, and
this time I wrote out something very different.

With the following result:

"_If the party who crossed the ice on the 3d of April with A. Z. will
give her address, she will confer an unspeakable favor. Write to Box
No. 3,333_."

"Oh, that'll never do at all!" cried Jack, as I read it to him. "In
the first place, your 'A. Z.' is too mysterious; and, in the second
place, you are still too sentimental with your 'unspeakable favor.' Try
again."

I tried again, and wrote the following:

"_A gentleman is anxious to learn the address of a party who
accompanied him over the ice on the 3d of April. Address Box No.
3,333_."

"Oh, that'll never do!" said Jack.

"Why not?"

"Why, man, it's too cold and formal."

"Hang it all! What will suit you? One is too warm; another is too
cold."

Saying this, I tried once more, and wrote the following:

"A. B. has been trying in vain to find the address of the party who
accompanied him over the ice on the 3d of April. Will she have the
kindness to communicate with him to Box No. 3,333?"

"No go," said Jack.

"Why not?"

"Well, you see, you call her a 'party,' and then announce that this
'party' is a woman. It won't do. I wouldn't like to call any lady a
'party.' You'll have to drop that word, old boy."

At this I flung down the pen in despair.

"Well, hang it!" said I. "What will do? You try it, Jack."

"Nonsense!" said he. "I can't write; I can only criticise. Both
faculties are very good in their way. You'll have to start from another
direction. I'll tell you what to do--try a roundabout way."

"A roundabout way?" I repeated, doubtfully.

"Yes."

"What's that?"

"Why, advertise for--let me see--oh, yes--advertise for the French
driver. He was drowned--wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"Well, if you advertise for him, she will respond, and thus you will
come into contact with her without making a fool of yourself."

"By Jove, Jack," said I, "that's not a bad idea! I think I get your
meaning. Of course, if she has any soul, she'll sympathize with the
lost driver. But what name shall I put?"

"Was he a common driver? I gathered this from your story."

"Oh, yes. It was a sleigh from the country-hired, you know, not a
private sleigh."

"She couldn't have know