“Just a little louder, if you please,” said Ben, keeping his hand to his ear, and appearing anxious to hear. “Deaf as a post!” muttered the driver. “I couldn't scream any louder, if I should try. Go along.” “Poor man! I hope he hasn't injured his voice,” thought Ben, his eyes dancing with fun. “By gracious!” he continued a moment later, bursting into a laugh, “if he isn't going to ask the way of old Tom Haven. He's as deaf as I pretended to be.” The driver had reined up again, and inquired the way to Sparta. “What did you say?” said the old man, putting his hand to his ear. “I'm rather hard of hearing.” The traveller repeated his question in a louder voice. The old man shook his head. “I guess you'd better ask that boy,” he said, pointing to Ben, who by this time had nearly come up with the chaise. “I have had enough of him,” said the traveller, disgusted. “I believe you're all deaf in this town. I'll get out of it as soon as possible.” He whipped up his horse, somewhat to the old man's surprise, and drove rapidly away. I desire my young readers to understand that I am describing Ben as he was, and not as he ought to be. There is no doubt that he carried his love of fun too far. We will hope that as he grows older, he will grow wiser. Ben pursued the remainder of his way to the Post-office without any further adventure. Entering a small building appropriated to this purpose, he inquired for letters. “There's nothing for your father to-day,” said the post-master. “Perhaps there's something for me,--Benjamin Newcome, Esq.,” said Ben. “Let me see,” said the post-master, putting on his spectacles; “yes, I believe there is. Post-marked at New York, too. I didn't know you had any correspondents there.” “It's probably from the Mayor of New York,” said Ben, in a tone of comical importance, “asking my advice about laying out Central Park.” “Probably it is,” said the postmaster. “It's a pretty thick letter,--looks like an official document.” By this time, Ben, who was really surprised by the reception of the letter, had opened it. It proved to be from our hero, Paul Prescott, and inclosed one for Aunt Lucy. “Mr. Crosby,” said Ben, suddenly, addressing the postmaster, “you remember about Paul Prescott's running away from the Poorhouse?” “Yes, I didn't blame the poor boy a bit. I never liked Mudge, and they say his wife is worse than he.” “Well, suppose the town should find out where he is, could they get him back again?” “Bless you! no. They ain't so fond of supporting paupers. If he's able to earn his own living, they won't want to interfere with him.” “Well, this letter is from him,” said Ben. “He's found a pleasant family in New York, who have adopted him.” “I'm glad of it,” said Mr. Crosby, heartily. “I always liked him. He was a fine fellow.” “That's just what I think. I'll read his letter to you, if you would like to hear it.” “I should, very much. Come in behind here, and sit down.”