"God bless my soul," said Mr. Bramble, staring hard at the envelope, "I don't believe it is from one of them, after all. By 'one of them,' my lad, I mean the poor gentlewomen who find themselves obliged to sell their books in order to obtain food and clothing. They always write before they call, you see. Saves 'em not only trouble but humiliation. The other kind simply burst in with a parcel of rubbish and ask how much I'll give for the lot. But this,--Well, well, I wonder who it can be from? Doesn't seem like the sort of writing--" "Why don't you open it and see?" suggested his visitor. "A good idea," said Mr. Bramble; "a very clever thought. There _is_ a way to find out, isn't there?" His gaze fell upon the aged messenger, who warmed his bony hands at the stove. He paused, the tip of his forefinger inserted under the flap. "Sit down and warm yourself, my friend," he said. "Get your long legs out of the way, Tom, and make room for him. That's right! Must be pretty rough going outside for an old codger like you." The messenger "boy" sat down. "Yes, sir, it sure is. Takes 'em forever in this 'ere town to clean the snow off'n the streets. 'Twasn't that way in my day." "What do you mean by your 'day'?" "Haven't you ever heard about me?" demanded the old man, eyeing Mr. Bramble with interest. "Can't say that I have." "Well, can you beat that? There's a big, long street named after me way down town. My name is Canal, Jotham W. Canal." He winked and showed his toothless gums in an amiable grin. "I used to be purty close to old Boss Tweed; kind of a lieutenant, you might say. Things were so hot in the old town in those days that we used to charge a nickel apiece for snowballs. Five cents apiece, right off the griddle. That's how hot it was in my day." "My word!" exclaimed Mr. Bramble. "He's spoofing you," said young Mr. Trotter. "My God," groaned the messenger, "if I'd only knowed you was English I'd have saved my breath. Well, I guess I'll be on my way. Is there an answer, Mr. Bramble?" "Um--aw--I quite forgot the--" He tore open the envelope and held the missive to the light. "'Pon my soul!" he cried, after reading the first few lines and then jumping ahead to the signature. "This is most extraordinary." He was plainly agitated as he felt in his pocket for a coin. "No answer,--that is to say,--none at present. Ahem! That's all, boy. Goodbye." Mr. Canal shuffled out of the shop,--and out of this narrative as well. "This will interest you," said Mr. Bramble, lowering his voice as he edged his chair closer to the young man. "It is from Lady Jane Thorne--I should say, Miss Emsdale. Bless my soul!" Mr. Trotter's British complacency was disturbed. He abandoned his careless sprawl in the chair and sat up very abruptly. "What's that? From Lady Jane? Don't tell me it's anything serious. One would think she was on her deathbed, judging by the face you're--"