July 13.

Going to the post-office for the morning mail is, I think, our greatest daily pleasure.  For some reason, we seldom have many letters by our second mail, the 6.30 P.M. train, but in the morning our box is always well filled, for we receive regularly the dear daily Tribune, six weekly journals, and the leading magazines, and as we all have quite a number of correspondents, we feel deeply aggrieved if our box is not filled to repletion at least once a day.

Ida, of course, is blessed with the greatest number of letters in the family, for besides those from her own and her father’s friends,

  “The cry is, still they come!”

in shoals from unknown people of high and low degree, sometimes containing merely poems, or expressions of sympathy and interest in the sad history of our beautiful cousin, but varied occasionally by some of the extraordinary appeals for help which I have already mentioned.

This morning I went down to the office when the mail came in.  There was the usual number of expectant faces—­Miss Murray and Miss Cox in their carriages, and our more rural neighbors standing about the pigeon-hole; however, every one makes way for us in Chappaqua, and I approached nearer, and asked for our letters.  A very rough-looking man standing near by, looked on with interest while the postmaster handed out letter after letter, and finally said: 

“You belong to the family, do you not?”

“Yes,” I said, for I always answer the rustic salutations of the people about here, knowing them to have had a sort of feudal attachment to uncle.

“I thought a great deal of the old gentleman,” he said with a rude pathos in his voice that was very touching.  “I used to see him very often, for I live in these parts, and he always used to say good-morning so pleasant, and was never ashamed to shake my dirty, hard hand!”

This reminds me of a little incident that mamma related yesterday.  She was standing upon the balcony when an old gentleman who was driving past, seeing mamma, stopped his horses, looked up and bowed, hesitated, and then said: 

“Excuse me, but is thee the sister of Horace Greeley that was?”

Mamma assented.

“I thought so,” he said, “I saw it in thy countenance.”

He then told mamma his name, and, after making a few remarks about uncle that showed thoroughly good feeling, drove on.

It is not uncommon for those driving past to slacken their horses and gaze earnestly at the house, and, if any of us are upon the piazza or at the windows, they always bow—­a mark of respect that is also shown us by all the farmers and working people about here.

But I am forgetting Ida’s letters.  I brought her this morning as many as six or eight, some of which were put up in yellow-brown envelopes, and directed in very questionable chirography.  In a few moments she knocked at mamma’s door and said,