im to fence
with the trades of Hillsborough: for at "Woodbine Villa" he had to keep
an ardent passion within the strict bounds of reverence, and in the town
he had constantly to curb another passion, wrath, and keep it within the
bounds of prudence. These were kindred exercises of self-restraint, and
taught him self-government beyond his years. But what he benefited
most by, after all, was the direct and calming effect upon his agitated
heart, and irritated nerves, that preceded, and accompanied, and
followed these sweet, tranquilizing visits. They were soft, solacing,
and soothing; they were periodical and certain, he could count on
leaving his cares and worries, twice every week, at the door of that
dear villa; and, when he took them up again, they were no longer the
same; heavenly balm had been shed over them, and over his boiling blood.

One Saturday he heard, by a side-wind, that the Unions at a general
meeting had debated his case, and there had been some violent speeches,
and no decision come to; but the majority adverse to him. This
discouraged him sadly, and his yearning heart turned all the more toward
his haven of rest, and the hours, few but blissful, that awaited him.

About 11 o'clock, that same day, the postman brought him a letter, so
vilely addressed, that it had been taken to two or three places, on
speculation, before it reached its destination.

Little saw at once it was another anonymous communication. But he was
getting callous to these missives, and he even took it with a certain
degree of satisfaction. "Well done, Bramah! Obliged to send their venom
by post now." This was the feeling uppermost in his mind. In short, he
opened the letter with as much contempt as anger.

But he had no sooner read the foul scrawl, than his heart died within
him.

"Thou's sharp but not sharp enow. We know where thou goes courting up
hill. Window is all glass and ripe for a Peter shall blow the house
tatums. There's the stuff in Hillsbro and the men that have done others
so, and will do her job as wells thine. Powders a good servant but a bad
master.

"ONE WHO MEANS DOING WHAT HE SAYS."

At this diabolical threat, young Little leaned sick and broken over the
handle of his bellows.

Then he got up, and went to Mr. Cheetham, and said, patiently, "Sir, I
am sorry to say I must leave you this very day."

"Don't say that, Little, don't say that."

"Oh it is with a heavy heart, sir; and I shall always rememb