Ruth tossed the “batch of letters” down unopened, and sprang to her feet; she tossed up Nettie; she kissed the astonished child till she was half strangled; she laughed, she cried, and then she sat down with her forehead in both her hands, for a prolonged reverie.
What good news about the book! How could she wait two days before she brought back Katy! And yet it would be a happy thing, that Mr. Walter, whose name was synonymous with good tidings, should be associated with her in the return of the child. Yes, she would wait. And when Katy was secured, what then? Why, she would leave forever a city fraught with such painful associations; she would make her a new home. Home? Her heart leaped!—comforts for Nettie and Katy,—clothes—food,—earned by her own hands!—Tears trickled through Ruth’s fingers, and her heart went out in a murmured prayer to the “God of the widow and fatherless.”
“May I play house with these?” said Nettie, touching Ruth’s elbow, and pointing to the unopened letters.
“No, little puss,” said Ruth, “not yet. Wait a bit till I have glanced at them;” and she broke the seal of one.
It was an offer of marriage from a widower. He had read an article of hers on “Step-Mothers,” and was “very sure that a woman with such views could not fail to make a good mother for his children.” He was thirty-five—good-looking, (every man who had written her a love-letter was!) good disposition—warm-hearted—would love her just as well as if he had never bent an adoring knee to Mrs. Dorrance No. 1—was not at all set in his ways—in fact preferred she should, in everything, save him the trouble of choice; would live in any part of the Union she desired, provided she would only consent to the union. These last two words Mr. Dorrance had italicised, as indicating, probably, that he considered it a pun fit even for the critical eye of an authoress.
“Oh, pshaw!” said Ruth, throwing the letter to Nettie, “make anything you like of it, pussy; it is of no value to me.” The next letter ran as follows:
“Madam:
“I have the honor to be guardian to a young Southern lady (an orphan) of large fortune, who has just completed her education. She has taken a suite of apartments, and given me orders to furnish them without regard to expense, according to her fancy. I have directions to procure busts of Mrs. Hemans, Miss Landon, and several other distinguished female writers, among whom Miss Le Roy includes ‘Floy,’ (I have not the pleasure, madam, of knowing your true name,) with whose writings she has become familiar, and who is as great a favorite with her as she is with the multitude who have paid tribute to her genius.
“Please send me a line, (my address as below,) allowing me to inform my ward how her favorite wish can be best carried out.
“Yours truly, Thomas Pearce.”