aves like a lily, and
then came the pure, graceful flowers.

_To Mrs. Condict, Dorset, July 9, 1876._

There has been a great change here in religious interest, the foundation
of which is thought to have been laid in the Bible-readings. I am
ashamed to believe it, all I say and do seems so flat; but our Lord
can overrule incompetence. The ladies are eager to have the readings
resumed, but I can not undertake it unless I get stronger. The Rev. Mr.
and Mrs. Reed are doing a quiet work among non-churchgoers at the other
end of the village. She has been to every house in the neighborhood
and "compelled them to come in," having meetings at her own house. _Of
course the devil is on hand._ He reminds me of a slug that sits on my
rose bushes watching for the buds to open, when he falls to and devours
them, instanter. I am sure it is as true of him as of the Almighty, that
he never slumbers or sleeps. His impertinences increase daily.

One of the last things I did before leaving home was to decide to bring
here one of the Hippodrome converts, about whom I presume I wrote you.
We knew next to nothing about him, and I could ill afford to support
him; but I was his only earthly friend. He had no home, no work, and I
felt I ought to look after him. We gave him a little room in the old
mill, and he is perfectly happy; calls his room his "castle," does
not feel the heat, takes care of my garden, enjoys haying, has put
everything in order, is as strong as a horse, and a comfort to us all;
being willing to turn his hand to anything. In the evenings he has made
for me a manilla mat, of which I am very proud. He has been all over
the world and picked up all sorts of information. He went to hear Mr.
Prentiss' centennial address on the Fourth at a picnic, and I was
astonished when he came back at his intelligent account of it. Everybody
likes him, and he has proved a regular institution. I would not have had
a flower but for him, for I can not work out in such a blazing sun as we
have had. [10]

My book is to be called, I believe, "The Home at Greylock"; but I don't
know. My husband and Mr. Randolph fussed so over the title that I said
it would end in being called "Much Ado about Nothing." _They_, being
men, look at the financial question, to which I never gave a thought.
Even Satan has never so much as whispered, Write to make money; don't be
too religious in your books. Still he may do it, now I have put it into
his head. How little a