er-writing and foreign postage are only
making bad worse.

Although, unquestionably, the postscript of this elegant epistle was the
part which reflected most severely upon the writer's good feeling and
sense of honor, George Onslow was more struck by what related to his own
affairs, nor was it till after the lapse of some days that he took
the trouble of considering the paragraph, or learning the name of the
individual referred to. Even then all that he could remember was, that
he had seen or heard the name "somewhere," and thus, very possibly,
the whole matter would have glided from his memory, if accident had not
brought up the recollection.

Returning one evening later than usual from his solitary walk, he found
that the hotel was closed, the door strongly secured, and all the usual
precautions of the night taken, in the belief that the inmates were
already safe within doors. In vain he knocked and thundered at the
massive panels; the few servants occupied rooms at a distance, and heard
nothing of the uproar. He shouted, he screamed, he threw gravel against
the windows, and, in his zeal, smashed them too. All was fruitless;
nobody stirred, nor could he detect the slightest sign of human presence
in the vast and dreary-looking building before him. The prospect was
not a pleasant one, and a December night in the open air was by no means
desirable; and yet, where should he turn for shelter? The other hotels
were all closed and deserted, and even of the private houses not one
in twenty was inhabited. Resolving to give himself one chance more for
admission, he scaled the paling of the garden, and reached the rear of
the hotel; but here all his efforts proved just as profitless as the
former, and he was at last about to abandon all hope, when he caught
sight of a faint gleam of light issuing from a small window on the first
floor. Having failed to attract notice by all his cries and shouts, he
determined to reach the window, to which, fortunately, a large vine,
attached to the wall, offered an easy access. George was an expert
climber, and in less than a minute found himself seated on the
window-sill, and gazing into a room by the aperture between the
half-closed shutters. His first impression on looking in was that it was
a servant's room. The bare, whitewashed walls; the humble, uncurtained
bed; three chairs of coarse wood, all strengthened this suspicion, even
to the table, covered by a coarse table-cloth, and on