MURDER OF BARBOUR.—THE TRUCE.
December, 1855.
Dear Mother of mine,—I yesterday closed a long package for you, sending it by private conveyance. But I should now feel as much lost without a letter begun to you, as I should be without knitting-work; and, as I invariably weave the stitches of a new stocking prospectively upon the needles from which one has just been completed, so I now turn to the table where are the papers, from which I have withdrawn all addressed to you, with the feeling that I must begin another stocking upon paper gathering up the stitches of our cabin-life, and weaving them into a garment which I am quite sure will be warmly welcomed by you.
It is hardly twenty-four hours since L—— started on his perilous mission. But I cannot refrain from looking out occasionally for him. What absurd things we are always doing! He has gone fifty miles; has no chance of
