Reason said to her, “Perhaps there is no such person as Joe Fleming. Mr. Everard is crazy and does not know what he is saying;” but to this Rossie replied, “That may be, but even then there can be no harm in writing. The letter will go to the dead-letter office and no one be the wiser, and if there is a Joe, he deserves to have a piece of my mind. I shall write any way.” And she did write, and this is a copy of the letter: “FORREST HOUSE, ROTHSAY, OHIO, “August 3d, 18—. “MR. FLEMING—_Sir_: I take the liberty of writing to you, because I think you ought to know how sick Mr. Everard Forrest is, and how much he is troubled about the money he owes you. He was thrown from a carriage and hurt, more than ten days ago, and his mother died that same night, and you wrote for money, and everything together made him very sick and out of his head, and that is the way I came to know about you and that gambling debt of his. I am Rosamond Hastings, a little girl who lives in the family, and Mr. Everard is like a brother to me, and I take care of him, and heard him talk of _Joe_ and money which he had to pay, and he wanted to sell his clothes to raise it, and I found out from him that your name was Fleming, and that he owed you fifty dollars which must be paid at once. “I suppose men would call it a debt of _honor_, but, Mr. Fleming, do you think it right to gamble and entice young men like Mr. Everard to play? I think it is very wicked, and dishonorable, and disreputable, and that you ought not to expect him to pay. Why, he _cannot_, for he has no money of his own, and his father would not give it to him for that, and would be so very angry that whatever comes _he_ must never know it,—never. “Now, will you give up the debt and not bother him any more? If you will, please write to him and say so. If you will not, write to me, and I shall try what I can do, for Mr. Everard must not be troubled with it. “Hoping you will excuse me, and that you will reform and be a better man, I am, “Yours respectfully, “ROSAMOND HASTINGS.” “P. S.—You are not to suppose that Mr. Everard knows I am writing, for he does not; nor are you to think that he has spoken ill of you in his delirium. On the contrary, I imagine that he likes you very much indeed, and so I am led to hope that there is much good in you, and that you will not only release him, but quit gambling yourself.” She sealed the letter, and directing it to “MR. JOE FLEMING, ESQ., Holburton, Mass.,” posted it herself, and then anxiously waited the answer. Three days later, and the clerk in the post-office at Holburton said, in reply to Josey’s inquiry for letters: “There’s one here for Mr. Joe Fleming; that can’t be you.”