Chapter 11
225 Words
One evening, when d**k and Fosdick returned from their respective stores, a surprise awaited them.
"The postman left some letters for you," said the servant, as she opened the door to admit them.
"Maybe they're from the tax-collectors," said d**k. "That's the misfortun' of being men of property. What was your tax last year, Fosdick?"
"I don't remember such trifles," said Fosdick.
"I don't think they was taxes," said the girl, seriously; "they looked as if they was from a young lady."
"Very likely they are from Fosdick's wife," said d**k. "She's rusticatin' in the country for the benefit of her health."
"Maybe they're from yours, Mr. Hunter," said the girl, laughing.
"No," said d**k, gravely, "I'm a disconsolate widower, which accounts for my low spirits most of the time, and my poor appetite. Where are the letters?"
"I left them on the bureau in your room," said the servant. "They come this afternoon at three o'clock."
Both Fosdick and d**k felt not a little curious as to who could have written them letters, and hastened upstairs. Entering their chamber, they saw two very neat little notes, in perfumed French envelopes, and with the initial G in colors on the back. On opening them they read the following in a neat, feminine, fine handwriting. As both were alike, it will be sufficient to give d**k's.
- Writer
