The Old Stone House. 61 



laid between the leaves, that had probably formed a part 

 of Miss Moorewood's dress, and copy-books on the floor 

 showed samples of her writing. Family letters lay in this 

 old pile, accompanied by used checks returned by the 

 bank. These letters remind you in tone of those written 

 yesterday, of those written to you by your friend. Their 

 messages are the same. It needs but the change of signa- 

 tures, with the change of years, for the general truths are 

 there. They show the ironbound fate that must ever hold 

 us. It was these documents, now so brown and stained 

 by the weather, that they read with eager eyes walking in 

 the lane. They gathered by the hearth or in the hall, and 

 the letter was read aloud ; it was treasured, stored in the 

 attic, and now is pulled from its hiding. 



We find a receipt, dated July, 1836, for one hundred 

 and seventeen dollars, for rent, perhaps for this same old 

 house * and also a detailed account of the letters sent by 

 Mr. Moorewood in 1827. The diligent correspondent 

 spent as much for postage and wax and paper in those 

 days as he did for the taxes or rent of his broad acres. 



While I turned the pile my friend climbed through the 

 skylight and sat in the sun, ever and anon calling to me 

 how beautiful the meadows looked on this bright day. " I 

 can hear you scratching, scratching down there, like a 

 mouse in the wall," he shouted, and, poking his head into 

 the garret, inspected my progress, and then turned away 

 to his vision of fair meadows again. 



Still I burrowed on, now upturning a certificate stating 

 that Mr. Moorewood had learned surveying in Halifax, 

 and now a number of Eugene Sue's novel, " The Wander- 



