My right name is Hugh De Lacey so when you wish to adress or direct any thing to me direct to Hugh De Lacey, Deerlodge City, Montana. Miss Greely a great many eastern men we remarked seem to think that we mountaineers are to blame for having trouble with the redskins I can assure you we never bother the infernal vermin only when they bother us and that is pretty often for when they get a chance to go for our hair they take it no more at present I remain "Yours respectfully "HUGH DE LACEY. "N.B. I have heard you eastern ladies are in the habit of useing a deal of false hair in your toilets if you choose miss Greely I will send you a lot of Indians hair any time you want it. I remain yours respectfully "HUGH DE LACEY." "It reads like a chapter from one of Cooper's novels," said mamma, "and the romantic name of Hugh De Lacey would be more appropriate to the handsome young descendant of some old Huguenot refugee family than such a rough trapper as your correspondent 'Death Rifle;' but the present he offers you is most singularly inappropriate; no one who had ever seen your wealth of hair, my child, would think of presenting you with a chignon;" and as she spoke she loosened and shook out Ida's heavy clusters of hair, which, released from their orderly Marguerite braids, swept over her black dress like a tawny mantle. [1] I insert this and the subsequent letters precisely as they are written, merely withholding some of the signatures. CHAPTER XV. Life in the Woods of Pennsylvania--Journey from Vermont to Pennsylvania in 1826--Travelling on Canal-boats--Incidents by the Way--Home in the Wilderness--Aggressions of Bears and Wolves. _July 14_. "Aunt Esther, in all the stories of your early days that you have told us, you have not yet described your life in Pennsylvania," said Ida one evening, when we were gathered about the piano. "Do tell us about it. You have once or twice merely alluded to living in the woods, and my curiosity is quite excited. Were they veritable forests? I do not remember hearing papa say much about them." Mamma smiled sadly. "What makes you think of Pennsylvania to-night, my child?" she asked. "I do not know, auntie," was the reply, "unless perhaps it was hearing Cecilia sing 'My love is like the red, red rose.' You told me, I remember, that grandmamma used often to sing that pretty little Scotch ballad." "Yes, it was one of mother's favorite songs," said mamma. "I can remember perfectly the way she used to sing it. Not in your English version, Cecilia, but with Burns' own Scotch words, and in her sweet, low voice, with a ring of passion that one rarely hears in a drawing-room at the present day. As Charles Reade says of one of his heroines, 'She sung the music for the sake of the words, not the words for the sake of the music--which is something very rare.'