He was aroused by something pulling at the letter, which turned to be Longears, who was biting Miss Sallianna's epistle in a literary way, and this aroused him.

He saw Roundjacket looking at him.
"Ah--ah!" said that gentleman, "it seems, young man, that the letter is not to your taste." Verty sighed.
"I hav'nt read it," he said.
"How then-- ?" "It's not from Redbud." Roundjacket chuckled.
"I begin to understand now why your face changed so abruptly when you recognized the handwriting, Mr.Verty," said the poet; gently brandishing the ruler, and directing imaginary orchestras; "you expected a note from your friend, Miss Redbud--horrid habit you have, that of cutting off the Miss--and now you are unhappy." "Yes--unhappy," Verty said, leaning his head on his wrist.
"Who's the letter from ?" "It's marked private and confidential, sir; I ought not to tell you--ought I." "No, sir, by no means," said Roundjacket; "I would'nt listen to it for a bag of doubloons.

But you should read it." "I will, sir," Verty said, sighing.
And he spread the letter out before him and read it carefully, with many varying expressions on his face.

The last expression of all, however, was grief and pain.

As he finished, his head again drooped, and his sorrowful eyes were fixed on vacancy.
"I'll tell you what it is, Verty, my friend," said Roundjacket, chuckling, "I don't think we make much by keeping you from paying a daily visit to some of your friends.