Who could have written this bolt-upright, old-fashioned superscription, not a letter of which seems on speaking terms with its neighbor?
The very O absolutely turns its back upon the M in O'Malley, and the final Y wags his tail with a kind of independent shake, as if he did not care a curse for his predecessors! And the seal, too,--surely I know that griffin's head, and that stern motto, _Non rogo sed capio_.

To be sure, it is Billy Considine's, the count himself.

The very paper, yellow and time-stained, looks coeval with his youth; and I could even venture to wager that his sturdy pen was nibbed half a century since.

I'll not look farther among this confused mass of three-cornered billets, and long, treacherous-looking epistles, the very folding of which denote the dun.

Here goes for the count!" So saying to myself, I drew closer to the fire, and began the following epistle:-- O'MALLEY CASTLE, November 3.
Dear Charley,--Here we sit in the little parlor with your last letter, the "Times," and a big map before us, drinking your health, and wishing you a long career of the same glorious success you have hitherto enjoyed.