To Mrs. Condict, Dorset, July 9, 1876.

There has been a great change here in religious interest, the foundation of which is thought to have been laid in the Bible-readings.  I am ashamed to believe it, all I say and do seems so flat; but our Lord can overrule incompetence.  The ladies are eager to have the readings resumed, but I can not undertake it unless I get stronger.  The Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Reed are doing a quiet work among non-churchgoers at the other end of the village.  She has been to every house in the neighborhood and “compelled them to come in,” having meetings at her own house. Of course the devil is on hand. He reminds me of a slug that sits on my rose bushes watching for the buds to open, when he falls to and devours them, instanter.  I am sure it is as true of him as of the Almighty, that he never slumbers or sleeps.  His impertinences increase daily.

One of the last things I did before leaving home was to decide to bring here one of the Hippodrome converts, about whom I presume I wrote you.  We knew next to nothing about him, and I could ill afford to support him; but I was his only earthly friend.  He had no home, no work, and I felt I ought to look after him.  We gave him a little room in the old mill, and he is perfectly happy; calls his room his “castle,” does not feel the heat, takes care of my garden, enjoys haying, has put everything in order, is as strong as a horse, and a comfort to us all; being willing to turn his hand to anything.  In the evenings he has made for me a manilla mat, of which I am very proud.  He has been all over the world and picked up all sorts of information.  He went to hear Mr. Prentiss’ centennial address on the Fourth at a picnic, and I was astonished when he came back at his intelligent account of it.  Everybody likes him, and he has proved a regular institution.  I would not have had a flower but for him, for I can not work out in such a blazing sun as we have had. [10]

My book is to be called, I believe, “The Home at Greylock”; but I don’t know.  My husband and Mr. Randolph fussed so over the title that I said it would end in being called “Much Ado about Nothing.” They, being men, look at the financial question, to which I never gave a thought.  Even Satan has never so much as whispered, Write to make money; don’t be too religious in your books.  Still he may do it, now I have put it into his head.  How little any of us know what he won’t make us do!  I enjoyed the Centennial more than I expected to do, but got my fill very soon, and was glad to go home.

No account of the Dorset home would be complete without some reference to “the old mill.”  It had been dismantled during the war, but, at the request of the neighbors, was now restored to its original use.  It also contained the boys’ workshop, a bathing-room, an ice-house, a ram, and a bowling-alley; formed, indeed, together with the pond and the boat, part and parcel of the Dorset home itself.