men from our two villages were
killed and wounded. By some mistake, William's name was included in the
list; and the publication of it set his poor wife nearly beside herself
with grief. The following day, however, some of his old companions
received a letter from him, written after the date of the battle, in
which he spoke of the others being killed, adding,--

"Tell Lucy, my deare wief im not dede yet. i havente seene a fite sence
i hev bene in the servise but i hope i shall soon. My dere bruther Samul
Stores can you finde oute why Lucy my wief donte write to me."

We immediately sent off a letter to him by mail; and I advised Lucy to
inclose one with that of the friend who had just heard from him, and who
intended writing the next day. She never tired of dictating to me; and
after this last report from him, we prepared letters and dispatched them
with redoubled energy.

One morning she came into the library, and asked me if I could spare
time to write a letter.

"I'm so full, Ma'am, of all I want to say, it kind o' bewilders me at my
work. I think I shall be more quieter, if I have it written off to him."

This letter was a remarkably pretty and touching one, and had in it the
burden of all:--

"If I could only get a letter from you, and you could get one from me, I
should not fret so much. I have not had one since January, and have only
had four since you left. For three months me and my lady have written to
you nigh about every week. All the other women go to the office, and
take out two, three, and four letters at a time, some with money in; but
if I could only get one from you, I should be happier than they are with
all their money. I don't want no money. I can make enough to take care
of me and 'Nervy" (their little daughter, glorying in the name of
Minerva). "But, my dear husband, do, do write to me."

This letter was sent off about midday; then Lucy went singing about her
work, as if she had just seen her husband. Her favorite assurance of
there being room in heaven for her and all her friends rang out so
shrill and clear that my little Skye terrier grew testy and nervous at
the reiteration. At last, when its slumber was broken for the dozenth
time, it could bear it no longer, and, leaping out to the basket,
crouched on the ground, and, raising its tiny black muzzle in the air,
gave one prolonged howl, as if protesting against the information.

I could not blame the dog, for the chant was not pleasant