I had expected at least half-a-dozen, but only one lay on the tray before me.
"Are you sure this is all, Jane ?" I asked.
"Quite sure, sir," said Jane, smiling, and then with a curtsey she took her leave.
The envelope was addressed in a bold hand-writing to-- _Justin M.Blake, Esq., Gower Street, London, W._ "Surely I know the writing," I mused, and then began to look at the postmarks as if a letter were something of very uncommon occurrence.

I could make nothing of the illegible smear in the corner, however, and so opened it, and read as follows:-- Dear old Justin Martyr, I suppose you have about forgotten your old schoolfellow, Tom Temple, and it's natural you should; but he has not forgotten you.

You see, you have risen to fame, and I have remained in obscurity.

Ah well, such is the fate of that community called 'country gentlemen.' But this is not what I want to write about, and I am going straight to the real object of this letter.
We--that is, mother, the girls, and myself--are contemplating a real jolly Christmas.

We are inviting a few friends to spend Christmas and New Year with us, and we wish you to make one of the number.