One afternoon I drifted into the Camford Street office. Hephzy had left me at Piccadilly Circus and was now, it was safe to presume, enjoying a delightful sojourn amid the shops of Regent and Oxford Streets. When she returned she would have a half-dozen purchases to display, a two-and-six glove bargain from Robinson's, a bit of lace from Selfridge's, a knick-knack from Liberty's--“All so MUCH cheaper than you can get 'em in Boston, Hosy.” She would have had a glorious time. Matthews, the manager at Camford Street, was out, but Holton, the head clerk--I was learning to speak of him as a “clark”--was in. “There are some American letters for you, sir,” he said. “I was about to send them to your hotel.” He gave me the letters--four of them altogether--and I went into the private office to look them over. My first batch of mail from home; it gave me a small thrill to see two-cent stamps in the corners of the envelopes. One of the letters was from Campbell. I opened it first of all. Jim wrote a rambling, good-humored letter, a mixture of business, news, advice and nonsense. “The Black Brig” had gone into another edition. Considering my opinion of such “slush” I should be ashamed to accept the royalties, but he would continue to give my account credit for them until I cabled to the contrary. He trusted we were behaving ourselves in a manner which would reflect credit upon our country. I was to be sure not to let Hephzy marry a title. And so on, for six pages. The letter was almost like a chat with Jim himself, and I read it with chuckles and a pang of homesickness. One of the envelopes bore Hephzy's name and I, of course, did not open it. It was postmarked “Bayport” and I thought I recognized the handwriting as Susanna Wixon's. The third letter turned out to be not a letter at all, but a bill from Sylvanus Cahoon, who took care of our “lots” in the Bayport cemetery. It had been my intention to pay all bills before leaving home, but, somehow or other, Sylvanus's had been overlooked. I must send him a check at once. The fourth and last envelope was stained and crumpled. It had traveled a long way. To my surprise I noticed that the stamp in the corner was English and the postmark “London.” The address, moreover, was “Captain Barnabas Cahoon, Bayport, Massachusetts, U. S. A.” The letter had obviously been mailed in London, had journeyed to Bayport, from there to New York, and had then been forwarded to London again. Someone, presumably Simmons, the postmaster, had written “Care Hosea Knowles” and my publisher's New York address in the lower corner. This had been scratched out and “28 Camford Street, London, England,” added.