The gates ajar. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.

24 The Gates Ajar.
III.
March 7.
I have taken out my book, and am going to
write again. But there is an excellent reason.
I have something else than myself to write
about.
This morning Phoebe persuaded me to walk
down to the office, " To keep up my spirits and
get some salt pork."
She brought my things and put them on me
while I was hesitating; tied my victorine and
buttoned my gloves; warmed my boots, and
fussed about me as if I had been a baby. It
did me good to be taken care of, and I thanked
her softly; a little more softly than I am apt to
speak to Phoebe.
"Bless your soul, my dear! " she said, winking briskly, " I don't want no thanks. It's
thanks enough jest to see one of your old
looks comin' over you for a spell, sence-"
She knocked over a chair with her broom,
and left her sentence unfinished. Phoebe has