Letter No. 4 ran as follows:
“Dear ‘Floy’:
“I am a better son, a better brother, a better husband, and a better father, than I was before I commenced reading your articles. May God bless you for the words you have spoken (though unintentionally) so directly to me. May you be rewarded by Him to whom the secrets of all hearts are known.
“Your grateful friend, M. J. D.”
“This will repay many a weary hour,” said Ruth, as her tears fell upon the page.
CHAPTER LXXXI.
The rain had poured down without mitigation for seven consecutive days; the roads were in a very plaster-y state; dissevered branches of trees lay scattered upon the ground; tubs and hogsheads, which careful housewives had placed under dripping spouts, were full to overflowing; the soaked hides of the cattle looked sleek as their owners’ pomatum’d heads of a Sunday; the old hen stood poised on one leg at the barn-door, till even her patience had given out; the farmers had mended all the old hoe and rake handles, read the Almanac through and through, and worn all the newspapers and village topics threadbare, when the welcome sun at last broke through the clouds, and every little and big puddle in the road hastened joyfully to reflect his beams.
Old Doctor Hall started down cellar for his “eleven o’clock mug of cider;” to his dismay he found his slippered pedestals immersed in water, which had risen above the last step of the cellar-stairs.