“One word more, my dear fellow, and I go.  You know I threatened to bore you every day; but I sha’n’t continue the terebrations long at a time.  You told me about the way your notes were disposed of.  Now they are yours, beyond question, and you can recover them from the holder; he has no lien upon them whatever, for Sandford was not authorized to pledge them.  It’s only a spoiling of the Egyptians to fleece a broker.”

“Perhaps the notes themselves are worthless, or will be.  Nearly everybody has failed; the rest will go shortly.”

“I see you are incurable; the melancholy fit must have its course, I suppose.  But don’t hang yourself with your handkerchief, nor drown yourself in your wash-basin.  Good bye!”

On his way down Washington Street, Easelmann met his friend Greenleaf, whom he had not seen before for many days.

“Whither, ancient mariner?  That haggard face and glittering eye of yours might hold the most resolute passer-by.”

“You, Easelmann!  I am glad to see you.  I am in trouble.”

“No doubt; enthusiastic people always are.  You fretted your nurse and your mother, your schoolmaster, your mistress, and, most of all, yourself.  A sharp sword cuts its own scabbard.”

“She is gone,—­left me without a word.”

“Who, the Sandford woman?  I always told you she would.”

“No,—­I left her, though not so soon as I should.”

“A fine story!  She jilted you.”

“No,—­on my honor.  I’ll tell you about it some other time.  But Alice, my betrothed, I have lost her forever.”

“Melancholy Orpheus, how?  Did you look over your shoulder, and did she vanish into smoke?”

“It is her father who has gone over the Styx.  She is in life; but she has heard of my flirtation”—­

“And served you right by leaving you.  Now you will quit capering in a lady’s chamber, and go to work, a sadder and a wiser man.”

“Not till I have found her.  You may think me a trifler, Easelmann; but every nerve I have is quivering with agony at the thought of the pain I have caused her.”

“Whew-w-w.” said Easelmann.  “Found her?  Then she’s eloped too!  I just left a disconsolate lover mourning over a runaway mistress.  It seems to be epidemic.  There is a stampede of unhappy females.  We must compress the feet of the next generation, after the wise custom of China, so that they can’t get away.”

“Whom have you seen?”

“Mr. Monroe, an acquaintance of mine.”

“The same.  The lady, it seems, is his cousin,—­and is, or was, my betrothed.”

“And you two brave men give up, foiled by a country-girl of twenty, or thereabouts!”

“How is one to find her?”

“What is the advantage of brains to a man who doesn’t use them?  Consider; she will look for employment.  She won’t try to teach, it would be useless.  She is not strong enough for hard labor.  She is too modest and reserved to take a place in a shop behind a counter, where she would be sure to be discovered.  She will, therefore, be found in the employ of some milliner, tailor, or bookbinder.  How easy to go through those establishments!”