"Maybe, sir, you would not mind writing to us--only a very short letter, to tell us how you get on with the clearing, and whether you have made it much bigger, and built a great house upon it, as I have heard father say you intended to do. I shall always like to hear that you are in good health, and that you are happy. "I have to tell you of a very strange thing that happened to us. At the mouth of the Obion river, when we were in the canoe at night-time--for we travelled all that night--we heard some one shouting to us, and O Sir! it was so like your voice that I trembled when I heard it, for it appeared as if it came down out of the clouds. It was a thick mist, and we could see no one; but for all that, I would have cried out, but father would not let me speak. It appeared to be right above our heads; and father said it was some wood-cutters who had climbed into a tree. I suppose that must have been it; but it was as like your voice as if it had been you that shouted, and as I knew you could not be there, it made me wonder all the more. "We arrived at this place yesterday. It is a large town on the Arkansas river: and we came to it in a steam-boat. From here we are to travel in a waggon with a great many other people in what they call a `caravan,' and they say we shall be many months in getting to the end of the journey. It is a long time to wait before I can write again, for there are no towns beyond Van Buren, and no post to carry a letter. But though I cannot write to you, I will not forget to think of the words you said to me, as I am now thinking of them every minute. In one of my mother's books which I brought with me, I have read a pretty piece. It is in poetry; and it is so like what I have been thinking of you, that I have learnt it off by heart. It is so true-like and so pretty a piece that I thought you might like to read it, and hoping it may please you, I write it at the end of my letter, which I fear I have already made too long; but I hope you will have patience to read it all, and then read the poetry:-- "I think of thee when Morning springs From sleep with plumage bathed in dew; And like a young bird lifts her wings Of gladness on the welkin blue. And when at noon the breath of love O'er flower and stream is wandering free, And sent in music from the grove-- I think of thee--I think of thee! "I think of thee, when soft and wide The Evening spreads her robe of light, And like a young and timid bride, Sits blushing in the arms of Night. And when the moon's sweet crescent springs In light or heaven's deep, waveless sea, And stars are forth like blessed things-- I think of thee--I think of thee! "O sir! it is very, very true! I do think of you, and I am sure I shall do so as long as I live. "Lilian Holt."