One afternoon, as Hermann, according to his custom, was returning home about five o'clock, his porter handed him a letter bearing the American post-mark. He examined it closely before opening it. The large and rather stiff hand-writing on the address seemed familiar, and yet he could not say to whom it belonged. Suddenly his countenance brightened, and he exclaimed, "A letter from Henry!" He tore open the envelope, and read as follows:
"My Dear Hermann,—It is fortunate that
one of us at least should have attained celebrity.
I saw your name on the outside of a book of
which you are the author. I wrote at once to the
publisher; that obliging man answered me by
return of post, and, thanks to these circumstances,
I am enabled to tell you that I will land at Hamburg towards the end of September. Write to me
there, Poste Restante, and let me know if you are
willing to receive me for a few days. I can take
Leipzig on my way home, and would do so most
willingly if you say that you would see me again
with pleasure.
"Your old friend,
Below the signature there was a postscript of a
single line: "This is my present face." And
from an inner envelope Hermann drew a small
