She was going to allude to the trifling circumstance that I lacked one of the usual number of legs, but, with some delicacy, hesitated. “O, it wouldn’t have hurt me,” I said, coming to her relief; “there isn’t so much of me to fall now and I, therefore, don’t fall so hard as others.” As we were both going up Pine street, we walked on, side by side, and I had the pleasure of her company for four squares. We walked slowly, too. I could have walked four hundred squares, if she had kept on; but when we reached Seventh street, she told me she lived just around the corner. Thereupon, we bade each other an affectionate farewell and parted. I crossed Seventh street and walked about half way to Eighth, when, thinking that the young lady had had time to get out of sight, I retraced my steps. After I had gone a little way below Seventh, I descried a card on a door, containing the following notice: “FURNISHED ROOMS TO LET.” I rang the door-bell, was soon shown in, and, stating that I desired a lodging-room for three or four weeks, was shown a neat, well-furnished room on the second floor, which the landlady said was worth five dollars a week, and would be very suitable for a gentleman and wife. I stated that I would occupy it alone, gave the landlady twenty dollars for four weeks’ possession of the room, then went down to the boat and sent my trunk up by an express wagon. I was again walking up Pine street, and once more crossing Third, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and a voice behind me exclaimed, “Why, Smith! is this you?” I turned, stating that it was—for I never ignored my proud name—and beheld a familiar face. It was that of one whom I had known when a boy, but had not seen for some years. His history is somewhat remarkable. When I knew him in my youth, he was a young man of twenty years, and quite proverbial for his piety. He was often pointed out, to the profligate youth of the village I lived in, as a shining example of Christianity, and he was, in truth—or seemed—so sober, honest, and good, as to put ordinary young fellows to shame, by comparison. His name was Albert Hague. His occupation was that of salesman in a dry-goods store; and such confidence did he ever command, that his employers trusted him implicitly with everything about their stores—safe keys, cash accounts, and the like. By and by, however, much to the astonishment and amazement of all who knew him, he actually stole ten thousand dollars from his employer, and absconded. From that time forth, nothing, to my knowledge, had been heard of him in the old neighborhood; and this was the man I unexpectedly met in Saint Louis. “Why, Bert!” I exclaimed, shaking hands with him—for I was truly glad to meet any familiar face in a strange city—“is this you? Where do you come from?”