DEAR MR. PUTNAM,--My interest in your welfare is too deep for me to stop to consider how you will regard my writing you. I heard in Boston yesterday, that the stock of the Samoset and Brookfield is likely to increase in value very soon. I tell you this _in strictest confidence_, as I have heard it intimated that you own some of the stock. Very sincerely yours, FLORA STURTEVANT. CHAPTER VIII. ON THE PIAZZA. The life of Bathalina Clemens was one long wail in the past-potential tense. "I might have been" was the refrain of all her days. "I might ha' been Peter Mixon's wife, if my sinful pride hadn't a made me high-minded," she said continually. "How'd I know he'd give up so easily, 'cause I said I wouldn't let him lick the ground I walked on?" The nasal melancholy of camp-meeting minors floated after her angular form like the bitter odor from wormwood or tansy. She reproved the levity of those about her with an inner satisfaction at having "borne testimony;" and particularly did she labor with Patty, whose high spirits were a continual thorn to Bathalina. "It's so like the Amorites and the Hittites and Hivites," she groaned, "to be always singing and laughing and dancing about! How'll you feel when you come to your latter end? Would you dance on your dying-bed?" "Probably not," Patty answered, laughing more than ever; "but I can't tell." The spraining of Patty's ankle seemed to Bathalina a direct visitation of Providence in reproof for her vain merry-making. "I knew some judgment would happen to you," the servant said. "'My sinfulness has been visited upon me.' If you'd only live as you'll wish you had when you come to stand around your dying-bed!" "Bathalina," Patty said sedately, "I am glad you mention it. I intend to behave until my ankle gets better; and I wanted to ask you if you'd mind taking my place in the theatricals we are getting up." "You may mock now," retorted Bathalina wrathfully; "but at the last you'll bite like an adder, and sting like a serpent.--Mrs. Sanford, I came to tell you that I am going this afternoon to the funeral of my cousin Sam's first wife's child." "Is she dead?" asked Mrs. Sanford. "I hadn't heard of it; though, now, I remember I did hear a dog howl night before last." "I suppose she's dead," the servant answered; "because, when I was over there Saturday, Jane said to me, says she, 'We sha'n't churn till after Emma dies.' And she wouldn't ha' said that if she warn't a-goin' to die soon. And, as that family always has their funerals Wednesday, I thought I better go over." "But to-night is bread night," Mrs. Sanford objected; while Patty sank back in convulsions of laughter. "Well'm, I'll mix it up early to-morrow morning." "No," the housewife said decidedly; "none of your bread raised by daylight in my house. I'll see to it myself to-night. Grandmother Sanford is coming to-day; and she knows what good bread is, if anybody does."