children in a donkey cart halted just before her door, not of their own
free will, but in obedience to a caprice of the donkey's. They did not
hurt Mrs. Nancy's feelings by cudgelling the fat little beast, but sat
laughing and whistling and coaxing him until, of his own accord, he put
his big flapping ears forward as though they had been sails, and ambled
on. There were pretty turnouts to watch, and spirited horses, and Mrs.
Nancy found her mind constantly wandering from what she meant should be
the subject of her thoughts.

When the postman appeared around the corner he came to her gate and
lifted the latch. It was not time for her small bank dividend. The
letter must be from her husband's sister-in-law, who wrote to her about
twice a year. As Mrs. Nancy sat down to read the letter her eyes rested
for a moment upon the mountains.

"If Almira could have come with the letter she'd have thought those
snowy peaks well worth the journey," she said to herself. And then she
read the letter.

Here it is:

"DEAR NANCY,--Excuse my long silence, but I've been suffering from
rheumatism dreadfully, and haven't had the spirit to write to
anybody but my Almira. It's been so kind of lonesome since she went
away that I guess that's why the rheumatism got such a hold of me.
When you ain't got anybody belonging to you, you get kind of
low-spirited. Then the weather--it's been about as bad as I ever
seen it. Not a good hard rain, but a steady drizzle-drozzle day
after day. You can't put your foot out of doors without getting
your petticoats draggled. But you'll want to hear the news. Cousin
Joshua he died last month, and the place was sold to auction.
Deacon Stebbins bought it low. He's getting harder-fisted every
year. Eliza Stebbins she's pretty far gone with lung trouble,
living in that damp old place; but he won't hear to making any
change, and she ain't got life enough left to ask for it. Both her
boys is off to Boston. Does seem as though you couldn't hold the
young folks here with ropes, and I don't know who's going to run
the farms and the corner store when we're gone. Going pretty fast
we be too. They've been eight deaths in the parish since last
Thanksgiving--Mary Jane Evans and me was counting them up last
sewing circle. Mr. Williams, the new minister, made out as we'd
better find a more cheerful subject; but we told h