“Draxy Miller.”

The letter inclosed was addressed—­

“To the Minister of Clairvend.”

This letter also was short.

“Dear sir:—­I have asked the Postmaster to give this letter to the kindest minister in the town.

“I am Reuben Miller’s daughter.  My father is very poor.  He has not known how to do as other men do to be rich.  He is very good, sir.  I think you can hardly have known any one so good.  Mr. Stephen Potter, a man who owed him money, has given us a deed of land in your town.  My father thinks the deed is not good for anything.  But I thought perhaps it might be; and I would try to find out.  My father is very sick, but I think he would get well if he could come and live on a farm.  I have written this letter in the night, as soon as I thought about you; I mean as soon as I thought that there must be a minister in Clairvend, and he would be willing to help me.

“I have not told my father, because I do not want him to be disappointed again as he was about the deed.

“I have copied for you the part of the deed which tells where the land is; and I put in a stamp to pay for your letter to me, and if you will find out for us if we can get this land, I shall be grateful to you all my life.  Draxy Miller.”

Inclosed was a slip of paper on which Draxy had copied with great care the description of the boundaries of the land conveyed by the deed.  It was all that was necessary.  The wisest lawyer, the shrewdest diplomatist in the land never put forth a subtler weapon than this simple girl’s simple letter.

It was on the morning of the 3d of April that Draxy dropped her letter in the office.  Three days later it was taken out of the mail-bag in the post-office of Clairvend.  The post-office was in the one store of the village.  Ten or a dozen men were lounging about curiosity about the odd name was soon swallowed up in curiosity as to the contents of the letter.  The men of Clairvend had not been so stirred and roused by anything since the fall election.  Luckily for Draxy’s poor little letter, there was but one minister in the village, and the only strife which rose was as to who should carry him the letter.  Finally, two of the most persistent set out with it, both declaring that they had business on that road, and had meant all along to go in and see the Elder on their way home.

Elder Kinney lived in a small cottage high up on a hill, a mile from the post-office, and on a road very little travelled.  As the men toiled up this hill, they saw a tall figure coming rapidly towards them.

“By thunder! there’s the Elder now!  That’s too bad,” said little Eben Hill, the greatest gossip in the town.

The Elder was walking at his most rapid rate; and Elder Kinney’s most rapid rate was said to be one with which horses did not easily keep up.  “No, thank you, friend, I haven’t time to ride to-day,” he often replied to a parishioner who, jogging along with an old farm-horse, offered to give him a lift on the road.