family, for besides those from her own and her father's friends,

"The cry is, still they come!"

in shoals from unknown people of high and low degree, sometimes
containing merely poems, or expressions of sympathy and interest in the
sad history of our beautiful cousin, but varied occasionally by some of
the extraordinary appeals for help which I have already mentioned.

This morning I went down to the office when the mail came in. There
was the usual number of expectant faces--Miss Murray and Miss Cox in
their carriages, and our more rural neighbors standing about the
pigeon-hole; however, every one makes way for us in Chappaqua, and I
approached nearer, and asked for our letters. A very rough-looking man
standing near by, looked on with interest while the postmaster handed
out letter after letter, and finally said:

"You belong to the family, do you not?"

"Yes," I said, for I always answer the rustic salutations of the people
about here, knowing them to have had a sort of feudal attachment to
uncle.

"I thought a great deal of the old gentleman," he said with a rude
pathos in his voice that was very touching. "I used to see him very
often, for I live in these parts, and he always used to say
good-morning so pleasant, and was never ashamed to shake my dirty, hard
hand!"

This reminds me of a little incident that mamma related yesterday. She
was standing upon the balcony when an old gentleman who was driving
past, seeing mamma, stopped his horses, looked up and bowed, hesitated,
and then said:

"Excuse me, but is thee the sister of Horace Greeley that was?"

Mamma assented.

"I thought so," he said, "I saw it in thy countenance."

He then told mamma his name, and, after making a few remarks about
uncle that showed thoroughly good feeling, drove on.

It is not uncommon for those driving past to slacken their horses and
gaze earnestly at the house, and, if any of us are upon the piazza or
at the windows, they always bow--a mark of respect that is also shown
us by all the farmers and working people about here.

But I am forgetting Ida's letters. I brought her this morning as many
as six or eight, some of which were put up in yellow-brown envelopes,
and directed in very questionable chirography. In a few moments she
knocked at mamma's door and said,

"I have brought you a few letters from some of my extraordinary
correspondents, Aunt Esther."

"We will compare notes, my dear," said mamma, lookin