slovenly
written, grievously misspelled, and read as follows:--

"SWEETHEART: A tyranous Act, begotten in Envy and Jealousie, keeps me
here a prisoner. Last night I was Basely arrested by Servile Hands for
that Freedom of Thought and Expression for which I have already
Sacrifized so much--aye all that Man hath but Love and Honour. But the
End is Near. When for the Maintenance of Power, the Liberties of the
Peoples are subdued by Martial Supremacy and the Dictates of Ambition
the State is Lost. I lie in Vile Bondage here in Morristown under
charge of Disrespeck--me that a twelvemonth past left a home and
Respectable Connexions to serve my Country. Believe me still your own
Love, albeit in the Power of Tyrants and condemned it may be to the
scaffold.

"The Messenger is Trustworthy and will speed safely to me such as you
may deliver unto him. The Provender sanktified by your Hands and made
precious by yr. Love was wrested from me by Servil Hands and the Eggs,
Sweetheart, were somewhat Addled. The Bacon is, methinks by this time
on the Table of the Comr-in-Chief. Such is Tyranny and Ambition.
Sweetheart, farewell, for the present.

ALLAN."

Mistress Thankful read this composition once, twice, and then tore it
up. Then, reflecting that it was the first letter of her lover's that
she had not kept, she tried to put together again the torn fragments,
but vainly, and then in a pet, new to her, cast them from the window.
During the rest of the day she was considerably distraite, and even
manifested more temper than she was wont to do; and later, when her
father rode away on his daily visit to Morristown, she felt strangely
relieved. By noon the snow ceased, or rather turned into a driving
sleet that again in turn gave way to rain. By this time she became
absorbed in her household duties,--in which she was usually
skilful,--and in her own thoughts that to-day had a novelty in their
meaning. In the midst of this, at about dark, her room being in the
rear of the house, she was perhaps unmindful of the trampling of horse
without, or the sound of voices in the hall below. Neither was
uncommon at that time. Although protected by the Continental army from
forage or the rudeness of soldiery, the Blossom farm had always been a
halting-place for passing troopers, commissary teamsters, and
reconnoitring officers. Gen. Sullivan and Col. Hamilton had watered
their horses at its broad, substantial wayside trough, and s