While Mr. Wetherell sat meditating, upon this inexplicable retort, a retired, scholarly looking gentleman with a white beard, who wore spectacles, came out of the door leading from the barber shop and quietly took a seat beside him. The storekeeper's attention was next distracted by the sight of one who wandered slowly but ceaselessly from group to group, kicking up his heels behind, and halting always in the rear of the speakers. Needless to say that this was our friend Mr. Bijah Bixby, who was following out his celebrated tactics of “going along by when they were talkin' sly.” Suddenly Mr. Bixby's eye alighted on Mr. Wetherell, who by a stretch of imagination conceived that it expressed both astonishment and approval, although he was wholly at a loss to understand these sentiments. Mr. Bixby winked--Mr. Wetherell was sure of that. But to his surprise, Bijah did not pause in his rounds to greet him. Mr. Wetherell was beginning to be decidedly uneasy, and was about to go upstairs, when Mr. Merrill came down the rotunda whistling, with his hands in his pockets. He stopped whistling when he spied the storekeeper, and approached him in his usual hearty manner. “Well, well, this is fortunate,” said Mr. Merrill; “how are you, Duncan? I want you to know Mr. Wetherell. Wetherell writes that weekly letter for the Guardian you were speaking to me about last year. Will, this is Mr. Alexander Duncan, president of the 'Central.'” “How do you do, Mr. Wetherell?” said the scholarly gentleman with the spectacles, putting out his hand. “I'm glad to meet you, very glad, indeed. I read your letters with the greatest pleasure.” Mr. Wetherell, as he took Mr. Duncan's hand, had a variety of emotions which may be imagined, and need not be set down in particular. “Funny thing,” Mr. Merrill continued, “I was looking for you, Duncan. It occurred to me that you would like to meet Mr. Wetherell. I was afraid you were in Boston.” “I have just got back,” said Mr. Duncan. “I wanted Wetherell to see your library. I was telling him about it.” “I should be delighted to show it to him,” answered Mr. Duncan. That library, as is well known, was a special weakness of Mr. Duncan's. Poor William Wetherell, who was quite overwhelmed by the fact that the great Mr. Duncan had actually read his letters and liked them, could scarcely utter a sensible word. Almost before he realized what had happened he was following Mr. Duncan out of the Pelican House, when the storekeeper was mystified once more by a nudge and another wink from Mr. Bixby, conveying unbounded admiration. “Why don't you write a book, Mr. Wetherell?” inquired the railroad president, when they were crossing the park. “I don't think I could do it,” said Mr. Wetherell, modestly. Such incense was overpowering, and he immediately forgot Mr. Bixby.