“I _was_ a little mad at ’em,” she wrote to Magdalen, “and felt pretty bad when the ruff tumbled in, but I didn’t screech as _that woman_ (meaning Mrs. Walter Scott) did. She nigh about fainted away, and they carried her into Miss Perkins’s house and flung water in her face till them curls of hern were just nothin’ but strings. T’other one, Miss Franklin, wasn’t there, and I heard that she lay abed the whole time and watched it from the winder. That’s a nice wife for you. Oh, I tell you, he’ll get his pay for takin’ the property from Roger, and givin’ such a party as he did, and only invitin’ fust cut in town, and not all of _them_. There was Miss Jenks, and Miss Smith and Miss Spencer s’posed of course they’d have an invite, and Miss Jenks got her a new gown and had it made in Hartford, and then wan’t bid; and if you’ll believe, that sneakin,’ low-lived, ill-begotten horse-jockey of a _Holt_ was there, and his wife, with a yeller gownd and blue flower stuck in the middle of her forehead. How he came to be bid nobody knows, only they say he and Frank is thick as molasses, and agree on the hoss question. Madam’s sister was there, a pretty enough lookin’ girl with yellow curls and blue eyes, and it’s talked that she’s to live there, and the whole coboodle of ’em. A nice time they’ll have with Mrs. Walter Scott, who holds her head so high that her neck must sometimes ache. You or’to see ’em ride on horseback to Millbank; Miss Franklin in black velvet, her sister in blue, and even old madam has gone at it, and I seen her a canterin’ by on a chestnut mare that cost the dear knows what. Think on’t, a woman of her age, with a round hat and feather, ridin’ a hoss. It’s just ridiculous, I call it. I’m goin’ home to-morrow, for Roger and Aleck is gettin’ kind of uneasy. Roger is a growin’ man. He’s got some agency in the mill to Schodick and the shop, and he’s makin’ lots of money, and folks look up to him and consult him till he’s the fust man in town. I wish you two would come together someday, and I can’t help thinkin’ you will. Nothin’ would suit me better, though I was hard on you once about the will. I was about crazy them days, but that’s all got along with, and so good-by. “HESTER FLOYD.” “There goes the quality from Millbank out to have a picnic, and the young madam is ridin’ with another man. Nice doin’s so soon, though I don’t blame her for bein’ sick of Frank. He’s growing real fat and pussy-like, and twists up them few white hairs about his mouth till they look like a shoemaker’s waxed end. “Yours again to command, “H. FLOYD.” CHAPTER XLIX. HOW THEY LIVED AT MILLBANK.