“May the good be comforted!” ejaculates Mrs. Swiggs, as Mr. Hadger concludes.  She has listened with absorbed attention to every word, at times bowing, and adding a word of approval.  Mr. Hadger hopes something may be done in this good cause, and having interchanged sundry compliments, takes his departure, old Rebecca opening the door.

“Glad he’s gone!” the old lady says to herself.  “I am so anxious to hear the good tidings Sister Slocum’s letter conveys.”  She wipes and wipes her venerable spectacles, adjusts them piquantly over her small, wicked eyes, gives her elaborate cap-border a twitch forward, frets her finger nervously over the letter, and gets herself into a general state of confritteration.  “There!” she says, entirely forgetting her Milton, which has fallen on the floor, to the great satisfaction of the worthy old cat, who makes manifest his regard for it by coiling himself down beside it, “God bless her.  It makes my heart leap with joy when I see her writing,” she pursues, as old Rebecca stands contemplating her, with serious and sullen countenance.  Having prilled and fussed over the letter, she commences reading in a half whisper:  “No. -, 4Th avenue, new York, May -, 1850.  “Much beloved sister: 

“I am, as you know, always overwhelmed with business; and having hoped the Lord in his goodness yet spares you to us, and gives you health and bounty wherewith to do good, must be pardoned for my brevity.  The Lord prospers our missions among the heathen, and the Tract Society continues to make its labors known throughout the country.  It, as you will see by the tracts I send here—­with, still continues that scrupulous regard to the character of your domestic institution which has hitherto characterized it.  Nothing is permitted to creep into them that in any way relates to your domestics, or that can give pain to the delicate sensibilities of your very excellent and generous people.  We would do good to all without giving pain to any one.  Oh!  Sister, you know what a wicked world this is, and how it becomes us to labor for the good of others.  But what is this world compared with the darkness of the heathen world, and those poor wretches (’Sure enough!’ says Mrs. Swiggs) who eat one another, never have heard of a God, and prefer rather to worship idols of wood and stone.  When I contemplate this dreadful darkness, which I do night and day, day and night, I invoke the Spirit to give me renewed strength to go forward in the good work of bringing from darkness (’Just as I feel,’ thinks Mrs. Swiggs) unto light those poor benighted wretches of the heathen world.  How often I have wished you could be here with us, to add life and spirit to our cause-to aid us in beating down Satan, and when we have got him down not to let him up.  The heathen world never will be what it should be until Satan is bankrupt, deprived of his arts, and chained to the post of humiliation-never!