"For Joe Breck, sir; from S. E. Willow, South Verona. That is Sophy, I suppose?" Mr. Homer quivered with pleasure as he took the long, slim note in his hand. "This is from Sophia!" he said. "Sophia Willow is a sweet creature, William;--a--dewy flower, as the lamented Keats has it; a--milk-white lamb that bleats for man's protection, as he also observes. And Joseph Breck, sir, is a worthy youth. He has 'sighed and looked and sighed again' (Dryden, sir! a great poet, though unduly influenced by the age in which he lived) these two years past, I have had reason to think. Of late his letters to Sophia have been more frequent; there was one only yesterday, if you remember, a bulky one, probably containing--a--remarks of a tender nature;--a--outpourings of an ardent description. This is the response. Its rosy hue leads me to hope that it is a favorable one, William. The shape, too: a square envelope has always something of self-assertion about it; but this long, slender, graceful note has in its very appearance something--a--yielding; something--a--acquiescent; something--a--indicative of the budding of the tender passion. I augur happily from the aspect of this note. A--I trust your sentiments accord with mine, William?" "Yes, indeed, sir," said Will, heartily. "I am sure Sophy would not have the heart to say 'no' on such pretty paper as this; not that I think she ever meant to. But here is a letter for you, Mr. Homer, and this is a long envelope, too, only it is green instead of pink. Postmark Bexley." Mr. Homer started. "Not Bexley, William!" he said, nervously. "I trust you are mistaken; look again, if you will be so good. I cannot conceive why I should receive a letter from Bexley." "I'm sorry, sir," replied Will, "but Bexley it is. Would you like me to open it, Mr. Homer?" Mr. Homer cast a glance of aversion at the green envelope; it certainly was somewhat vivid in tint, and was rather liberally than delicately scented. "I should be glad if you would do so, William," he said. "I seem to feel--a--less vigorous than when you first came in. I should be obliged if you would look it over, William." With a glance wherein compassion struggled with amusement, Jaquith opened the letter and glanced through it. "From Mrs. Pryor," he said, briefly. Mr. Homer moved uneasily in his seat. "I--a--apprehended as much," he said. "Go on, William." With another compassionate twinkle, Will complied, and read as follows: "'MY DEAREST HOMER:'" Mr. Homer winced, and wiped his forehead nervously. "'Ever since that dreadful day which I _will not name_, I have been _prostrated_ with grief and mortification; grief on my own account; mortification--I blush to say it--for the sake of one whose present condition _seals my lips_. Need I say that I allude to Aunt Marcia? For some time I felt that all relations between me and Elmerton must be _closed forever_.'" Mr. Homer looked up.