“MY DEAR MR. CAPTIN CARLETON:—I can’t help puttin’ _dear_ before your name, you seem so nigh to me since Isaac told how kind you was to him. I’m nothin’ but a shrivelled, dried up widder, fifty odd years old, but I’ve got a mother’s heart big enough to take you in with my other boys. I know you are a nice, clever man, but whether you’re a _good_ one, as I call good, I don’t know, though bein’ you come from Boston I’m afraid you’re a Unitarian, and I’ll never quit prayin’ for you till I know. That’s about all I can do, for I’m poor a’most as Job’s turkey; but if there’s any shirts or trouses, or the like o’ that wants makin’, let me know, for I don’t believe your mother or sister is great at sewin’. Mrs. Marthers ain’t, I know, though as nice a little body as ever drawed the breath. Your wife is dead, too, they say, and that comes hard agin. I know just how that feels, for my man died eighteen years ago last October, a few weeks before Isaac was born. “I send you some ’intment for your feet, and some bits of linen rags to bind round your toes; also, some red pepper candy, and my likeness to Isaac. He’ll let you see it if you want to. It don’t ’pear to me that my eyes is as dull as that, or my lips so puckered up, but we can’t see as others see us, and I ain’t an atom proud. Heaven bless you for being kind to Isaac, and if an old woman’s prayers and blessin’s is of any use, you may be sure you have mine. If you come to battle, be so good as to oversee him, won’t you, and git him put way back, if you can. Excuse haste and a bad pen. “Yours with regret, “MRS. BELINDA SIMMS,” This was the widow’s letter, sent with Tom’s parcel to Washington, where the box was greeted by the company with exclamations of joy, and could those who sent it have seen the eager, happy faces of each one as he found he was remembered, they would have felt doubly repaid for all the trouble and annoyance it had cost them. Only one growl of dissatisfaction was heard, and that from Harry Baker, who, with a muttered oath, exclaimed, as he undid his paper parcel, “Apple turnovers, by jing! Sourer than swill, and mouldier than the rot. Halloo, Bill, got some too, I see. What in fury is this? _Dutch cheese_, as I’m alive. Make good bullets for Secesh, so here goes!” and the next moment there whizzed through the air the cheese poor old Mrs. Baker had found so hard to smuggle in. The apple pies followed next, and then the reckless Harry amused himself with jeering at Bill, who, after carefully stowing away in his pocket, the large, strong twine Rose Mather had bound around the paper parcel, seated himself upon the ground, and was munching away at his pie, not because he liked it, but because his mother had sent it, and Billy’s mother was dearer to him now than when he was at home.