Behind the yellow walls of the post-office Mr. Homer Hollopeter mourned deeply and sincerely for his cousin. The little room devoted to collecting and dispensing the United States mail, formerly a dingy and sordid den, had become, through Mr. Homer's efforts, cheerfully seconded by those of Will Jaquith, a little temple of shining neatness, where even Miss Phoebe's or Miss Vesta's dainty feet might have trod without fear of pollution. It was more like home to Mr. Homer than the bare little room where he slept, and now that it was his own, he delighted in dusting, polishing, and cleaning, as a woman might have done. The walls were brightly whitewashed, and adorned with portraits of Keats and Shelley; on brackets in two opposite corners Homer and Shakespeare gazed at each other with mutual approval. The stove was black and glossy as an Ashantee chief, and the clock, once an unsightly mass of fly-specks and cobwebs, now showed a white front as immaculate as Mr. Homer's own. Opposite the clock hung a large photograph, in a handsome gilt frame, of a mountain peak towering alone against a clear sky. When Mr. Homer entered the post-office the day after Miss Phoebe's funeral, he carried in his hand a fine wreath of ground pine tied with a purple ribbon, and this wreath he proceeded to hang over the mountain picture. Will Jaquith watched him with wondering sympathy. The little gentleman's eyes were red, and his hands trembled. "Let me help you, sir!" cried Jaquith, springing up. "Let me hang it for you, won't you?" But Mr. Homer waved him off, gently but decidedly. "I thank you, William, I thank you!" he said, "but I prefer to perform this action myself. It is--a tribute, sir, to an admirable woman. I wish to pay it in person; in person." After some effort he succeeded in attaching the wreath, and, standing back, surveyed it with mournful pride. "I think that looks well," he said. "My fingers are unaccustomed to twine any garlands save those of--a--song; but I think that looks well, William?" "Very well, sir!" said Will, heartily. "It is a very handsome wreath; and how pretty the green looks against the gold!" "The green is emblematic; it is the color of memory," said Mr. Homer. "This wreath, though comparatively enduring, will fade, William; will--a--wither; will--a--become dessicated in the natural process of decay; but the memory of my beloved cousin will endure, sir, in one faithful heart, while that heart continues to--beat; to--throb; to--a--palpitate." He was silent for a few minutes, gazing at the picture; then he continued: