Our act was, with finger and nail and eye, to rime into every jot of it; and our words were, "I am sure there is something inside.

If not, it would open sensibly." In the most senseless and obstinate manner it refused not only to open, but to disclose any thing at all about itself.

Whether it ever had been meant to open, and if so, where, and by what means; whether, without any gift of opening, it might have a hidden thing inside; whether, when opened by force or skill, it might show something we had no business with, or (which would be far worse) nothing at all--good Mrs.Busk and myself tested, tapped, and felt, and blew, and listened, and tried every possible overture, and became at last quite put out with it.
"It is all of a piece with the villains that owned it," the postmistress exclaimed at last.

"There is no penetrating either it or them.

Most likely they have made away with this beautiful lady on the cover.