Connecticut western news., 1885-02-18
The Letter.


 "Any letters ?" asked the Widow Wadsworth, turning from the grocery counter of tho 'store' of Kornhill to the corner by the window over which swung placard bearing the legend ''Post of flee" upon it, and glancing through her spectacles at the small row of candy jars which we're made to do duty as letter holders. "Any letters for our house, MT. Bristol2"
 MT. Bristol, the senior of that name who was too rheumatic to weigh grocer. ies or measure calico, was as deaf as 8 post, had, perhaps, the least natural talent for the reading of dubious script that could be found in the person of any living man; and, besides this, could never find his spectacles-roused himself from nap in which he had been in- dulging, looked bewildered, and seemed for moment dubious as to what he should do next; but seeing that Mrs. Wadsworth's eyes were fixed upon the candy jars, decided that she wanted Q letter, and, reaching up, slowly took two of them down and, with much delibera- ton, spread them before her like pack of cards.
 s'I've put my specks some'rs," he said, "but where I dunno. Look 'em over and sort out what's yourn, Mrs. Wads- worth"
 This was old MT. Bristol's usual style of performing the business of postmaster. And as it was an honest place, little harm came of it. Often people carried their neighbors' letters to them when they happened to pass their gates, and the only registered letter that ever yet has been sent to Kornhill was consid- cred an insult to the community atlarge sThey might ha' known no one would ha' meddled with it." said the post master.
 And the farmers talked the matter over as they jogged home side by side in their wagons, and the summer boarder who did the strange thing was made to feel the indignation of her hostess. But that was long after the evening on which Mrs. Wadsworth asked if there were any letters for tther house." Peering over the little row spread be- fore her, she saw that there was one-a small envelope in delicate lady's hand to "James Wadsworth, Esq"
 "That's Jim," said the old lady. "Who can have writ to him ?"
 There were no more. She put her single epistle in her pocket, pushed the rest toward Mir. Bristol and nodded at him. Mir. Bristol nodded in reply, re- jared the letters, perched himself upon stool and went to sleep again. Then the younger Bristol helped the old lady into her wagon, handed in her basket of groceries. and she drove away, with the letter in her pocket, and a queer feeling, half fear and half anger, at her heart as she said over and over again, talking aloud to herself, as the old white horse plodded along the lonely road:
 "Who has writ to Jim, wonder?'
 Maggie, the>> ''help," came out to carry in the basket, when Mrs. Wads- worth stopped at her own gate, and she herself walked into the kitchen. There was great stove there, and on it tht kettle was boiling, steam rushing iron it's spout in one long stream, and creep ing in flat sheet from under the cover Before this stove Mrs. Wadsworth stooC and warmed her hands.
 'I wonder who has writ to Jim" sh' said. 'H thought it was that girl I't throw it into the fire"
 Then a story she had heard of som, one who had feloniously opened an en velope by holding it over the steam o tea.kettle occurred to her mind.
 ''I wonder whether it would open tha way" she said. ''It couldn't be an, great harm just to satisfy myself that isn't from her. Jim is but boy, and am his mother. guess, according t law, I'd have right. I ought to, any how"
 Then the hand which held the lette outstretched itself. The stream of stean peat against the flap of the envelope In moment or so, it hung loose ant limp and wet in her hands,"
 "I'll go and put my bonnet away, she said, in an unnatural sort of tone and hurried upstairs.
 'I am his mother," she said again, a she sat down in her rocking-chair an, drew the letter from the envelope. "It' right should know"
 Then she cast her eye over the writ ing. There was not much of it. Jus this:
 "DEAR JAMES: I know, after my COT duct, it is my place to write first. wa naughty. Please forgive me. Isn't ths humble enough? And if you do, com and take me to thepicnic tomorrow.
 "Your own
 sNEnLY."
 ssIt is from that girl" said Mir Wadsworth. '1ts from her. An things have gone so far, and he l,asn told his mother word Oh, how har t is to bear ! That girl ! don't wai