The studying was scarcely better at first. It was very hard between his bites of corn-bread in the noon-spell to give his attention to looking out words in the dictionary, or mastering what seemed to him such profound problems in arithmetic. There was an hour before supper which was his own, and that was devoted, half to study and half to Bible-reading. It was very hard work to stand firmly by his resolution, and go after his books at the close of a warm, tiresome day, and study so persistently just when the twilight was growing beautiful and the people were all resting before their cabin doors. Sometimes he was quite discouraged, and almost determined to give up. One afternoon, when he had been perhaps two weeks on the plantation, he was coming home from work just at sunset, with his jacket thrown over his arm, warm and tired with his day’s labor, and rather dreading than otherwise the hour of study which was before him, when suddenly, as he passed near the mansion, the master stepped from the doorway and accosted him. Tom stopped and waited for what he might have to say. “Is your name Tom Alson?” he asked, feeling in his coat pocket and drawing out a number of letters. “Yes, sir,” he answered, his heart bounding with a hope he hardly dared to own. “Well, then, I’ve a letter for you,” he said, selecting one from a number. He scanned it curiously for a few minutes, and then gave it to the boy, adding, “Can you read writing?” “Yes, sir,” replied Tom; “I can read writing, and write myself. I am much obliged to you.” “Not at all,” answered Mr. Sutherland, carelessly. “Do you know who wrote that direction?” Tom looked at the letter which his fingers held so lovingly, and replied with a very bright face, “Yes, sir--my teacher.” “Is she white?” inquired the master. “Oh yes, sir! She is a Northern lady.” “Well, go off and enjoy your letter,” said Mr. Sutherland, dismissing him, and turning away pleased with the eager look of welcome the boy had given the letter. And Tom, glad to be so dismissed, ran off to his seat under the trees, leaving his books to take care of themselves while he read the precious letter--the first one he had ever received in his life. There were two, he found, when he opened the envelope. One with all the dainty prettiness of French paper and stamped “M,” in the delicate handwriting of Miss Mason, and the other in the round, school-girl hand of Martha. Ah! how every word of those two letters went to Tom’s heart! Martha’s was full of home news, every item well expressed, because her heart was in this the first letter written to her brother Tom. It was penned in good spirits, for her mother had been able to obtain a few days’ work. “I am looking for a place for myself,” she wrote, “and hope to get one, but I have not seen any opportunity as yet, and sometimes I almost wish I had gone with you.” “I am glad she didn’t,” thought Tom.