"Strange we do not hear from John," said Mrs. Millet to her wooden husband, as he sat leisurely sipping his last cup of tea, and chewing the cud of his reflections; "I want to hear how he gets on; whether he is likely to get any practice, and if his office is located to suit him. I hope Hyacinth will speak a good word for him; it is very hard for a young man in a strange place to get employment. I really pity John; it must be so disagreeable to put up with the initiatory humiliations of a young physician without fortune in a great city." "Can't he go round and ask people to give him work, just like cousin Ruth?" asked a sharp little Millet, who was playing marbles in the corner. "It is time you were in bed, Willy," said his disconcerted mother, as she pointed to the door; "go tell Nancy to put you to bed. "As I was saying, Mr. Millet, it is very hard for poor John--he is so sensitive. I hope he has a nice boarding-house among refined people, and a pleasant room with everything comfortable and convenient about it; he is so fastidious, so easily disgusted with disagreeable surroundings. I hope he will not get low-spirited. If he gets practice I hope he will not have to _walk_ to see his patients; he ought to have a nice chaise, and a fine horse, and some trusty little boy to sit in the chaise and hold the reins, while he makes his calls. I hope he has curtains to his sleeping-room windows, and a nice carpet on the floor, and plenty of bed-clothes, and gas-light to read by, and a soft lounge to throw himself on when he is weary. Poor John--I wonder why we do not hear from him. Suppose you write to-day, Mr. Millet?" Mr. Millet wiped his mouth on his napkin, stroked his chin, pushed back his cup two degrees, crossed his knife and fork transversely over his plate, moved back his chair two feet and a half, hemmed six consecutive times, and was then safely delivered of the following remark: "My--over-coat." The overcoat was brought in from its peg in the entry; the left pocket was disembowelled, and from it was ferreted out a letter from "John," (warranted to keep!) which had lain there unopened three days. Mrs. Millet made no remark;--that day had gone by;--she had ate, drank, and slept, with that petrifaction too long to be guilty of any such nonsense. She sat down with a resignation worthy of Socrates, and perused the following epistle: "DEAR MOTHER: