Ruth returned from her daily walk to the Post Office, one morning, with
a bundle of letters, among which was one from Mr. Walter. Its contents
were as follows:
"DEAR SISTER RUTH:
"I wonder if you are enjoying your triumph half as much as I? But
how should you, since you do not know of it? Your publishers inform
me that orders are pouring in for your book faster than they can
supply them. What do you think of that? 'Floy,' you have made a
decided hit; how lucky that you had the foresight to hold on to
your copyright. $800 will not be a circumstance to the little
fortune you are going to make. Your success is glorious; but I
don't believe you are half as proud of it as I am.
"And now, I know of what you are thinking as well as if I were by
your side. 'Tis of the little exile, 'tis of Katy. You would fly
directly to bring her home. Can I be of any service to you in doing
this? Business takes me your way day after to-morrow. Can you curb
your impatience to see her till then? If so, I will accompany you.
Please write me immediately.
"Yours truly, JOHN WALTER.
"P. S.--I send you a batch of letters, which came by this morning's
mail, directed to 'Floy,' office of the Household Messenger."
Ruth tossed the "batch of letters" down unopened, and sprang to her
feet; she tossed up Nettie; she kissed the astonished child till she was
half strangled; she laughed, she cried, and then she sat down with her
forehead in both her hands, for a prolonged reverie.
What _good_ news about the book! How could she wait two days before she
brought back Katy! And yet it would be a happy thing, that Mr. Walter,
whose name was synonymous with good tidings, should be associated with
her in the return of the child. Yes, she would wait. And when Katy _was_
secured, what then? Why, she would leave forever a city fraught with
such painful associations; she would make her a new home. Home? Her
heart leaped!--comforts for Nettie and Katy,--clothes--food,--earned by
her own hands!--Tears trickled through Ruth's fingers, and her heart
went out in a murmured prayer to the "God of the widow and fatherless."
"May I play house with these?" said Nettie, touching Ruth's elbow, and
pointing to the unopened letters.
"No, little puss," said Ruth, "not yet. Wait a bit till I have glanced
at them;" and she broke the seal of one.
It was an offer of marriage from a widower. He had read an article of
hers on "Step-Mothers," and was "very sure that a woman with _such_
views could not fail to make a good mother for his children." He was
thirty-five--good-looking, (every man who had written her a love-letter
_was_!) good disposition--warm-hearted--would love her just as well as
if he had never bent an adoring knee to Mrs. Dorrance No. 1--was not at
all set in his ways--in fact preferred she should, in everything, save
him the trouble of _choice_; would live in any part of the Union she
desired, provided she would only consent to _the union_. These last two
words Mr. Dorrance had italicised, as indicating, probably, that he
considered it a pun fit even for the critical eye of an authoress.
"Oh, pshaw!" said Ruth, throwing the letter to Nettie, "make anything
you like of it, pussy; it is of no value to me." The next letter ran as
follows:
"MADAM:
"I have the honor to be guardian to a young Southern lady (an
orphan) of large fortune, who has just completed her education.
She has taken a suite of apartments, and given me orders to furnish
them without regard to expense, according to her fancy. I have
directions to procure busts of Mrs. Hemans, Miss Landon, and
several other distinguished female writers, among whom Miss Le Roy
includes 'Floy,' (I have not the pleasure, madam, of knowing your
true name,) with whose writings she has become familiar, and who is
as great a favorite with her as she is with the multitude who have
paid tribute to her genius.
"Please send me a line, (my address as below,) allowing me to
inform my ward how her favorite wish can be best carried out.
"Yours truly, THOMAS PEARCE."
Ruth glanced around her little dark room and smiled. "I would rather,
instead, that an artist would take a sketch of my room, now," said she;
"that little black stove, where I have so often tried in vain to thaw
my frozen fingers--that rickety old bed--the old deal table, with its
yellow bowl of milk--that home-made carpet--those time-worn chairs--and
then you, my little bright fairy, in the foreground;" and she pushed
back the soft, glossy curls from Nettie's fair brow.
"No, no," said Ruth, "better reserve the niche destined for 'Floy' for
some writer to whom ambition is not the hollow thing it is to me.
"Well, what have we here? Another letter?" Ruth broke the seal of letter
No. 3, and read:
"DEAR MADAM:
"I am a poor devil, and worse editor; nevertheless, I have started
a paper. If you will but allow me to put your name on it as
Assistant Editress, I am sure it will go like a locomotive. If, in
addition to this little favor, you could also advance me the sum of
one hundred dollars, it would be an immense relief to your admirer,
"JOHN K. STAPLES.
"P. S.--Be sure you direct to John _K._ Staples, as there is
another John Staples in this place, who is a great rascal.
"J. K. S."
"Well!" exclaimed Ruth, "I did not believe I should ever be astonished
again, but then--I had not heard from Mr. Staples. But here is another
letter. Let us see what the contents of No. 4 are."
Letter No. 4 ran as follows:
"DEAR 'FLOY':
"I am a better son, a better brother, a better husband, and
a better father, than I was before I commenced reading your
articles. May God bless you for the words you have spoken (though
unintentionally) so directly to me. May you be rewarded by Him to
whom the secrets of all hearts are known.
"Your grateful friend, M. J. D."
"This will repay many a weary hour," said Ruth, as her tears fell upon
the page.