“Hem!” observed the poet.

“Sir?” said Verty, for the tone of Roundjacket’s observation was such as to convey the impression that he was about to speak.

“I’ve got something for you, my dear fellow,” said the poet.

“Have you, sir?”

“Yes; now guess what it is.”

“I don’t think I could.”

“What do you imagine it can be?”

Verty shook his head, and leaned upon his desk.

“It has some connection with the subject of numerous conversations we have held,” said Roundjacket, persuasively, waving backward and forward the ruler which he had taken up abstractedly, and as he did so, indulging in a veiled and confidential smile; “now you can guess—­can’t you?”

“I think not, sir.”

“Why, what have we been talking about lately?”

“Law.”

“No, sir!”

“Havn’t we?”

“By no means—­that is to say, there is a still more interesting subject, my dear young savage, than even law.”

“Oh, I know now—­”

“Ah—!”

“It is poetry.”

“Bah!” observed the poet; “you’re out yet.  But who knows?  Your guess may be correct.  It may be poetry.”

“What, sir?”

“This letter for you, from a lady,” said Roundjacket, smiling, and drawing from his pocket an elegantly folded billet.

Verty rose quickly.

“A letter for me, sir!” he said, blushing.

“Yes; not from a great distance though,” Roundjacket replied, with a sly chuckle; “see here; the post-mark is the ‘Bower of Nature.’”

Verty extended his hand abruptly, his lips open, his countenance glowing.

“Oh, give it to me, sir!”

Roundjacket chuckled more than ever, and handing it to the young man, said: 

“An African of small dimensions brought it this morning, and said no answer was required—­doubtless, therefore, it is not a love-letter, the writers of which are well-known to appreciate replies.  Hey! what’s the matter, my friend?”

This exclamation was called forth by the sudden and extraordinary change in Verty’s physiognomy.  As we have said, the young man had received the letter with a radiant flush, and a brilliant flash of his fine eye; and thus the reader will easily comprehend, when we inform him, that Verty imagined the letter to be from Redbud.  Redbud was his one thought, the only image in his mind, and Roundjacket’s words, “post-mark, the Bower of Nature,” had overwhelmed him with the blissful expectation of a note from Redbud, with loving words of explanation in it, recalling him, making him once more happy.  He tore open the letter, which was simply directed to “Mr. Verty, at Judge Rushton’s office,” and found his dream dispelled.  Alas! the name, at the foot of the manuscript, was not “Redbud”—­it was “Sallianna!”

And so, when the young man’s hopes were overturned, the bright flash of his clear eye was veiled in mist again, and his hand fell, with a gesture of discouragement, which Roundjacket found no difficulty in understanding.