You remember the day Charley, when we were at school at dear old Elmwood, when we were out at recess and that poor old beggar-man who was nearly blind passed the play-ground, and dropped his cane into the ditch.  Some of the thoughtless boys set up a laugh, but you left your play and ran and picked up the cane and placed it in his hand; and the old man patted your head and said “I know you will make a good man, my lad, if you live to grow up, for there is always good in the boy who pays respect to the aged and helpless.”  The master who saw it all from the open window did not forget to reprove the boys who laughed at the poor old man, while at the same time he warmly commended your kind act, “Take my word for it boys,” said he “an act of kindness, or any mark of respect to the old and feeble, will always leave a feeling of happiness in your own hearts;” and I know now that our teacher told the truth.  Sometimes grandmother calls me to read to her when I am busy with study or play, and at first I do not feel inclined to go, but I always do, and I feel more than paid when I finish reading and she says, “thank you, Walter, you are a good boy to remember poor old grandma and I hope if you live to be old, and your eyes grow dim like mine, some one will be as kind to you as you are to me.”  I don’t know how it is, Charley, but some how I always feel happier after reading to grandma Adams.  Aunt Lucinda is Uncle Nathan’s sister, you know; she keeps house; she is a real go-a-head sort of woman, and a great worker; she is older than Uncle Nathan, but, between you and I, I don’t think she cares to hear that spoken of, but it’s no harm for me to tell you.  She is so different in her ways from your mother and mine that at first I hardly knew what to make of her.  She has a queer way of snapping people up short if she isn’t just suited.  For a long time I was afraid Aunt Lucinda would never like me, she seemed to have such a horror of boys—­may be that’s the reason she never got married.  I have begun to think lately that I am gaining in her good opinion and I am very glad of it.  After all she is kind-hearted, for all her queer ways; I could get along better if she wasn’t so distressingly neat and particular about the house.  I tell you if you lived with my Aunt, you’d have to remember always to wipe your feet on the door-mat before coming into the house; if you did happen to forget Aunt Lucinda would sharpen up your memory, depend upon it.  When I first came here I really believe she thought I should burn either the house or barn, perhaps both, or commit some other enormity; but as no such occurrence has as yet taken place, she begins to think, I believe, that I am not so bad as I might be.  In fact I heard her tell Uncle Nathan the other day, that she “would be real sorry if I was to go away, I was such a help about the house, and so careful to keep the chores all done up,” that was a great deal for Aunt Lucinda to say in my favor; and I was so pleased when I heard her that I wished there was