Short, stout, broad-shouldered as an infant Hercules, with a round, good-humored face, laughing grey eyes, and elf-locks tanned to a dead flaxey whiteness, by continual exposure to the sun and wind—“Our Bill,” for so he was constantly and familiarly denominated, was to be found every where, and equal to every imposed duty. He chopped wood, made the fires, fetched water, brought the cows, and helped the maids to milk them; went of all the errands, and did _all the chores_. When the farmer came in wearied from the field, “Our Bill” ran to the cellar and drew for his refreshment a mug of hard cider. If an extra hand was wanted in hay-time or harvest, it was only to send to the house for “Our Bill.” If a neighbor was at a loss for a messenger in any emergency—the first thought was to request of neighbor Dawkins the loan of “Bill.” In short, he was in demand for every thing, and I began to consider him ubiquitous. The readiness with which he complied with every requisition, his unvarying good-humor and promptness to oblige, soon drew my attention and gained my approbation. The first marked kindness which I received from him I well remember. I was sitting in the apartment allotted to my use, and taking my breakfast. The morning was dark, and it rained violently. I looked toward the windows with a sort of hopelessness of feeling, for I expected that letters were lying in the post-office in the village, from my friends in the city, and I knew not how to procure them. To be sure I might send “Our Bill,” but I had not the heart to do so. While meditating thus, a gentle tap came to my door. I opened it, and who should appear but “Our Bill.” His garments were soaked and dripping with rain, which fell in rapid and discolored drops from numerous ragged points and edges. He held his tattered, crownless hat in one hand, while he extended to me in the other no less than three letters—three letters from dear friends in town—how dear, let friendship in absence determine. I looked up at the windows involuntarily, as I broke the seal of one missive. “Why William, (I never could bear to call him Bill,) you have been to the post-office—and through all the storm—I hope you did not go entirely on my account?” “Yes, but I did though.” “Why, my lad, I never would have sent you through such a tempest of wind and rain.” “I know that. But I heard you say last night that you thought there were letters for you in the village, so I determined you should have ’em.” “You are a kind boy, Will. Are you not cold? You had better go quickly and change your clothes.” “Change my clothes, oh no—I don’t mind a wet jacket. I’ll make a fire up for you though, if you please,” and he looked at my vacant hearth. “Do so,” said I, and while he was engaged I perused my letters. Their contents were satisfactory and pleasing, and I sat ruminating on the past, with no painful anticipations about the future, while the boy went on with his self-imposed employment.