_June 11_.

We may pass some sad hours at Chappaqua this summer, but I do not think
we shall suffer from _ennui_--that is, if the startling events of the
past week are to be repeated often during the summer.

I have already spoken of the escaped convict whom we saw in the grass
the other day. It is unnecessary to say that we carefully barricaded
our doors that night; for, in case of danger, our situation would not
be a cheerful one--a household of seven helpless women, save during
papa's weekly visit, and Bernard, our only protector, asleep in the
side-hill house. Our precautions, however, were superfluous; the
convict did not favor us with a visit, but something far more thrilling
than the loss of the family silver was in store for us.

Dear Ida has received since last fall scores of letters from, I think,
every State in the Union, and even from Europe, from people of whom she
had never heard before, and upon all sorts of subjects. Some of her
correspondents are interested in her spiritual, others in her temporal,
welfare; some advise change of air as beneficial after her affliction,
and alternately she is offered a home in Colorado and Maine. But such
letters form the exception; usually the writer has a favor to request.
The most modest of the petitions are for Ida's autograph or photograph,
while others request loans of different sums from units to thousands.
She is occasionally informed that the writer has a baby named Ida
Greeley, and it is intimated that a present from the godmother would be
acceptable. Again she is asked to assist in building a church, or to
clothe and educate some poor girl--her own cast-off wardrobe of colored