It is a fact which we cannot deny, however much we may feel disposed to marvel at it, that laughter and weeping, at one and the same time, are compatible. The most resolute sceptic on this point would have been convinced of the truth of it had he been introduced into the Misses Martha and Jane Dunning’s parlour on the beautiful summer morning in which the remarkable events we are about to relate occurred.

 

On the morning in question, a letter-carrier walked up to the cottage with the yellow-painted face, and with the green door, so like a nose in the middle; and the window on each side thereof, so like its eyes; and the green Venetian blinds, that served so admirably for eyelids, attached thereto—all of which stood, and beamed, and luxuriated, and vegetated, and grew old in the centre of the town on the eastern seaboard of America, whose name (for strictly private reasons) we have firmly declined, and do still positively refuse to communicate.

 

Having walked up to the cottage, the letter-carrier hit it a severe smash on its green nose, as good Captain Dunning had done many, many months before. The result now, as then, was the opening thereof by a servant-girl—the servant-girl of old. The letter-carrier was a taciturn man; he said nothing, but handed in the letter, and went his way. The servant-girl was a morose damsel; she said nothing, but took the letter, shut the door, and laid it (the letter, not the door) on the breakfast-table, and went her way—which way was the way of all flesh, fish, and fowl—namely, the kitchen, where breakfast was being prepared.

 

Soon after the arrival of the letter Miss Jane Dunning—having put on an immaculately clean white collar and a spotlessly beautiful white cap with pink ribbons, which looked, if possible, taller than usual—descended to the breakfast-parlour. Her eye instantly fell on the letter, and she exclaimed—“Oh!” at the full pitch of her voice. Indeed, did not respect for the good lady forbid, we would say that she yelled “Oh!”

 

Instantly, as if by magic, a faint “oh!” came down-stairs like an echo, from the region of Miss Martha Dunning’s bedroom, and was followed up by a “What is it?” so loud that the most unimaginative person could not have failed to perceive that the elder sister had opened her door and put her head over the banisters.

 

“What is it?” repeated Miss Martha.

 

“A letter!” answered Miss Jane.

 

“Who from?” (in eager surprise, from above.)

 

“Brother George!” (in eager delight, from below.)

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