He diden’t seem to know much about her. He said that some people found her sick and delirious in a small house in the west end and notified the township trustees; that the trustees went to the prosecuting attorney and wanted to know what was best to be done with her and if the law would permit them to hire somebody to go to her house and take care of her. The prosecuting attorney asked if she had any money or property. The trustees told him that she had not; that she was very poor—had nothing. “Send her to the poor-house,” says the prosecutor, “send her to the poor-house. The best thing to do with such people is to get rid of them.” So, the expressman said, they came and got him, and they drove out and loaded her into his express wagon, and he brought her out here. “Her name is Betsy Gaskins,” says he. It was cold and stormy, and the poor old soul was in great pain all night. A few minutes ago I went in, and she was breathing so weak that I put my hand in her bosom to see if her heart was beating, and I found this letter from “Jobe Gaskins.” It seems she is a married woman, and he has been away from home and is coming back. I send it to you, and, if you see him, tell him where he can find his wife. Now, Mr. Editor, you had better send this old man’s letter back, so that if the old lady gets better she will have it. But I don’t know as she will ever be much better; she seems to be sinking. Send the old man out as soon as he gets there. From a friend to Betsy Gaskins, HATTIE MOORE. JOBE’S FOURTH LETTER. AKRON, O., March 12, 1896. _To Betsy Gaskins._ DEAR WIFE:—They let me out last Monday. I felt very strange when they opened them big doors and told me to go. When I got out onto the street I felt jist like a feller does when he is lost in a big woods. I dident know which way to start. But I wanted to git back to you. I saw a depot marked “Woodland Station,” and I went over there—went in and sot down. Pretty soon a passenger train come in headed south. Everybody got up to take it, and, I dont know why, but I went with the crowd and into the car. When the train got started, I thought of havin no ticket or money. The conductor dident get around to me until we had passed Newburg. I was lookin out at the big buildin where they keep crazy people, when he teched me on the shoulder and says, “Ticket.” I told him I had no ticket nor money; that I was a old man; had been out tryin to find work and couldent; that my wife was sick and I was wantin to git back. He said: “You cant ride on this train. Youle have to git off.” I asked him if he couldent let me ride; that I would pay him some time if I ever got the money. “No,” says he, “my instructions are to carry no one without a ticket or the money.”