“That's good,” said he, when I read it to him; and added, proudly, with his finger on the unfinished line, “Wages, thirty dollars a month.” I did as he wished. “Now go on,” he suggested. “Throw in a big word once in a while.” “Aren't you going to say anything about love?” I asked. “A little poem might please her.” “Go light on that,” he answered, doubtfully. “She's respectable.” It is a trait of the common clay of which Sam was made to consider love a thing to be reluctantly, if ever, confessed. When the grand passion showed itself in his conduct it was greeted with jeers and rude laughter. It became, therefore, a hidden, timid thing. “Nonsense!” I exclaimed; “she can't be more respectable than love and poetry. If you love her you ought not to be ashamed of it.” “Well, throw in a little if you think best,” he yielded, “but do it careful.” So the letter continued: Lately I've been saving my money. Perhaps you can guess why. I want a home and some one to help me make it happy, and I believe I've found her. She is good and beautiful, and all that a woman should be. Do you want to know who it is? Well, that's a secret. She's a lady, and that's all I will tell you now. Fannie, you're a friend of mine, and I need your advice. I am a little frightened and don't know just what to say to her, and you could make it easy for me if you would. Please let me know when I can see you. Sam shook his head and laughed and exclaimed, “That's business!” “No, it's love,” I objected. “Well, it ain't foolish or unproper, an' it sounds kind o' comical. She'll want to know all about it. Put in that I'm goin' to take a farm an' be my own boss, an' have as good a horse an' buggy as any one. That makes it kind o' temptin'.” I did as he wished. “Now say, 'Yours truly, with respect,'” said he, and so my task was ended. Three days later he came to me in high spirits, with a letter in his hand. “I'm goin' to see Fannie to-morrow,” he said, in a whisper. “If Sam Whittemore can do anything for you, I want to know it.” His opportunity came that evening. I was doing my chores in the barn. Suddenly Sam burst upon me. “They're after you!” he whispered. “Who?” I asked. “Two men in a buggy--they've heard you were here.” I had told him of my trouble, and now it threatened to engulf me. Would I give myself up and go home with the officers? I could not bear the thought of going home like a felon. It would kill my mother. This all flashed through my brain in a jiffy, while the dusk air seemed to be full of chains and handcuffs. I started to climb a ladder. “No use,” said he, as he picked up an empty sack. “They know you're here. Get into this sack.”