while he devoured the direction of the other
with his eyes. We had long been expecting
that letter. It contained, we knew, an expression
of thanks and safe arrival in Queensland
from a penniless but hard-working young woman
whom my sister believed she was really
patriating, while ex-patriating her, at her own
expense. In truth, the girl's sweetheart had
purposely gone out before her, with an understanding,
and was ready for the reception of his
well-beloved. We wished this little romance, in
which Rebecca was an accomplice, to be kept as
snug as possible.

"That is my letter, sir," observed my sister,
sternly; "and I should be glad to have it, and
others for the future, brought in directly, without
being quite so closely examined. In my time,
young people did not take such liberties."

"Because in your time——" stammered
Harry, not daring to finish.

"Because why, sir? I insist on knowing."

"Because in your very, very young time, aunt,
there were no such things as postage stamps.
They are a magnificent invention of modern
times. Here is the letter; but pray do give me
the envelope."

"For what? What interest or right, sir, can
you possibly have to inspect the postmarks of
my correspondence. And, now we talk of
correspondence, I should like to be informed
what is the nature of yours. It may be all right and
proper, and I dare say it is; but, until you are
one-and-twenty, and we are relieved of the
responsibility of your guardianship, I may
observe that your uncle and myself ought to be
made acquainted with its nature, and to have
some idea of the persons with whom it take;
place."

Rebecca uttered this little lecture with all the
dry decision she could muster, looking at me, at
the close of her speech, to second the motion.
Then, as she really loved her nephew, and was
too kind-hearted to feel easy while administering
reproof, she made a retreat and avoided further
discussion by breaking the seal of her letter
and becoming absorbed in its perusal. I said
nothing. Harry blushed, not a guilty blush,
but a blush as it were protesting against
unjust treatment. He soon left the house—as he
afterwards confessed, to make private arrangements
with the postman.

During his absence, and while Rebecca was
making out her multi-crossed epistle, breathing
a satisfactory "Ah!" at intervals, I went up.
stairs to my room, to look out of window with
my hands in my pockets, as my wont is when
anything occurs to puzzle me. His room door
stood ajar, suggesting the possibility of finding
a clue to the correspondence of which Rebecca
disapproved. In a snug corner of his bookcase
was the well-worn ciphering-book, which would
not have invited further attention but for its
bloated appearance, so to speak. It had grown
plethoric, abdominal, and fat. It seemed to have
taken in more good things than it could well
digest. It was filled to repletion, witness sundry
cracks, in spite of the extra binding duly charged
in the school bill. I took it down, really hoping
to find a further triumph of my nephew's
mathematical abilities, and supposing the additional
thickness to arise from logarithmic calculations
of excessive profundity. The sums, no doubt,
would be overlaid with algebraic corollaries and
commentaries. I opened the volume, half-fearing to
behold an increase of figures, ascending
vertically or descending transversely, and garnished
with scales of red ruled lines.

Next the cover were loose letters, evidently
not, as Rebecca dreaded they were, from any
young person of the gentler sex. "Your last
favour duly received," "on the 30th ult. we had
the honour to forward," would hardly be the
forms in which a fair one would avow her
susceptibilities. There was mention of "France,
1848," "France, republic, presidence," "private
offices," "scarce envelopes," and "local
correspondence," which could have reference only to
business or politics. Was my nephew in secret
training for the foreign secretaryship? But on
turning over the once arithmetical pages, a
wonderful transformation met my eye, explaining
the obese condition of the book. It was
not exactly a palimpsest manuscript, but had
been effaced by linings of paper mosaic. Each
page was neatly ruled with blue ink into small
square divisions quite irrespective of the sums
upon it, and nearly each division was occupied
by a postage stamp of some nation, colony, or
community, whose name was hand-printed on a
smart label pasted at the top of the page. A
few old postage envelopes were honoured with
a broad-margined page to themselves.

Beside the volume were three or four pamphlets,
in French and in English, of Parisian,
Belgian, and British publication, the happy
authors of which could boast their second
editions, revised, corrected and enlarged, with
reproduction forbidden and every right reserved.
I beheld Aids to Stamp Collectors; being a list
of English and Foreign Postage Stamps in
Circulation since 1840. I beheld Catalogue des
Timbres-Poste créés dans les divers Etats du
Globe. Further, I saw Manuel du
Collectionneur de Timbres-Poste, ou Nomenclature
générale de tous les timbres adoptés dans les
divers pays de l'Univers; as if the author,
Monsieur J. B. Moens, were on intimate terms
with postmasters residing in the planets Venus
and Jupiter. He assures us that the stamp-
collector may apply to him in all confidence; for
the correspondents whom he has with the
stranger enable him continually to supply the
generality of all the stamps (of the universe?).
And then there was a severe libellus, of ninety-
seven pages, Timbres-Poste, without preface,
commentary, or peroration, but an index only,
"on sale chez Laplante, Dealer in Postage
Stamps for Collections, 1, Rue Christine, 1,
Paris." This last looked about as light reading
as a list of fixed stars, or the astronomical
portions of Dietrichsen's Almanack.
Besides, and on the same shelf, were ranged
grammars and dictionaries of foreign tongues,
picked up at book-stalls; tables of European