I doze again until Adele comes in and opens the shutters. I do not hear the music any more; but those days I do somehow seem to hear it all the time. Of course, Mr. P. is gone long before I wake, so he knows nothing about all this. I generally come in at night after he is asleep, and he is up and has his breakfast, and goes down town before I wake in the morning. He comes home to dinner, but he is apt to be silent; and after dinner he takes his nap in the parlor over his newspaper, while I go up and let Adele dress my hair for the evening. Sometimes Mr. P. groans into a clean shirt and goes with me to the ball; but not often. When I come home, as I said, he is asleep, so I don’t see a great deal of him, except in the summer, when I am at Saratoga or Newport; and then, not so much, after all, for he usually only passes Sunday, and I must be a good Christian, you know, and go to church. On the whole, we have not a very intimate acquaintance; but I have a great respect for him. He told me the other day that he should make at least thirty thousand dollars this year. My darling Carrie--I am very sorry I can’t write you a longer letter. I want to consult you about wearing gold powder like the new Empress. It would kill Mrs. Croesus if you and I should be the first to come out in it; and don’t you think the effect would be fine, when we were dancing, to shower the gold mist around us! How it would sparkle upon the gentlemen’s black coats! (“Yes,” says Mr. P., “and how finely Gauche Boosey, and Timon Croesus, and young Downe will look in silk tights and small clothes!”) They say it’s genuine gold ground up. I have already sent for a white velvet and lace--the Empress’s bridal dress, you know. That foolish old P. asked me if I had sent for the Emperor and the Bank of France too. “Men ask such absurd questions,” said I. -- “Mrs. Potiphar, I never asked but one utterly absurd question in my life,” said he, and marched out of the house. _Au revoir, chère Caroline_. I have a thousand things to say, but I know you must be tired to death. Fondly yours, POLLY POTIPHAR. P. S.--Our little Fred. is quite down with the scarlet fever. Potiphar says I mustn’t expose myself, so I don’t go into the room; but Mrs. Jollup, the nurse, tells me through the keyhole how he is. Mr. P. sleeps in the room next the nursery, so as not to carry the infection to me. He looks very solemn as he walks down town. I hope it won’t spoil Fred’s complexion. I should be so sorry to have him a little fright! Poor little thing! P. S. 2d.--Isn’t it funny about the music? III. -- A MEDITATION BY PAUL POTIPHAR, ESQ. Well, my new house is finished--and so am I. I hope Mrs. Potiphar is satisfied. Everybody agrees that it is “palatial.” The daily papers have had columns of description, and I am, evidently, according to their authority, “munificent,” “tasteful,” “enterprising,” and “patriotic.”