"But I will read the letter to you," he said, "and then I will tell you what I mean to do."
"Very well, sir," she replied, with much misgiving.
He opened the letter and began to read as follows:
Wirt House, Baltimore, MD.,
May 15, 18—
My Most Honored Benefactor: I should not presume to recall myself to your recollection had you not, in the large bounty of your heart, once taken pity on the forlorn creature that I am, and made me promise that if ever I should find myself homeless, friendless, destitute, and desolate, I should write and inform you.
My most revered friend, such is my sad, hopeless, pitiable condition now.
My poor husband died of yellow fever in the West Indies about a year ago, and his income and my support died with him.
For the last twelve months I have lived on the sale of my few jewels, plate, and other personal property, which has gradually melted away in the furnace of my misfortunes, while I have been trying with all my might to obtain employment at my sometime trade as teacher. But, oh, sir! the requirements of modern education are far above my poor capabilities.
Now, at length, when my resources are well nigh exhausted—now, when I can pay my board here only for a few weeks longer, and at the end of that time must go forth—Heaven only knows where!—I venture, in accordance with your own gracious permission, to make this appeal to you! Not for pecuniary aid, which you will pardon me if I say I could not receive from any one, but for such advice and assistance as your wisdom and benevolence could afford me, in finding me some honest way of earning my bread. Feeling assured that your great goodness will not cast this poor note aside unnoticed, I shall wait and hope to hear from you, and, in the meanwhile, remain,
Your humble and obedient servant,
Rose Stillwater.