Donald’s eyes twinkled merrily as he glanced at Russell’s face, which really showed embarrassment for a moment. “We cannot tell, Mr. Garrett, what her opportunities may have been in the other world. We may know hereafter much that is hidden from us now,” he said after a little preliminary cough to clear his throat. “Well, how is it that Injun control o’ yourn hain’t learned to read an’ write, if their chances are so good over there? He allus complains ’cause he can’t read.” “Perhaps because he is of another language and nation,” replied Russell, evidently annoyed at the persistence of his interlocutor. “Wall, ye see my mother was a Scotch woman, and didn’t talk as we do, an’ I can’t see how she come to use such perty English in that letter.” “Perhaps,” interposed Russell hastily, “there was some mistake about it and the letter was intended for some one else.” “It was directed to me,” persisted the farmer, “an’ I don’t know another feller round these parts that answers to the name of Solomon Garrett.” “Well, we will not discuss this matter now,” said Russell, anxious to turn the subject of conversation. “Mother Dearborn is going to read us a poem, Mrs. Bartram tells me. We will listen to that now, and continue this subject at another time.” Auntie Dearborn, thus appealed to, fumbled in her big basket, and after opening several papers selected one, which she smilingly announced was “inspired by Lord Byron himself.” Then in a musical voice she read: “Friends of earth, to you I hasten With a message from on high. Sorrows seek you but to chasten; Bear all bravely, I am nigh. When the stars shine, I am by. When you whisper, know I hear you. When you call, to you I fly. When the night falls, I am near you. “In the night-winds, hear me calling, When your eyelids close in sleep, While the evening dew is falling, Still my watchful care I keep. For in life, dear one, I met you, Met you but to see and love. Now I never can forget you, Though I roam in space above. “O my darling, are you weary Of the fruits the world can give? Are your days and night-times dreary In the lonely life you live? Then, oh, think that you can fly, love, To my waiting, loving arms, For ’tis no hard thing to die, love, When the world has lost its charms.