These last two untruthful shots hit the mark, as she knew they would, and Strout, abandoning the subject, blurted out, "Where in thunder's that Hiram? I'll be blowed if I don't believe he went to look for the eggs first."

"I reckon he did," said Mandy, "if he means to keep on good terms with me. He ain't likely to tend to stray jobs till he's done up his regular chores."

"I s'pose Deacon Mason sends him down here to wait on you?" remarked Strout with a sneer.

"Did Deacon Mason tell you that you could have him to run your errands?" inquired Mandy, with a pout.

"Guess the best thing I can do," said Strout rising, "is to go hunt Pettengill up myself."

"I guess you've struck it right this time," assented Mandy, as Strout left the room and started for the wood-shed.

As he closed the door, Mandy resumed her singing as though such conversations were of everyday occurrence.

She finished her work at the sink and was fixing the kitchen fire when Hiram returned.

"All I could find," said he, holding an egg in each hand. "The hens must have struck or think it's a holiday. S'pose there's any out in the barn? Come, let's go look, Mandy. Where's old Strout?"

"I guess he's gone to look for Mr. Pettengill," replied Mandy, with a laugh.

"I kinder thought he would if I stayed long enough," said Hiram, with a grin; "but come along, Mandy, no hen fruit, no puddin'."

"Mr. Maxwell," said Mandy, soberly, "I wish you'd be more particular about your language. You know I abominate slang. You know how careful I try to be."

"You're a dandy," said Hiram, taking her hand.

They ran as far as the wood-shed, when seeing the door open, they hid behind it until Strout came out and walked down towards the lane to meet Ezekiel, whom he had seen coming up from the road. Then Hiram and Mandy sped on their way to the barn, which they quickly reached and were soon upon the haymow, apparently searching intently for eggs.

When Strout reached Ezekiel he shook hands with him and said, "Come up to the barn, Pettengill, I've got a little somethin' I want to tell you and it's kinder private. It's about that city feller that's swellin' round here puttin' on airs and tryin' to make us think that his father is a bigger man than George Washington. He about the same as told me down to the grocery store that the blood of all the Quincys flowed in one arm and the blood of all the Adams in the other, but I kinder guess that the rest of his carcass is full of calf's blood and there's more fuss and feathers than fight to him."

By this time they had reached the barn and they sat down upon a pile of hay at the foot of the mow.

"Now my plan's this," said Strout. "You know Bob Wood; well, he's the biggest feller and the best fighter in town. I'm goin' to post Bob up as to how to pick a quarrel with that city feller. When he gets the lickin' that he deserves, I rayther think that Deacon Mason will lose a boarder."

"But s'posin' Mr. Sawyer licks Bob Wood?" queried Ezekiel.

"Oh! I don't count much on that," said Strout; "but if it should turn out that way we're goin' to turn in and get up a surprise party for Miss Mason and jist leave him out."

"I hope you ain't goin' to do any fightin' down to Deacon Mason's?" remarked Ezekiel.

"Oh, no!" protested Strout, "it'll be kind o' quiet, underminin' work, as it were. Remarks and sayin's and side whispers and odd looks, the cold shoulder business, you know, that soon tells a feller that his company ain't appreciated."

"Well, I don't think that's quite fair," said Ezekiel. "You don't like him, Mr. Strout, but I don't think the whole town will take it up."

The Professor said sternly, "He has insulted me and in doing that he has insulted the whole town of Eastborough."

A smothered laugh was heard.

"By George! What was that?" cried Strout.

Ezekiel was at a loss what to say, and before he could reply, Mandy's laughing had caused the hay to move. As it began to slide she clutched at Hiram in a vain effort to save herself, and the next instant a large pile of hay, bearing Hiram and Mandy, came down, falling upon Ezekiel and Strout and covering them from sight.

When all had struggled to their feet, Ezekiel turned to Mandy and said sharply, "What were you doin' up there, Mandy?"

"Looking for eggs," said she, as she ran out of the barn and started for the house.

Hiram stood with his mouth distended with a huge smile. Strout turned towards him and said savagely, "Well, if you're the only egg she got, 'twas a mighty bad one."

Hiram retorted, "I would rather be called a bad egg than somethin' I heard about you."

Strout, in a passion, cried out, "Who said anything about me?"

Hiram made for the barn door and then said, "heard a gentleman say as how there was only one jackass in Eastborough and he taught the singin' school."

Strout caught up a rake to throw at him, but Hiram was out of sight before he could carry out his purpose. Turning to Ezekiel, Strout said, "I bet a dollar, Pettengill, it was that city feller that said that, and as I have twice remarked and this makes three times, this town ain't big enough to hold both on us."



CHAPTER VIII.

CITY SKILL VERSUS COUNTRY MUSCLE.

Hiram Maxwell was not called upon to perform very arduous duties at Deacon Mason's. The Deacon had given up farming several years before, and Hiram's duties consisted in doing the chores about the house. He had plenty of spare time, and he used it by going down to the Pettengill place and talking to Mandy Skinner.

The next morning after the adventure in the barn, Hiram went down as usual after his morning's work was done to see Mandy.

"How do you find things, Mandy?" said Hiram, opening the kitchen door and putting his head in.

"By looking for them," said Mandy, without looking up from her work.

"You are awful smart, ain't you?" retorted Hiram.

Mandy replied, "People's opinion that I think a good deal more of than yours have said that same thing, Mr. Maxwell."

Hiram saw that he was worsted, so he changed the conversation.

"Anybody to hum?"

Mandy answered sharply, "Everybody's out but me, of course I am nobody."

Hiram came in and closed the door.

"You needn't be so pesky smart with your tongue, Mandy. Of course I can't keep up with you and you know it. What's up?"

Mandy replied, "The thermometer. It isn't nearly as cold as it was yesterday."

Hiram, seeing a breakfast apparently laid out on a side table inquired, "Expectin' somebody to breakfast?"

"No," said Mandy, "I got that ready for Mr. Pettengill, but he didn't have time to eat it because he was afraid he would lose the train."

"Has he gone to the city?" asked Hiram.

"I 'spect he has," answered Mandy.

"Well," remarked Hiram, "s'posin' I eat that breakfast myself, so as to save you the trouble of throwin' it away."

"Well," said Mandy, "I was going to give it to the pigs; I suppose one hog might as well have it as another."

Hiram said, "Why, you don't call me a big eater, do you, Mandy?"

Mandy laughed and said, "I can't tell, I never saw you when you wasn't hungry. How do you know when you have got enough?"

Hiram said, "I haven't got but one way of tellin', I allus eats till it hurts me, then I stop while the pain lasts."

Then he asked Mandy, "What did 'Zekiel go to the city for?"

Mandy answered, "Mr. Pettengill does not confide his private business to me."

Hiram broke in, "I bet a dollar you know why he went, just the same."

Mandy said, "I bet a dollar I do."

Then she broke into a loud laugh. Hiram evidently thought it was very funny and laughed until the tears stood in his eyes.

"What are you laughing for?" asked Mandy.

Hiram's countenance fell.

"Come down to the fine point, Mandy, durned if I know."

"That's a great trick of yours, Hiram," said Mandy. "You ought not to laugh at anything unless you understand it."

"I guess I wouldn't laugh much then," said Hiram. "I allus laugh when I don't understand anythin', so folks won't think that I don't know where the p'int domes in. But say, Mandy, what did Pettengill go to the city for?"

During this conversation Hiram had been eating the breakfast that had been prepared for Ezekiel. Mandy sat down near him and said, "I'll tell you, but it ain't nothing to laugh at. Mr. Pettengill had a telegraph message come last night."

"You don't say so!" said Hiram. "It must be pretty important for persons to spend money that way. Nobody dead, I s'pose?"

"Well," said Mandy, "Mr. Pettengill left the telegram in his room and I had to read it to see whether I had to throw it away or not, and I remember every word that was in it."

Hiram asked earnestly, "Well, what was it? Is his sister Alice goin' to get married?"

Mandy answered, "No, she is sick and she wanted him to come right up to Boston at once to see her."

Hiram said, "'Zekiel must think a powerful lot of that sister of his'n. Went right off to Boston without his breakfast."

"I guess it would have to be something nearer than a sister to make you do that," said Mandy. "I don't know but one thing, Hiram, that would make you go without your feed."

"What's that, Mandy?" said he. "You?"

"No," replied Mandy, "a famine."

"You ain't no sort of an idea as to what's the matter with her, have you?" he asked.

"No, I haven't," said Mandy, "and if I had I don't imagine I would tell you. Now you better run right home, little boy, for I have to go upstairs and do the chamber work."

She whisked out of the room, and Hiram, helping himself to a couple of apples, left the house and walked slowly along the road towards Eastborough Centre.

Suddenly he espied a man coming up the road and soon saw it was Quincy Adams Sawyer.

"Just the feller I wanted to see," soliliquized Hiram.

As Quincy reached him he said, "Mr. Sawyer, I want to speak to you a minute or two. Come into Pettengill's barn, there's nobody to hum but Mandy and she's upstairs makin' the beds."

They entered the barn and sat down on a couple of half barrels that served for stools.

"Mr. Sawyer, you've treated me fust rate since you've been here and I want to do you a good turn and put you on your guard."

Quincy laughed.

Hiram continued, "Well, maybe you won't laugh if Bob Wood tackles you. I won't tell you how I found it out for I'm no eavesdropper, but keep your eye on Bob Wood and look out he don't play no mean tricks on you."

Quincy remarked, "I suppose Mr. Strout is at the bottom of this and he has hired this Bob Wood to do what he can't do himself."

"I guess you have got it about right, Mr. Sawyer," said Hiram. "Can you fight?" he asked of Quincy.

"I am a good shot with a rifle," Quincy replied. "I can hit the ace of hearts at one hundred feet with a pistol."

"I don't mean that," said Hiram. "Can you fight with yer fists?"

"I don't know much about it," said Quincy with a queer smile.

"Then I am afraid you will find Bob Wood a pretty tough customer. He can lick any two fellers in town. Why, he polished off Cobb's twins one day in less than five minutes, both of 'em."

"Where does this Bob Wood spend most of his time?" asked Quincy.

"He loafs around Hill's grocery. When he ain't wokin' at his trade," said Hiram, "he does odd jobs for the Putnams in summer and cuts some wood for them in winter. You know Lindy Putnam, the gal you sang with at the concert?"

"Come along," said Quincy, "I feel pretty good this morning, we'll walk down to Hill's and see if that Mr. Wood has anything to say to me."

"Don't you think the best plan, Mr. Sawyer, would be to keep out of his way?" queried Hiram.

"Well, I can't tell that," said Quincy, "until I get better acquainted with him. After that he may think he'd better keep out of my way."

"Why, he's twice as big as you," cried Hiram, with a look of astonishment on his face.

"Come along, Hiram," said Quincy. "By the way, I haven't seen Miss Putnam since the concert. I think I will have to call on her."

Hiram laughed until his face was as red as a beet.

"By gum, that's good," he said, as he struck both legs with his hands.

"What's good?" asked Quincy. "Calling on Miss Putnam?"

"Yes," said Hiram. "Wouldn't she be s'prised?"

"Why?" asked Quincy. "Such a call wouldn't be considered anything out of the way in the city."

"No, nor it wouldn't here," said Hiram, "but for the fact that Miss Putnam don't encourage callers. She goes round a visitin' herself, and she treats the other girls fust rate, 'cause she has plenty of money and can afford it. But she has got two good reasons for not wantin' visitors."

"What are they?" asked Quincy.

"Well, I'm country myself," said Hiram, "and there are others in Eastborough that are more country than I am. But if you want to see and hear the genooine old Rubes you want to see old Sy Putnam and his wife Heppy."

"But Miss Mason said Miss Putnam was quite wealthy."

"You bet she is," said Hiram. "She's worth hundreds of millions of dollars."

"I think you must mean thousands," remarked Quincy.

"Well, as far as I'm concerned," said Hiram, "when you talk about millions or thousands of money, one's just the same to me as t'other. I never seed so much money in my life as I seed since you've been here, but I don't want you to think I'm beggin' for more."

"No," said Quincy, "I should never impute such a motive to you."

Quincy took a dollar bill from his pocket and held it up before Hiram.

"What's that?" he asked.

"That's one hundred cents," said Hiram, "considerably more than I have got."

"Well," said Quincy, "if you tell me why Miss Putnam doesn't like callers I will give you that dollar."

"Stop a minute," replied Hiram. "Soon as we turn this next corner we'll be in full sight of the grocery store. You can go ahead and I'll slip 'cross lots and come up from behind the store. If Wood thought I'd told you he would lick me and I'm no fighter. Now about Miss Putnam," dropping his voice, "I heard it said, and I guess it's pretty near the truth, that she is so blamed stuck up and dresses so fine in city fashions that she is just 'shamed of her old pa and ma and don't want nobody to see 'em."

"But," asked Quincy, "where did she get her money?"

Hiram answered, "From her only brother. He went down to Boston, made a pile of money, then died and left it all to Lindy. If what I've told you ain't gospel truth it's mighty near it. Well, I'll see you later, Mr. Sawyer."

And Hiram ran down a path that led across the fields.

Quincy turned the corner and walked briskly towards Hill's grocery store. A dozen or more young men and as many older ones were lounging about the platform that ran the whole length of the store, for it was a very mild day in January, and the snow was rapidly leaving under the influence of what might be called a January thaw.

Quincy walked through the crowd, giving a friendly nod to several faces that looked familiar, but the names of whose owners were unknown to him. He entered the store, found a letter from his mother and another from his sister Gertie, and saying "Good morning" to Mr. Hill, who was the village postmaster, soon reached the platform again.

As he did so a heavily built young fellow, fully six feet tall and having a coarse red face, stepped up to him and said brusquely, "I believe your name's Sawyer."

"Your belief is well founded," replied Quincy. "I regret that I do not know your name."

"Well, you won't have to suffer long before you find out," said the fellow. "My name's Robert Wood, or Bob Wood for short."

"Ah! I see," said Quincy. "Robert for long wood and Bob for short wood."

Wood's face grew redder.

"I s'pose you think that's mighty smart makin' fun of folks' names. I guess there ain't much doubt but what you said what a friend of mine tells me you did."

Quincy remarked calmly, "Well, what did your friend say I said about you?"

By this time the loungers in and outside the store had gathered around the two talkers. Wood seemed encouraged and braced up by the presence of so many friends. He walked up close to Quincy and said, "Well, my friend told me that you said there was but one jackass in Eastborough and he sang bass in the quartette."

Quincy paled a little, but replied firmly, "I never said it, and if your friend says I did he lies and he knows it."

At this juncture, as if prearranged, Obadiah Strout suddenly emerged from the grocery store.

"What's the matter, gentlemen?" asked Mr. Strout.

"Well," said Wood, "I told this young man what you said he said, and he says you're a liar."

"Well," said Strout pompously, "I know that he said it and I have witnesses to prove it. When you settle with him for calling you a jackass I'll settle with him for calling me a liar."

"Take your coat off, Mr. Sawyer, and get ready. I won't keep you waitin' but a few moments," said Bob.

A jeering laugh went up from the crowd. Quincy, turning, saw Hiram.

"Here, Hiram," said he, "hold my things."

He took off his overcoat and then his black Prince Albert coat and passed them to Hiram. Then he removed his hat, which he also handed to Hiram.

Turning to Wood he said, "Come right out here, Mr. Wood; here is a place where the sun has kindly removed the snow and we can get a good footing."

Wood followed him, and the crowd formed a ring about them.

"Now, Mr. Wood, or perhaps I should say Bob Wood for short, put up your hands."

Bob put them up in defiance of all rules governing boxing. This was enough for Quincy; he had sized up his man and determined to make the most of his opportunity.

"Mr. Wood," he said politely, "before I hit you I am going to tell you just exactly where I am going to strike, so you can't blame me for anything that may happen. I shall commence on your right eye."

Wood's face grew livid; he made a rush at Quincy as though he would fall on him and crush him. Quincy easily eluded him, and when Wood made his second rush at him he parried a right-hander, and before Wood could recover, he struck him a square blow full on his right eye. They faced each other again.

"Now, Mr. Wood," said Quincy, "I see you have a watch in your vest pocket. Is it an open-faced watch?"

"S'posin' you find out," said Wood, glaring at Quincy with his left eye, his right one being closed up.

"Well, then," remarked Quincy, "you will be obliged to have it repaired, for I am going to hit you just where that watch is and it may injure it."

Wood was more wary this time and Quincy was more scientific. He gave Wood a left-hander in the region of the heart which staggered him.

They faced each other for the third time.

"I regret the necessity this time, but I will be obliged to strike you full in the face and in my excitement may hit your nose."

It required all of Quincy's dexterity to avoid the wild rushes and savage thrusts made by Wood. But Quincy understood every one of the boxer's secrets and was as light and agile on his feet as a cat. It was three minutes at least before Quincy got the desired opening, and then he landed a blow on Wood's nose that sent him flat upon his back.

"That's enough," cried the crowd, and several friends led Wood to a seat on the platform.

Quincy turned to Strout. "Now, Mr. Strout, I am at your service."

"No, sir," said Strout, "I am willing to fight a gentleman, but I don't fight with no professional prize fighter like you." Turning to the crowd: "I know all about this fellow. He is no lawyer at all, he is a regular prize fighter, and down in Boston he is known by the name of Billy Shanks."



Quincy smiled. Turning to the crowd he said, "The statement just made by Mr. Strout is like his statement to Mr. Wood. The first was a lie, the second is a lie, and the man who uttered them is a liar. Good morning, gentlemen."

Quincy went to Hiram, who helped him on with his coats. They walked along together. After they turned the corner and got out of sight of the grocery store, Hiram said:

"Geewhilikins! What a smasher you gave him. I thought you said you didn't know nothin' about fightin'."

"I don't know much," responded Quincy. "There are a dozen men in Boston who could do to me just exactly what I did to Bob Wood."



CHAPTER IX.

MR. SAWYER CALLS ON MISS PUTNAM.

Quincy had a double purpose in calling on Lindy; he actually wished to see her, for they had not met since the concert, but his principal wish was to meet a real old-fashioned country couple. To be sure, Deacon Mason and his wife often dropped into the vernacular, but the Deacon was a very dignified old gentleman and his wife was not a great talker. What he desired was to find one of the old-fashioned style of country women, with a tongue hung in the middle and running at both ends. His wish was to be gratified.

When he clanged the old brass knocker on the door, Samanthy Green answered the call.

"Is Miss Putnam at home?" asked Quincy politely.

"No, she ain't," said Samanthy, "but Mr. and Mrs. Putnam is. They're allus to hum. They don't go nowheres from one year's end to t'other."

"I would like to see them," said Quincy.

"Yes, sir," said Samanthy, "walk right in."

She threw open the door of the sitting-room. "Here's a gentleman that wants to see you, Mas' Putnam. Leastwise he asked for Lindy fust."

Samanthy left the room, slamming the door after her.

"My name is Sawyer," said Quincy, addressing the old lady and gentleman who were seated in rocking chairs. "I met your daughter at the concert given at the Town Hall New-Year's night."

Mrs. Putnam said, "Glad to see ye, Mr. Sawyer; have a chair."

As Quincy laid his hand upon the chair, the old gentleman called out in a voice that would have startled a bull of Bashan, "What's his name, Heppy?"

Mrs. Putnam answered in a shrill voice with an edge like a knife, "Sawyer."

"Sawyer!" yelled the man. "Any relation to Jim Sawyer that got drunk, beat his wife, starved his children, and finally ended up in the town Poorhouse?"

Quincy shook his head and replied, "I think not. I don't live here; I live in Boston."

"Du tell," said Mrs. Putnam. "How long you been here?"

Quincy replied that he arrived two days after Christmas.

"Where be you stoppin'?" asked Mrs. Putnam.

Quincy answered, "I am boarding at Deacon Mason's."

"He's a nice old gentleman," said Mrs. Putnam, "and Mrs. Mason's good as they make 'em. Her daughter Huldy's a pert young thing, she's pretty and she knows it."

Quincy remarked that he thought Miss Mason was a very nice young lady.

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Putnam, "you young fellers never look more than skin deep. Now the way she trifles with that young 'Zekiel Pettengill I think's shameful. They ust to have a spat every week about something but they allus made it up. But I heard Lindy say that after you come here, 'Zeke he got huffy and Huldy she got independent, and they hain't spoke to each other nigh on two weeks."

This was a revelation to Quincy, but he was to hear more about it very soon.

"How long be you goin' to stay, Mr. Sawyer?"

"I haven't decided," said Quincy.

"What's your business?" persisted Mrs. Putnam.

"I am a lawyer," replied Quincy.

Mrs. Putnam looked at him inquiringly and said, "Be n't you rather young for a lawyer? How old be you, anyway?"

Quincy decided to take a good humored part in his cross examination and said without a smile, "I am twenty-three years, two months, sixteen days old."

"Be you?" exclaimed Mrs. Putnam. "I shouldn't have said you were a day over nineteen."

Quincy never felt his youth so keenly before. He determined to change the conversation.

"Did you attend the concert, Mrs. Putnam?"

"No," said she. "Pa and me don't go out much; he's deefer'n a stone post and I've had the rheumatiz so bad in my knees for the last five years that I can't walk without crutches;" and she pointed to a pair that lay on the floor beside her chair.

During this conversation old Mr. Putnam had been eying Quincy very keenly. He blurted out, "He's a chip of the old block, Heppy; he looks just as Jim did when he fust came to this town. Did yer say yer had an Uncle Jim?"

Quincy shook his head.

Mrs. Putnam turned to her husband and yelled, "Now you shet up, Silas, and don't bother the young man. Jim Sawyer ain't nothin' to be proud of, and I don't blame the young man for not ownin' up even if Jim is his uncle."

Quincy made another attempt to change the conversation. "Your daughter is a very fine singer, Mrs. Putnam."

"Well, I s'pose so," said she; "there's been enough money spent on her to make suthin' of her. As for me I don't like this folderol singin'. Why, when she ust to be practisin' I had to go up in the attic or else stuff cotton in my ears. But my son, Jehoiakim Jones Putnam, he sot everythin' by Lucinda, and there wasn't anythin' she wanted that she couldn't have. He's dead now, but he left more'n a hundred thousand dollars, that he made speculatin'."

"Then your daughter will be quite an heiress one of these days, Mrs. Putnam?"

She answered, "She won't get none of my money. Jehoiakim left her all of his'n, but before she got it she had to sign a paper, a wafer, I believe they call it, if you're a lawyer you ought to know what it was, givin' up all claim on my money. I made my will and the girl who'll get it needs it and will make good use of it."

Quincy determined to get even with Mrs. Putnam for the questioning she put him through, so he said, "Did you make your money speculating, Mrs. Putnam?"

"No," said she, "pa made it by hard work on the farm; but he gave it all to me more'n fifteen year ago, and he hasn't got a cent to his name. He's just as bad off as Jim Sawyer. I feed him and clothe him and shall have to bury him. I guess it seems kinder odd to ye, so I reckon I'll have to tell ye the hull story. I've told it a dozen times, but I guess it'll bear tellin' once more. You see my husband here, Silas Putnam, was brought up religis and he's allus been a churchgoin' man. We were both Methodists, and everythin' went all right till one day a Second Advent preacher came along, and then things went all wrong. He canoodled my husband into believin' that the end of the world was comin' and it was his duty to give all his property away, so he could stand clean handed afore the Lord. My dander riz when I heerd them makin' their plans, but afore my husband got deef he was great on argifyin' and argumentin', and I didn't stand much show against two on 'em; but when Silas told me he was goin' to give his property away I sot up my Ebenezer, and I says, 'Silas Putnam, if you gives your property to any one you gives it to me.' So after a long tussle it was settled that way and the lawyers drew up the papers. The night afore the world was goin' to end he prayed all night. You can imagine with that air voice of his'n I didn't sleep a wink. When mornin' came—it was late in October and the air was pretty sharp—Silas stopped prayin' and put on his white robe, which was a shirt of hisn't I pieced out so it came down to his feet, and takin' a tin trumpet that he bought over to Eastborough Centre, he went out, climbed up on the barn, sot down on the ridgepole and waited for Kingdom Come. He sot there and tooted all mornin' and 'spected the angel Gabriel would answer back. He sot there and tooted all the arternoon till the cows come home and the chickens went to roost. I had three good square meals that day, but Silas didn't get a bite. 'Bout six o'clock I did think of takin' him out some doughnuts, but then I decided if he was goin' up so soon it was no use a wastin' em, so I put 'em back in the pantry. He sot there and tooted all the evenin' till the moon come up and the stars were all out, and then he slid down off'n the barn, and barked both his shins doin' it, threw his trumpet into the pig pen, come into the house and huddled up close to the fire. He didn't say nothin' for a spell, but finally says he, 'I guess, Heppy, that feller made a mistake in figurin' out the date.' 'I guess, Silas,' says I, 'that you've made an all-fired fool of yerself. And if you don't go to bed quick and take a rum sweat, I shall be a widder in a very short time,' He was sick for more'n three weeks, but I pulled him through by good nussin', and the fust day he was able to set up, I says to him, 'Now, Silas Putnam, when I married ye forty-five year ago I promised to obey ye, ye was allus a good perwider and I don't perpose to see yer want for nothin', but ye have got to hold up yer right hand and swear to obey me for the rest of yer nateral life,' and he did it. He got well, and he is tougher'n a biled owl, if he is eighty-six. But the cold sorter settled in his ears, and he's deef as an adder. Ef angel Gabriel blew his horn now I'm afeared Silas wouldn't hear him."

During this long story Quincy had listened without a smile on his face, but the manner in which the last remark was made was too much for him and he burst into a loud laugh. Silas, who had been eying him, also gave a loud laugh and said with his ponderous voice, "I guess Heppy's been tellin' ye about my goin' up."

Quincy laughed again and Mrs. Putnam took part. He arose, told Mr. and Mrs. Putnam he had enjoyed his visit very much, was very sorry Miss Putnam was not at home, and said he would call again, with their kind permission.

"Oh, drop in any time," said Mrs. Putnam; "we're allus to hum. You seem to be a nice young man, but you're too young to marry. Why, Lindy's twenty-eight, and I tell her she don't know enough to get married yet. Ef you'll take a bit of advice from an old woman, let me say, 'less you mean to marry the girl yourself, you'd better git away from Deacon Mason's."

And with this parting shot ringing in his ears, he left the house and made his way homeward.

In half an hour after Quincy's departure, Lindy Putnam entered the sitting-room and facing her mother said with a voice full of passion, "Samanthy says Mr. Sawyer called to see me."

Mrs. Putnam answered, "Well, ef ye wanted to see him so much why didn't ye stay to hum?"

Lindy continued, "Well, I have told you a dozen times that when people come to see me that you are not to invite them in."

"Wall, I didn't," said Mrs. Putnam. "When he found you wuz out he said he wanted to see pa and me, and he stayed here more'n an hour."

"Yes," said Lindy, "no doubt you told him all about pa's turning Second Advent and how much money I had, and you have killed all my chances."

"Well, I guess not," said Mrs. Putnam. "I told him about your brother leavin' yer all his money, and I guess that won't drive him away."

Lindy continued, "Money don't count with him; they say his father is worth more than a million dollars."

Mrs. Putnam answered, "Wall, I s'pose there's a dozen or so to divide it among."

Lindy said, "Did you tell him who you were going to leave your money to?"

"No, I didn't," replied Mrs. Putnam. "But I did tell him that you wouldn't get a cent of it."

Lindy sobbed, "I think it is a shame, mother. I like him better than any young man I have ever met, and now after what you have told me I sha'n't see him again. I have a good mind to leave you for good and all and go to Boston to live."

"Wall, you're your own mistress," replied Mrs. Putnam, "and I'm my own mistress and pa's. Come to think on't, there was one thing I said to him that might sot him against yer."

"What was that?" demanded Lindy fiercely.

"Wall," said Mrs. Putnam, "he said he was twenty-three, and I sort a told him incidentally you was twenty-eight. You know yer thirty, and p'raps he might object to ye on account of yer age."

This was too much for Lindy. She rushed out of the room and up to her chamber, where she threw herself on her bed in a passion of tears.

"It's too bad," she cried. "I will see him again, I will find some way, and I'll win him yet, even if I am twenty-eight."

Two days afterwards Hiram told Mandy that he heard down to Hill's grocery that that city chap had two strings to his bow now. He was courting the Deacon's daughter, but had been up to see Mr. and Mrs. Putnam to find out how much money Lindy had in her own right, and to see if there was any prospect of getting anything out of the old folks.



CHAPTER X.

VILLAGE GOSSIP.

After supper on the day he had been visiting Mr. and Mrs. Putnam, Quincy went to his room and wrote a long letter to his father, inquiring if he ever had an uncle by the name of James Sawyer. Before retiring he sat and thought over the experiences of the past fortnight since his arrival in Eastborough, but the most of his thoughts were given to the remark made by Mrs. Putnam about his leaving Deacon Mason's. He had been uniformly polite and to a slight degree attentive to Miss Mason. The Deacon's horse was a slow one, and so on several occasions he had hired a presentable rig and a good stepper over to Eastborough Centre, and had taken Miss Mason out to ride. He reflected now, as he had never done before, that of course the whole town knew this, and the thought came home to him strongly that by so doing he might have inflicted a triple injury upon Miss Mason, Mr. Pettingill, and himself. He was not in love with Miss Mason, nor Miss Putnam; they were both pretty girls, and in the city it was the custom to be attentive to pretty girls without regard to consequences.

He had asked Miss Mason to go riding with him the next day, but he inwardly resolved that it would be the last time he would take her, and he was in doubt whether to go back to the city at once or go to some other town and board at a hotel, or look around and find some other place in Eastborough. One consideration kept him from leaving Eastborough; he knew that if he did so the singing-master would claim that he had driven him out of town, and although he had a hearty contempt for the man, he was too high spirited to leave town and give the people any reason to think that Strout's antipathy to him had anything to do with it.

Finally a bright idea struck him. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He would go and see Uncle Ike, state the case frankly and ask him to let him live with him for a month. He could bunk in the kitchen, and he preferred Uncle Ike's conversation to that of any other of the male sex whom he had met in Eastborough. With this idea firmly fixed in his mind he retired and slept peacefully.

While Quincy was debating with himself and coming to the conclusion previously mentioned, another conversation, in which his name often occurred, took place in Deacon Mason's kitchen.

The old couple were seated by the old-fashioned fireplace, in which a wood fire was burning. The stove had superseded the hanging crane and the tin oven for cooking purposes, but Deacon Mason clung to the old-fashioned fireplace for heat and light. The moon was high and its rays streamed in through the windows, the curtains of which had not been drawn.

For quite a while they sat in silence, then Deacon Mason said, "There is something I want to speak about, mother, and yet I don't want to. I know there is nothing to it and nothing likely to come of it, but the fact is, mother, Huldy's bein' talked about down to the Corner, 'cause Mr. Sawyer is boardin' here. You know she goes out ridin' with him, which ain't no harm, and she has a sort o' broken with 'Zekiel, for which I am sorry, for 'Zekiel is one of the likely young men of the town."

"So I do, father," said Mrs. Mason, "and if you don't meddle, things will come out all right. Mr. Sawyer don't care nothing for Huldy, and I don't think she cares anything for him. He will be going back to the city in a little while and then things will be all right again."

"Well," said the Deacon, "I think Huldy better stop goin' out to ride with him anyway; she is high spirited, and if I tell her not to go she'll want to know why."

"But," broke in Mrs. Mason, "ef you tell him won't he want to know why?"

"Well, perhaps," said the Deacon, "but I will speak to him anyway."

The next morning after breakfast Deacon Mason asked Mr. Sawyer to step into the parlor, and remarking that when he had anything to say he always said it right out, he asked Quincy if he was on good terms with Mr. 'Zekiel Pettengill.

"I don't know," said Quincy. "I don't know of anything that I have done at which he could take offence, but he keeps away from me, and when I do meet him and speak to him, a 'yes' or 'no' is all I get in reply."

"Haven't you any idea what makes him treat you so?" asked the Deacon.

Quincy flushed.

"Yes, Mr. Mason, I think I do know, but it never entered my mind until late yesterday afternoon, and then it was called to my attention by a stranger. I am glad I have this chance to speak to you, Mr. Mason, for while I have had a very enjoyable time here, I have decided to find another boarding place, and I shall leave just as soon as I make the necessary arrangements."

The Deacon was a little crestfallen at having the business taken out of his hands so quickly, and saying he was very sorry to have the young man go, he sought his wife and told her everything was fixed up and that Mr. Sawyer was going away.

Quincy started to leave the house by the front door; in the hallway he met Huldy, who had just come down stairs. He had asked her to go to ride with him that day, and as he looked at her pretty face he vowed to himself that he would not be deprived of that pleasure. It could do no harm, for it would be their last ride together and probably their last meeting.

He said, "Good morning, Miss Mason," and then added with that tone which the society belle considers a matter of course, but which is so pleasing to the village maiden, "You look charming this morning, Miss Mason. I don't think our ride to-day could make your cheeks any redder than they are now." Huldy blushed, making her cheeks a still deeper crimson. "I will be here at one o'clock with the team," said Quincy. "Will you be ready?"

"Yes," answered Huldy softly.

Quincy raised his hat, and a moment later he was on his way to Eastborough Centre.

He walked briskly and thought he would stop at Uncle Ike's and carry out the resolution he had made the night before, but as he turned up the path that led to the house he saw a man standing on the steps talking to Uncle Ike, who stood in the doorway. The young man was Ezekiel Pettengill. Shakespeare says,

"'Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all,"

and although Quincy at heart was a gentleman, he also knew it was not quite right for him to take Miss Mason out riding again under the circumstances; but young men are often stubborn and Quincy felt a little stiff-necked and rebellious that morning.

He reached Eastborough Centre, mailed his father the letter relating to Jim Sawyer, and going to the stable, picked out the best rig it could supply. He always had the same horse. It was somewhat small in size, but a very plump, white mare; she was a good roadster and it was never necessary to touch her with the whip. Shake it in the stock and she would not forget it for the next two miles. The stable keeper told with much unction how two fellows hired her to go from Eastborough Centre to Montrose. On their way home they had drunk quite freely at the latter place, and thought they would touch the mare up with the whip; they were in an open team and the result was that she left them at different points along the road and reached home with no further impediment to her career than the shafts and the front wheels.

Instead of coming back by the main road which led by Uncle Ike's, Quincy went through by what was called The Willows, which increased the distance a couple of miles. Nevertheless, it lacked five minutes of one o'clock when he drove up to Deacon Mason's front door.

Huldy was all dressed for the occasion, and with a "Good-by, mother," to Mrs. Mason, who was in the kitchen, was out the front door, helped into the team, and they were off just as the startled matron reached the parlor window. Mrs. Mason returned to the kitchen and at that moment the Deacon came in from the barn.

"What's the matter, mother?" asked the Deacon, noticing her excited and somewhat troubled look.

"Huldy is gone out riding again with Mr. Sawyer," said she.

The Deacon was a good Christian man and didn't swear, but he was evidently thinking deeply. Finally he said, "Well, mother, we must make the best of it. I'll help him find a boarding place if he don't get one by to-morrow."

They had a splendid drive. The air was cool, but not biting, the sun was warm, the roads had dried up since the recent thaw, which had removed the snow, with the exception of some patches in the fields, and the high-topped buggy rolled smoothly over the ground.

They passed through the little square in front of Hill's grocery, and as luck would have it, Professor Strout was standing on the platform smoking a cigar. Huldy smiled and nodded to him, and Quincy, with true politeness, followed a city custom and raised his hat, but the Professor did not return the bow, nor the salute, but turning on his heel walked into the grocery store.

"Professor Strout is not very polite, is he, Mr. Sawyer?" asked Huldy, laughing.

Quincy replied, looking straight ahead, "He has never learned the first letter in the alphabet of the art."

Quincy had a disagreeable duty to perform. He enjoyed Miss Huldy's company, but she was not the sort of girl he could love enough to make his wife. Then the thought came to him, supposing she should fall in love with him; that was not impossible, and it must be prevented.

When they were about half a mile from Mason's Corner, on their way home, Quincy realized that he could not put the matter off any longer.

Just as he was going to speak to her she turned to him and said, "Let me drive the rest of the way home, Mr. Sawyer."

"Oh, no," replied Quincy, "I think I had better keep the reins. You know I am responsible for you until you are safe at home."

Huldy pouted. "You think I can't drive," said she, "I have driven horses all my life. Please let me, Mr. Sawyer," she added coaxingly. And she took the reins from his hands.

"Well," said Quincy, "you are now responsible for me and I shall expect you to be very careful."

They drove a short distance in silence; then Quincy turned to her and said abruptly, "This is our last ride together, Miss Mason."

"Why?" inquired she with an astonished look in her face.

"I am going to leave your very pleasant home to-morrow," said Quincy.

The girl's cheeks paled perceptibly.

"Are you going back to Boston?" she asked.

"No, not for some time," Quincy replied, "but I have had some advice given me and I think it best to follow it."

"You have been advised to leave my father's house," said she, holding the reins listlessly in her hand.

Quincy said, "You won't be offended if I tell you the whole truth?"

"No; why should I?" asked Huldy.

As she said this she gathered up the reins and gave them a sharp pull. The white mare understood this to be a signal to do some good travelling and she started off at a brisk trot.

Quincy said, "I was told yesterday by a friend that if I was not a marrying man they would advise me to leave Deacon Mason's house at once."

The blood shot into Huldy's face at once. He was not a marrying man and consequently he was going to leave. He did not care for her or he would stay. Then another thought struck her. Perhaps he was going away because he was afraid she would fall in love with him.

As the Deacon had said, she was high spirited, and for an instant she was filled with indignation. She shut her eyes, and her heart seemed to stop its beating. She heard Quincy's voice, "Look out for the curve, Miss Mason." She dropped the left rein and mechanically gave the right one a strong, sharp pull with both hands. Quincy grasped the reins, but it was too late.

Huldy's pull on the right rein had thrown the horse almost at right angles to the buggy. The steep hill and sharp curve in the road did the rest. The buggy stood for an instant on two wheels, then fell on its side with a crash, taking the horse off her feet at the same time.

Huldy pitched forward as the buggy was falling, striking her left arm upon the wheel, and then fell into the road. Quincy gave a quick leap over the dasher, falling on the prostrate horse, and grasping her by the head, pressed it to the ground. The mare lay motionless. Quincy rushed to Miss Mason and lifted her to her feet, but found her a dead weight in his arms. He looked in her face. She had evidently fainted. Her left arm hung by her side in a helpless sort of way; he touched it lightly between the elbow and shoulder. It was broken. Grasping her in his arms he ran to the back door and burst into the kitchen where Mrs. Mason was at work.

Quincy said in quick, excited tones, "There has been an accident, Mrs. Mason, and your daughter's arm is broken; she has also fainted. I will take her right to her room and put her on her bed. You can bring her out of that." Suiting the action to the word, he took Huldy upstairs, saying, "I will go for the doctor at once."

Then he dashed down the stairs and out of the front door; as he reached the team he found Hiram standing beside it, his eyes wide open with astonishment.

"Had a smash-up, Mr. Sawyer?" he asked. "How did it happen?"

"All my carelessness," said Quincy. "Come, give me a lift on the buggy, quick."

How it was done Quincy could never tell afterwards, but in a very short time the buggy was righted, the mare on her feet and the harness adjusted. Hiram took off his cap and began dusting the mare, whose white coat showed the dust very plainly.

"Where does the nearest doctor live, Hiram?" asked Quincy.

"Second house up the road you just come down," said Hiram. "The folks say he don't know much, anyway."

"Well, you get him here as quick as possible," said Quincy. "I am going to Eastborough Centre to telegraph for a surgeon and a trained nurse. Can you remember that?"

Quincy passed him a dollar bill.

Hiram winked and said, "I guess I can," and darted off up the hill.

Quincy sprang into the team and the white mare dashed forward at full speed. As he reached the Pettengill house he saw Ezekiel standing at the front gate. With difficulty he pulled the mare up, for she was greatly excited.

"Mr. Pettengill," said he, "there has been a serious accident. Miss Mason has been thrown from her carriage and her left arm is broken. I sent Hiram for a doctor and I am on my way to Eastborough to telegraph to Boston for a surgeon and a nurse. I shall not return to-night. Go up to the Deacon's and stay with her."

As he said this the mare gave a bound forward and she never slackened pace until Eastborough Centre was reached.

Quincy sent his telegram and returned the injured buggy and the horse to the stable keeper, telling him to have it repaired and he would pay the bill. He arranged to have a driver and a four-seated team ready on the arrival of the train bearing the doctor and the nurse. In about an hour he received a telegram that they would leave on the 6.05 express and would reach Eastborough Centre at 7.15.

They arrived, and the hired driver, doctor, and nurse started for Mason's Corner.

The last train to Boston left at 9.20. Ten minutes before that hour the team returned with the doctor.

"She is all right," he said. "Everything has been done for her, and the other doctor will write me when my services are needed again. Good night."

The train dashed in and the doctor sped back to Boston.

Quincy had engaged a room at the hotel, and he at once retired to it, but not to sleep. He passed the most uncomfortable night that had ever come to him.

The next afternoon Hiram told Mandy that he heard Professor Strout say to Robert Wood that he guessed that "accident would never have occurred if that city chap hadn't been trying to drive hoss with one hand."

Mandy said, "That Strout is a mean old thing, anyway, and if you tell me another thing that he says, I'll fill your mouth full o' soft soap, or my name isn't Mandy Skinner."



CHAPTER XI.

SOME SAD TIDINGS.

The morning of the accident, when Quincy saw Ezekiel Pettengill standing on the steps of Uncle Ike's house, Ezekiel was the bearer of some sad tidings.

He recognized Quincy as the latter started to come up the path, and saw him retrace his steps, and naturally thought, as most men would, that the reason Quincy did not come in was because he did not wish to meet him.

"Who was you looking after?" asked Uncle Ike, as Ezekiel entered the room and closed the door.

"I think it was Mr. Sawyer," replied Ezekiel, "on his way to Eastborough Centre."

"That Mr. Sawyer," said Uncle Ike, "is a very level-headed young man. He called on me once and I like him very much. Do you know him, 'Zeke?"

"Yes, I know who he is," Ezekiel answered, "but I have never been introduced to him. He nods and I nod, or I say, 'good mornin',' and he says, 'good mornin'.'"

"Don't you go up to Deacon Mason's as much as you used to, 'Zeke?" asked Uncle Ike. "I thought Huldy and you were going to make a match of it."

Ezekiel replied, "Well, to be honest, Uncle Ike, Huldy and me had a little tiff, and I haven't seen her to speak to her for more than three weeks, but I guess it will all come out all right some day."

"Well, you're on the right track, 'Zeke," said Uncle Ike. "Do all your fighting before you get married. But what brings you down here so early in the morning?"

"I've got some bad news," replied Ezekiel. "Have you heard from Alice lately?"

"No," said Uncle Ike, "and I can't understand it. She has always written to me once a fortnight, and it's a month now since I heard from her, and she has sent me a book every Christmas until this last one."

"She has been very sick, Uncle Ike," said Ezekiel. "She was taken down about the middle of December and was under the doctor's care for three weeks."

"Is she better?" asked Uncle Ike eagerly.

"Yes, she is up again," said Ezekiel, "but she is very weak; but that ain't the worst of it," he added.

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Uncle Ike. "Why didn't her friends let us know?"

"She wouldn't let them," said Ezekiel. "If it hadn't been for what the eye doctor told her she wouldn't have telegraphed to me what she did."

"Well, what's the matter with her?" cried Uncle Ike almost fiercely.

"Well, Uncle Ike," said Ezekiel, and the tears stood in his eyes as he said it, "our Allie is almost blind, but the eye doctor says she will get better, but it will take a very long time. She has had to give up her job, and I am going to Boston again to-morrow to bring her home to the old house."

"What's the matter with her eyes?" asked Uncle Ike.

"He called them cataracts," said Ezekiel, "or something like that."

Uncle Ike sat down in his armchair and thought for a minute or two.

"Yes," he said, "I know what they are; I have read all about them, and I know people who have had them. One was a schoolmate of mine. He was a mighty smart fellow and I felt sorry for him and used to help him out in his studies. I heard he had his eyes operated on and recovered his sight."

"Well, the doctor she has," said Ezekiel, "is agin operations. He says they can be cured without them. She drops something in her eyes and blows something in them, and then the tears come, and then she sits quietly with her hands folded, thinking, I suppose, till the time comes to use the medicine again."

"What can I do to help you?" asked Uncle Ike. "You know I always loved Alice even better than I did my own children, because she is more lovable, I suppose. Now, 'Zeke, if you want any money for doctor's bills or anything else, I am ready to do everything in the world I can for Alice. Did she ask after me, 'Zeke?"

"Almost the first thing she said was, 'How is dear old Uncle Ike?' and then she said how glad she would be to get back to Eastborough, where she could have you to talk to. 'I am lonesome now,' she said, 'I cannot write nor read, and the time passes so slowly with no one to talk to.'"

"But the poor dear girl can't walk down here to see me," said Uncle Ike.

"That's just what I came to see you about," said Ezekiel. "The greatest favor you can do Alice and me is to come up to the old house and live with us for a while and be company for Alice. You can have the big front room that father and mother used to have, and Alice's room, you know, is just side of that. In a little while I shall have to be busy on the farm and poor Alice—"

"Don't talk any more about it, 'Zeke," said Uncle Ike. "Of course I'll come. She will do me as much good as I'll do her. Send down the boys with the team to-morrow noon and I'll be all settled by the time you get back."

"I'll do it," said Ezekiel. "It is very good of you. Uncle Ike, to give up your little home here that you like so much and come to live with us. I know you wouldn't do it for anybody but Alice, and I'll leave her to thank you when she gets down here."

Uncle Ike and Ezekiel shook hands warmly.

"Don't you need any money, 'Zeke?" asked Uncle Ike.

"No," replied Ezekiel. "Alice wouldn't let me pay out a cent; she had some money saved up in the bank and she insisted on paying for everything herself. She wouldn't come home till I promised 'her I'd let her pay her board when she got able to work again."

"She always was independent," said Uncle Ike, "and that was one reason why I liked her. But more than that, she is the fairest-minded and best-tempered woman I ever met in my life, and I have seen a good many."

Ezekiel shook hands again with Uncle Ike, and then started off briskly with a much lighter heart than he had before the interview. Reaching home he astonished Mandy Skinner by telling her that he was going to bring his sister down from Boston and that Uncle Ike was coming to live with them for a while.

"My Lord!" cried Mandy, "and do you expect me to do all this extra work?"

"I don't expect nothing," said Ezekiel. "You can get old Mrs. Crowley to come and do the heavy work, and I guess you can get along. You allus said you liked her, she was such a nice washer and ironer. She can have the little room over the ell, and I'll give you a dollar a week extra for your trouble. Do you think you can get along, Mandy?"

Mandy answered, "I know I can with your sister all right, but if your Uncle Ike comes out here in the kitchen and tells me how to roast meat and make pies, as he did once, there will be trouble, and he may have to do all the cooking."

Ezekiel smiled, but said nothing, and went off upstairs to look at the two rooms that were to be occupied by Uncle Ike and poor Allie.



CHAPTER XII.

LOOKING FOR A BOARDING PLACE.

When Quincy awoke in his room at the hotel on the morning after the accident he found to his great surprise that it was nine o'clock. He arose and dressed quickly, and after a light breakfast started off towards Uncle Ike's. Reaching the house he was astonished at the sight that met his gaze. Everything was out of place. The bed was down and the bedding tied up in bundles; the books had been taken from the bookcase and had been piled up on the table. There was no fire in the stove, and the funnel was laid upon the top of it. Quincy had remembered that he had seen a pile of soot on the ground near the steps as he came up them. All of Uncle Ike's cooking utensils were packed in a soap box which stood near the stove.

"What's the matter, Mr. Pettengill, are you going to move?" asked Quincy.

"For a time at least," replied Uncle Ike. "'Zeke Pettengill's sister has been struck blind and he is going to bring her down home this afternoon and I am going to live with them and be company for her. I always thought as much of Alice as if she was my own daughter, and now she is in trouble, her old uncle isn't going back on her. It isn't Ike Pettengill's way."

"Have you seen 'Zekiel Pettengill this morning?" asked Quincy.

"No, nor I didn't expect to," replied Uncle Ike. "I suppose he went to Boston on the nine o'clock train and will be back on the three o'clock express."

"Mr. Pettengill," said Quincy, "can you give me fifteen minutes' time for a talk?"

"Well," said Uncle Ike, looking at his watch, "it will be half an hour before Cobb's twins will be down here with the team, and I might as well listen to you as sit around and do nothing. They are coming down again by and by to get the chickens. I have a good mind to set the house on fire and burn it up. If I don't, I suppose some tramp will, and if I need another house like it, thank the Lord I've got money enough to build it."

"No, don't burn it up, Mr. Pettengill," said Quincy. "Let it to me. I am around looking for a boarding place myself."

"Why, what's the matter, what made you leave Deacon Mason's?"

"That's what I want to tell you," said Quincy. "Time is limited and I'll make my story short, but you are a friend of my father's, and I want you to understand the whole business."

"Why, what have you been up to?" asked Uncle Ike, opening his eyes.

"Nothing," said Quincy, "and that's the trouble. When I went to Deacon Mason's nobody told me that his daughter was engaged to Ezekiel Pettengill."

"And she isn't," interjected Uncle Ike.

"Well," said Quincy, "they have been keeping company together, but I didn't know it. Miss Mason is a pretty girl and a very pleasant one. Time hung heavily on my hands and I naturally paid her some attentions; gave her flowers and candy, and took her out to ride, but I never thought of falling in love with her, and I am not conceited enough to think she is in love with me."

"Well, I don't know," said Uncle Ike reflectively. "Perhaps she has heard your father was worth a million dollars."

"No, I don't believe that," said Quincy. "Miss Mason is too true and honest a girl to marry a man simply for his money."

"Well, I think you are right there," remarked Uncle Ike.

"New Year's night," said Quincy, "at the concert in the Town Hall, Strout, the singing teacher, got down on me because Miss Putnam and I received so much applause for singing a duet together. Then I broke his heart by whistling a tune for the girls and boys, and then again he doesn't like me because I am from the city! he hired a fellow to whip me, but the fellow didn't know how to box and I knocked him out very quickly. Now that Strout can't hurt me any other way he has gone to work making up lies, and the village is full of gossip about Miss Mason and me. Deacon Mason was going to talk to me about it, but I told him yesterday morning that I was going to get another boarding place, and I should have done so yesterday but for a very unfortunate accident."

"Accident?" said Uncle Ike; "why, you seem to be all right."

"I wish I had been the victim," said Quincy, "instead of Miss Mason. I took her out riding yesterday and the buggy got tipped over right in front of Deacon Mason's house, and Miss Mason had her left arm broken above the elbow. I have done all I could to atone for my carelessness, but I am afraid 'Zeke Pettengill will never forgive me. I wish, Mr. Pettengill, you would make him understand my position in the matter. I would like to be good friends with him, for I have nothing against him. He is the most gentlemanly young man that I have seen in the town. I value his good opinion and I want him to understand that I haven't intentionally done anything to wrong or injure him."

Uncle Ike covered his eyes with his hands and mused for a few minutes; then he finally said, "Mr. Sawyer, I have got an idea. That fellow, Strout, thinks he runs this town, and it would tickle him to death if he thought he made things uncomfortable for you. Then, again, I happen to know that he is sweet on Huldy Mason himself, and he would do all he could to widen the breach between 'Zeke and her. You see, he isn't but forty himself, and he wouldn't mind the difference in ages at all. Now, my plan is this." Uncle Ike looked out the window and said, "Here comes Cobb's twins with the team. Now we will take, my things up to the house, then you take the team and go up to Deacon Mason's and get your trunk and bring it down to Pettengill's house. You will be my guest for to-night, anyway, and if I don't make things right with 'Zeke so you can stay there, I'll fix it anyway so you can stay till you get a place to suit you. Now don't say no, Mr. Sawyer. Your father and I are old friends and he will sort o' hold me responsible for your good treatment. I won't take no for an answer. If you have no objections, Mr. Sawyer, I wish you would keep your eye on those books when they are put into the team, for those Cobb boys handle everything as though it was a rock or a tree stump." And Uncle Ike, taking his kerosene lamp in one hand and his looking glass in the other, cried, "Come in," as one of the Cobb boys knocked on the door.



CHAPTER XIII.

A VISIT TO THE VICTIM.

It was not until Quincy had reached the Pettengill house and helped Uncle Ike get his things in order, that he finally decided to accept Uncle Ike's offer. If he went to Eastborough Centre to live at the hotel, he knew Strout would consider he had won a victory. He had thought of going to Mr. and Mrs. Putnam about a room and board, but then he remembered Lindy, and said to himself that Miss Putnam was a pretty girl and it would be the same old story over again. Then he thought, "There won't be any danger here with a blind girl and Mandy Skinner, and if Uncle Ike can arrange matters it will be the best thing I can do."

And so he drove up to Deacon Mason's with Cobb's twins, saw Mrs. Mason, went upstairs and packed his trunk quickly, and the Cobb boys drove away with it to his new, though perhaps only temporary, lodgings.

When Quincy went downstairs, Mrs. Mason was in the parlor, and she beckoned to him to come in. He entered and closed the door.

"I want to speak to you a few minutes," said she, "and I want to tell you first I don't blame you a bit. I know you told 'Zeke Pettengill that the tip-over was all your carelessness, but Huldy says it ain't so. She said she was driving, though you didn't want her to, and the accident was all her fault. Now, I believe my daughter tells the truth, and the Deacon thinks so too."

"Well, Mrs. Mason," said Quincy, "what your daughter says is partly true, but I am still to blame for allowing her to drive a horse with which she was not acquainted."

"That warn't the trouble, Mr. Sawyer," said Mrs. Mason. "Huldy told me the whole truth. You said something to her about going away. She had heard what the village gossips were saying. Huldy's got a high temper and she was so mad that she got flustrated, and that's what caused all the trouble. I like you, Mr. Sawyer, and Huldy likes you. She says you have allus been a perfect gentleman, and the Deacon now is awful sorry you are going, but I hope you will come and see us often while you stay at Mason's Corner."

"I certainly shall, Mrs. Mason," replied Quincy. "How is Miss Mason?"

"Oh, she is fust rate," said the Deacon's wife. "That doctor from the city fixed her arm all up in what he called a jacket, and that nurse that you sent just seems to know what Huldy wants before she can ask for it I hear them nurses are awful expensive, and I don't think she better stay but a day or two longer."

"She can't leave till the surgeon comes from Boston and says she can go," he remarked, thinking this was the easiest way to get out of it. "May I see Miss Mason?" he added.

"Certainly," replied Mrs. Mason. "She is in the front chamber. We moved her in there 'cause there is a fireplace in the room and the nurse objected to the wood stove that Huldy had in her room. She said it was either too hot or too cold, and that Huldy must have an even temperature."

As Quincy entered the room Huldy looked up and a faint smile lighted her face. Her usually rosy cheeks showed only a faint touch of pink. The helpless left arm, in its plaster of paris jacket, rested on the outside of the white quilt, the fingers on her little hand projecting beyond the covering.

Quincy advanced to the bedside and took a vacant chair. The nurse was sitting by the window. She glanced up at him and at Mrs. Mason, who followed close behind him, but continued the reading of her book.

Quincy said lightly, as he reached over and took the right hand and gave it a little shake, "You're not shaking hands with the left, Miss Mason."

"No," said Huldy, "I wish I could shake it, but nurse says it will have to stay on for two or three weeks, and it is so heavy, Mr. Sawyer."

Mrs. Mason went to the nurse and whispered to her, "Don't let him stay too long." The nurse nodded and Mrs. Mason left the room.

Quincy said in a low tone, as he sat in the chair by the bedside, "Miss Mason, I can't express my sorrow for this unfortunate occurrence. Your mother says you have told her it was your fault. But I insisted it was my fault in allowing you to drive a strange horse."

Huldy smiled. "It wasn't the horse, Mr. Sawyer," she said, and quickly changing the subject asked, "Where are you going to board now?".

"Old Uncle Ike Pettengill has taken pity on me," replied Quincy, thinking he would not say anything about going to Ezekiel Pettengill's house.

"But," said Huldy, "Zekiel called here this morning before he went to Boston for his sister and told me that Uncle Ike was coming to live with him. Didn't I hear them take your trunk away a little while ago?"

Quincy saw it was useless to prevaricate, so he said, "My trunk was taken to Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill's house."

"I hope you and 'Zekiel will be good friends," said Huldy, with a grave look on her face.

"I trust we may become so," remarked Quincy. "I am afraid we are not now, and I am still more afraid it is my fault that we are not on the best of terms."

Huldy turned her face towards him, a red flush coloring her cheeks and brow. "No," she said, with vehemence, "it was my fault, and you know it, Mr. Sawyer. How you must hate me for having caused you so much trouble." She gave a convulsive sob and burst into a flood of tears.

Quincy was on the point of assuring Huldy that he could never hate her and that they would always be good friends, but he had no opportunity to frame the words.

As Huldy sobbed and began to cry, the nurse jumped to her feet, dropped her book on the floor, and came quickly to the bedside. She said nothing, but the look upon her face convinced Quincy that he must wait for a more auspicious moment to declare his friendly sentiment. So with a "Good-by, Miss Mason, I'll call again soon," he quitted the apartment and left the victim to the ministrations of the nurse.



CHAPTER XIV.

A QUIET EVENING.

After the somewhat exciting termination of his interview with Miss Mason, Quincy left the house quickly and walked down to Ezekiel Pettengill's. Uncle Ike was there and he told Mandy to show Mr. Sawyer to his room, which proved to be the big front one upstairs.

When he was alone, Quincy sank into the capacious rocking chair and fell to thinking. His mind went back to his parting with Miss Mason. She had said that it wasn't the horse, so it must have been what he said to her. Was she angry because he had decided to go in order to stop village gossip, or had she really cared for him? Well, it was over now. He would never know what her real feelings were, and after all it was best for him not to know. He would drop the whole matter where it was. Then he began to think about his present position. Here he was located in the house of the man who would naturally be considered the last one to desire his company.

Uncle Ike had told him that he would make it all right. If he failed in this and Ezekiel objected to his remaining he could move again. He was determined not to leave Mason's Corner till he got ready, and he felt sure he would not be ready to go until he had squared accounts with Strout.

Presently he heard the sound of wheels. The Pettengill house faced the south and Eastborough Centre lay west of Mason's Corner, so he could not see the team when it arrived, as it drove up to the back door, but he knew that Ezekiel had arrived with his sister. Uncle Ike and Cobb's twins went down stairs quickly; there was a jumble of voices, and then the party entered the house. A short time after he heard persons moving in the room adjoining his, and guessed that Ezekiel's sister was to occupy it.

Then he fell to imagining the conversation that was doubtless going on between Uncle Ike and his nephew. Quincy was not naturally nervous, but he did not like suspense; almost unconsciously he arose and walked back and forth across the room several times. Then it occurred to him that probably the uncle and nephew were having their conversation in the parlor, which was right under him, and he curbed his impatience and threw himself into the armchair, which stood near the open fireplace.

As he did so there came a sharp rap at the door. In response to the quick uttered "Come in," the door opened and Uncle Ike entered. He came forward, took a seat in the rocking chair near Quincy and passed him two letters.

Quincy looked up inquiringly. He had had his mail sent to Eastborough Centre, where he had hired a box. At the Mason's Corner post office the letters were stuck upon a rack, where every one could see them, and Quincy did not care to have the loungers at Hill's grocery inspecting his correspondence.

Uncle Ike saw the look and understood it. Then he said, "'Zekiel brought these over from Eastborough Centre. He didn't want to, but the postmaster said one of them was marked 'In haste,' and he had been over to the hotel and found that you had gone to Mason's Corner, and probably wouldn't be back to-day, and so he thought 'Zekiel better bring it over."

"It was very kind of Mr. Pettengill," said Quincy, "and I wish you would thank him for me."

In the meantime he had glanced at his letters. One bore, printed in the corner, the names, Sawyer, Crowninshield, & Lawrence, Counsellors at Law, Court Street, Boston, Mass. That was from his father. The other was directed in a feminine hand and bore the postmark, Mason's Corner, Mass. He could not imagine from whom it could be.

"I have had a talk with 'Zekiel," said Uncle Ike, "and the whole matter is satisfactorily arranged; he is a fair-minded young fellow and he don't believe you have done anything with the intention of injuring him. What did you pay up to Deacon Mason's?"

"Five dollars a week," replied Quincy.

"Well, it will be the same here," said Uncle Ike. "You can stay as long as you like. 'Zeke wouldn't charge you anything, but I said no, you have got to look out for your sister, and Mr. Sawyer can afford to pay."

Quincy broke in, "And I wouldn't stay unless I did pay. I am able and willing to pay more, if he will take it."

"Not a cent more," said Uncle Ike. "He will give you your money's worth, and then one won't owe the other anything. When you come down to supper I'll introduce you, just as if you had never seen each other, and you can both take a fresh start."

Uncle Ike arose. "By the time you have read your letters supper will be ready, and I want to go in and have a talk with Alice. She is my only niece, Mr. Sawyer, and I think she is the finest girl in Massachusetts, and, as far as I know, there ain't any better one in the whole world;" and Uncle Ike went out, closing the door behind him.

Quincy resumed his seat by the window. The light had faded considerably, but he could still see to read. Naturally enough he first opened the letter bearing the feminine handwriting. He looked at the signature first of all and read "Lucinda Putnam." "What can she have to write to me about?" he thought. He read the letter:

Mason's Corner, January 22, 186—

My dear Mr. Sawyer:—I regret very much that I was absent when you called, but am glad to learn from mother that you had a pleasant visit. Although you are from the city I am sure you would blush if you could hear the nice things mother said about you. I am conceited enough to think that you will find time to call on us again soon, for I wish to consult you regarding an important business matter. I am going to Boston next Monday in relation to this business and if you could make it convenient to call before then it would be greatly appreciated by

Yours very truly, LUCINDA PUTNAM.

Quincy reflected. "What is she up to? Some legal business, I suppose. Well, I am not practising law now; I shall have to refer her to—"

He took up the other letter and read, "Sawyer, Crowninshield, & Lawrence."

His father's letter read as follows:

Boston, January 21, 186—

My dear Son:—Yours at hand, and inquiries carefully noted. I had a brother, James Edward Sawyer; he was five years older than I and must be about sixty. Father wished him to study law, but he wouldn't study anything. When father died he got his share of the money, about $50,000, but he squandered the most of it in high living. The next we heard of him he had married a country girl named Eunice Raymond, I think. He brought her to Boston and tried to introduce her into the society he had been brought up in. She was a nice, pretty woman, but uneducated, and naturally bashful, and James finally left the city and went to live somewhere in the country, I never knew where! he never wrote me after leaving Boston. This Jim Sawyer may be your uncle. I hope not, but if he is, remember he is my brother, and if he needs any assistance let me know at once. I hope your health is improving. Your mother and sisters are well and send love, as does also

Your affectionate father, NATHANIEL ADAMS SAWYER.

As Quincy finished his second letter there was another rap at the door and Mandy's voice was heard outside saying, "Supper's ready, Mr. Saw—yer."

Quincy jumped to his feet. He had not unlocked his trunk, as he was not certain that it would be worth while to do so. It was but the work of a few moments to make the necessary changes in his toilet. He put on a black Prince Albert coat in place of a sack coat that he usually wore, but before he had completed this change there came another tap on the door, and Mandy's voice was heard saying, "The things will get cold if you don't come down right away."

As Quincy entered the large room which was used for a dining-room, he was met by Uncle Ike. Ezekiel was standing a short distance from his uncle. Uncle Ike said, "'Zekiel, this is my friend, Mr. Sawyer. Mr. Sawyer, this is my nephew, 'Zekiel Pettengill. I am good friends with both of you, and I hope you will be good friends to each other."

The two men shook hands. If each had any idea of what the other was thinking about he did not betray it by look or act.

Uncle Ike continued, "Mr. Sawyer, this is Jim Cobb and this is Bill Cobb, and this," as Mandy entered bearing something for the table, "is Miss Mandy Skinner. Now that we are all acquainted, I think we had all better introduce ourselves at once to the supper. I haven't done such a hard day's work for sixteen years."

Ezekiel insisted upon Uncle Ike taking the head of the table. He motioned Mr. Sawyer to take the second seat from his uncle on the right, while he took the first seat on the left, with Cobb's twins next to him.

Quincy immediately surmised that when the sister appeared at the table she would probably sit between him and Uncle Ike.

The meal was not a very lively one as far as conversation went. Quincy inquired politely concerning Miss Pettengill's health, and Uncle Ike said she was tired after her trip, and Mandy was going to take her supper up to her.

The meal was plentiful and well cooked. Quincy thought to himself, how much brighter it would have looked, and how much better the food would have tasted if Miss Huldy Mason had been present with her pretty face, joyous laugh, and occasional bright sayings.

After supper the things were quickly taken out by Mandy. The white tablecloth was removed, and one in which the prevailing color was bright red took its place.

The three men drew up to the open fireplace. Uncle Ike pulled out his pipe and said, "Do you allow smoking here, 'Zeke?"

'Zekiel replied, "I wish you and Mr. Sawyer to make yourselves perfectly at home and do just as you would if you were in your own house."

"Well, if I did that," said Uncle Ike, "you wouldn't need Mandy, for I should be chief cook and bottle washer myself."

Uncle Ike lighted his pipe, and Ezekiel took a cigar from his pocket, saying, "I guess I'll smoke, too." Then his face reddened. He said, "Beg pardon, Mr. Sawyer, I have only this one."

"That's all right," rejoined Quincy, "a cigar would be too heavy for me to-night. I have a slight headache, and if you will excuse me I will roll a cigarette."



He took his little case of rice paper from his pocket and also a small pouch of tobacco, and deftly made and lighted a cigarette. The three men sat smoking, and as Quincy blew a ring into the air he wondered what Sir Walter Raleigh would have said if he could have looked in upon them.

Quincy broke the silence. "I am afraid, Uncle Ike, that I have caused you much inconvenience by driving you out of that pleasant front room where I found my trunk."

"Not a bit," replied Uncle Ike. "I hate carpets, and I prefer to sleep in my own bed, and what's more, I wanted to put up my stove, and there was no chance in that front room. When real cold weather comes I always have a ton of coal for my stove, so I am much better off where I am than I would be downstairs. By the way, 'Zeke, just tell me all about Alice again. You won't mind Mr. Sawyer; he is one of the family now."

"Well," said Ezekiel, "Alice was taken sick about the middle of December. The folks where she boarded sent for a doctor. It was about eight o'clock in the morning when she was taken, and it was noon before she got easy, so they could get her to bed. She thought she was getting better; then, she had another attack; then she thought she was getting better again, and the third attack was the worst of the three. The folks wanted to write to me, but she wouldn't let them. When she really did begin to get better, she found out there was something that was worse than being sick. She found she couldn't see to read either print or writing, but Alice is a spunky girl, and she wouldn't give in, even then. A friend told her to go and see Dr. Moses, who was an eye doctor, and put herself right under his treatment. She thought she was going to get well right off at first, but when she found it was likely to be a long job, then she gave in and wrote to me. She has brought her treatment down with her, and the doctor says she will have to go to Boston once a month to see him, as he is too busy to come down here."

At this point in the proceedings the door opened and Mandy entered, bringing a large dish of big red apples and another full of cracked shellbarks. She left the room and returned almost immediately with a large dish full of popcorn.

"Have an apple?" said Ezekiel. "Help yourselves; we don't pass anything round here. We put the things on the table and each one helps himself."

Mandy came in again, bringing a large pitcher of cider and some glasses, which she placed upon the table.

While the three men were discussing their country evening lunch in silence, an animated conversation was taking place in the kitchen, the participants being Mandy, Mrs. Bridget Crowley, and Hiram, who always dropped in during the evening to get his glass of cider, a luxury that was not dispensed at Deacon Mason's.

"Well," said Mandy, "I think it's wasteful extravagance for you Irish folks to spend so much money on carriages when one of your friends happens to die. As you just said, when you lived in Boston you own up you spent fourteen dollars in one month going to funerals, and you paid a dollar a seat each time."

"I did that," said Mrs. Crowley, "and I earned every bit of it doing washing, for Pat, bless his sowl, was out of work at the time."

"Just think of that!" said Mandy, turning to Hiram.

"Well, it can't be helped," said Mrs. Crowley, obstinately. "Shure and if I don't go to folks' funerals they won't come to mine."

This was too much for Mandy and Hiram, and they began laughing, which so incensed Mrs. Crowley that she trudged off to her little room in the ell, which departure just suited Mandy and Hiram.

"Have you got any soft soap here in the kitchen?" asked Hiram.

"No," said Mandy, "I used the last this afternoon. I shall have to go out in the shed to-morrow morning and get some."

"You wouldn't be likely to go out to-night for any?" asked Hiram.

"I guess not," said Mandy. "Why, there is rats out in that shed as big as kittens. Did you want to use some?"

"No," said Hiram, "but I didn't want you to have any 'round handy, for I am bound to tell you I heard Strout telling the minister's son that Lindy Putnam writ a letter to Mr. Sawyer and mailed it at Mason's Corner post office this mornin', and it was directed to Eastborough Centre, and Strout said it looked as though they were keeping up correspondence. I tell you that made 'Manuel Howe mad, for he's gone on Lindy Putnam himself, and then Strout said that probably all the fellers in town would have to put off getting married until that city chap had decided which one of the girls he wanted himself. And now, hang it," said Hiram, "he has come to live in this house, and I sha'n't have any peace of mind."

Hiram dodged the first apple Mandy threw at his head, but the second one hit him squarely, and he gave a loud "Oh!"

"Stop your noise," said Mandy, "or Mr. Pettengill will be out here. I'll ask them if they want anything else," as she rapped on the door. There was no response and she opened it and looked in. "Why, they have all gone to bed," she said. At that moment the old clock in the kitchen struck nine. "It's nine o'clock and you had better be going home, Hiram Maxwell."

"I shall have to get some anarchy to put on my forehead," said Hiram. "See that big bump, Mandy, that you made."

Mandy approached him quite closely and looked at his forehead; as she did so she turned up her nose and puckered her mouth. Her arms were hanging by her side. Hiram grasped her around the waist, holding both of her arms tight, and before Mandy could break away he gave her a kiss full on the mouth.

He made a quick rush for the door, opened it and dashed out into the night. Luckily for him there was no moon and he was out of sight before Mandy could recover her self-possession and reach the door. She peered out into the darkness for a moment; then she closed the door and bolted it, took a lamp and went up to her own room. Standing in front of her looking glass, she turned up her nose and puckered up her mouth as she had done when facing Hiram.

"That's the first time Hiram Maxwell ever kissed me," she said to herself, "Mebbe it will be the last time and mebbe it won't." Then she said reflectively, "I didn't think the little fellow had so much spunk in him."

In a quarter of an hour she was dreaming of cupids, and hearts, and arrows, and St. Valentine's Day, which was not so very far away.



CHAPTER XV.

A LONG LOST RELATIVE.

Ezekiel Pettengill owned what Deacon Mason did not—a nice carryall and a good road horse. Ezekiel would fix no price, but Quincy would not drive him unless he paid for the use of the team. One dollar for half a day, two dollars for a whole day, were the prices finally fixed upon.

Quincy drove first to Mrs. Putnam's. As he was ascending the steps the front door was opened and Lindy stood there to welcome him, which she did by extending her hand and then showing him into the parlor. She was evidently on the point of going out, for she had on her outdoor garments. After a few commonplaces relating to health and the weather, Quincy abruptly approached the object of his visit by saying, "I received your letter, Miss Putnam, and I have come to see if I can be of any service to you."

"Oh! I know you can," said Lindy; "you are wealthy—"

"I beg your pardon," interposed Quincy, "I am not what they call a wealthy young man; the fact that my father is possessed of a large fortune has probably given rise to the incorrect impression just repeated by you."

"I understand," said Lindy, with a laugh. "What I meant to say was, that you are undoubtedly acquainted with wealthy gentlemen, who know the best ways of investing money. I find my money a great trouble to me," she continued. "I had $25,000 invested in a first mortgage, but the property has been sold and the money repaid to me, and I don't know what to do with it."

"The obvious thing to do," remarked Quincy, "is to invest it at once, so that it will begin paying you interest."

"That is just what I wished to see you about," responded Lindy. "How would you advise me to invest it?" she asked.

"I would not presume," replied Quincy, "to give positive advice in such a case. I would go either to Foss & Follansbee, or Braithwaite & Mellen, or perhaps Rothwell Brothers & Co., look over the securities they have for sale and make my own selection, if I were in your place."

Lindy was manifestly disappointed at Quincy's polite refusal to recommend any particular security, but she evidently realized that further argument or entreaty would be useless, so she quickly changed the subject by remarking that her mother had considerable money invested, but that she was a woman who never took any advice and never gave any.

"I wonder who my mother is going to leave her money to? Do you know, Mr. Sawyer?"

Quincy replied that he did not. "But she did tell me that by the terms of your brother's will you were not to inherit it."

"Well, if you ever find out," said Lindy, "you will tell me, won't you, Mr. Sawyer?"

"Yes," said Quincy, "unless I am requested to keep it a secret."

"But you wouldn't keep it from me, their own daughter," said Lindy.

"Well," he replied, "I don't think it at all likely that they will inform me; but I promise to tell you if I learn who it is and am not bound in any way to keep the information secret."

"And will you tell me just as soon as you know?" persisted Lindy.

"In less than twenty-four hours from the time I learn the name you shall hear it from my own lips," he replied.

"Thank you," said Lindy. "Would you like to see father and mother? Father has been quite sick for a few days and they are in their own room. I will go up and tell them you are coming."

Quincy was left in the room. That gossip about Miss Putnam could not be true. Gossip said she was ashamed of her father and mother, and yet she had invited him to go up and see them. What a pretty girl she was, well educated and with a hundred thousand dollars; such a beautiful singer and their voices blended so nicely together. How pleased his mother and sisters would be if he should bring home a wife like her. On the wall hung an oil portrait of her, evidently painted within a short time. He sat looking at it as Lindy opened the door.

Before he could remove his eyes from the picture, Lindy had noticed his fixed gaze at it and smiled brightly.

"Mother would be delighted to see you."

Lindy rang a small bell that was on a table. In a moment Samanthy entered the room.

"Samantha, please show Mr. Sawyer to mother's room. Will you excuse me, Mr. Sawyer, if I am not here to say good-by to you after you have seen mother? I am going to the city this morning and there—" looking out of the window—"here comes Abner Stiles; he is going to drive me over to Eastborough. Did you ever meet Mr. Stiles, Mr. Sawyer?"

"I may have seen him," replied Quincy.

"Seeing him is nothing," said Lindy. "He must be heard to be appreciated. He is a most engaging talker; he has caught the biggest fish and killed the biggest bears—"

"And told the biggest lies," broke in Quincy,—

"Of any man in town," Lindy concluded.

"I think there is one man in town who can tell bigger ones," Quincy said gravely; "he has been telling a good many lately."

Lindy looked up and smiled. "He will never forgive us for what we did at the concert," said she, "Well, I mustn't keep Mr. Stiles waiting any longer, if I do he may—"

"Try to compete with the other one," added Quincy.

She smiled again, and gave him her little gloved hand, which he took in his for an instant.

She ran out quickly and got into the team, which immediately drove off. Samanthy, who had been waiting impatiently in the hallway, ushered Quincy into an upper chamber, where sat Mrs. Putnam. Her husband was reclining on a lounge near the fire.

"Well, I am awful glad to see yer," said Mrs. Putnam. "Silas here hasn't been feelin' fust rate for more'n a week. He's most frozen to death all the time. So I got him up front of the fire, same as I used to roast turkeys. Set down, Mr. Sawyer, and tell me all the news. Have you heerd anybody going to git engaged or anybody going to git married? I heerd as how you had left Deacon Mason's. So you 'cided to take my advice. I'm kinder sorry you tipped the buggy over, for Huldy Mason's a nice girl. The fact is I was thinkin' more of her than I was of you, when I told yer you'd better git out. Where be yer boardin' now?"

"I am boarding at Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill's. His sister has got home and his Uncle Isaac has come back to live with him."

"Lord sakes, do tell!" said Mrs. Putnam. "I allus thought that old fool would die out there in the woods and they'd bury him in his chicken coop. But what on airth is Alice home for? Has she lost her job?"

"No," replied Quincy; "poor girl, she has almost lost her sight. She has been very sick, and as a result she is almost blind, and had to give up work and come home."

Mrs. Putnam sank back in her chair.

"If I didn't think you were a truthful man, Mr. Sawyer, I wouldn't b'lieve a word you said. My poor Alice. Why, do you know, Mr. Sawyer, I never saw a human being in all my life that I liked so much as I have Alice Pettengill. Did you ever see her, Mr. Sawyer?"

"No," said Quincy, "she only arrived yesterday afternoon, and she did not appear at supper nor at breakfast this morning. She was tired and wished to rest, her brother told me."

"Well, I hope she won't die," said Mrs. Putnam. "I have left her every dollar I've got in the world, and if she should die I shouldn't know who on airth to give it to. Well, there, I've let the cat out of the bag, and my daughter Lindy, mean as she is about money, would give a thousand dollars to know who I am goin' to leave my money to. I wish I could see Alice. I can't walk, and that poor, deaf girl can't see. Why, Mr. Sawyer, I think she's the prettiest, sweetest girl I ever sot eyes on in my life, and I've seed a good many on 'em. Now you tell me what you think of her the next time you come up, won't you, Mr. Sawyer?"

"I certainly will," said Quincy, "and if she will come with me I will bring her over to see you. If she came from Boston with her brother, she can surely ride as far as this," he added.

"Tell her I shall count every minute till she, comes over here, but don't say a word to her about my money," said Mrs. Putnam.

"Certainly not," Quincy answered. "You did not intend to tell me."

"No, I didn't," acknowledged Mrs. Putnam, "it slipped out before I thought."

Quincy arose. "I must go now, Mrs. Putnam. I have business at Eastborough Centre, and I don't know how long it will take me, and besides, I am anxious to see Miss Pettengill after your glowing description of her beauty and her virtues."

"Well, I haven't put the paint on half as thick as it would stand," said Mrs. Putnam. "Well, good-by, Mr. Sawyer. It's very kind in you to come and see two old folks like us. No use saying good-by to Silas; he's stone deef and besides he's sound asleep."

When Quincy took up the reins and started towards Eastborough Centre it was with conflicting emotions. If there had been no Alice Pettengill to see, his thoughts, no doubt, would have related chiefly to Lindy Putnam, who had never attracted his attention before as she had that morning. Could Alice Pettengill be as pretty and as good as Mrs. Putnam had portrayed? And she was to be an heiress. He was sorry that Mrs. Putnam had told him. When he was talking to Miss Pettengill what he knew would be continually in his mind. He was glad that she was to have the money, but very sorry that he knew she was to have it; he had promised not to tell her, but he had promised to tell Lindy. Mrs. Putnam had not told him not to tell Lindy, but she had said Lindy would give a thousand dollars to know. Now, was that the same as requesting him not to tell Lindy, and should he tell Lindy for nothing what her mother said she would give a thousand dollars to know? Anyhow, that question must be decided within the next twenty-four hours.

Then he began to think of his intended visit to Eastborough Poorhouse. Would the Jim Sawyer that he found there turn out to be his own uncle? What a sweet morsel that would be for Strout if it proved to be true. Anyhow, he would follow his father's instructions and do all he could for his uncle, come what might.

Since he had arrived at Mason's Corner everything that he had done seemed to give rise to gossip, and a little more of it could do no harm.

Quincy reached the Poorhouse and inquired for the keeper. A very stout, red-faced man answered the summons.

He informed Quincy that his name was Asa Waters, and that he had been keeper of the town Poorhouse for the last ten years.

Quincy thought from his size, as he evidently weighed between three and four hundred pounds, that he had probably eaten all the food supplied for the inmates. In reply to a direct question whether there was a man there by the name of Jim Sawyer, Mr. Waters said "yes," but that he was sick abed and had been for the last week.

"He coughs awful," said Waters; "in fact, I had to change his room because the rest of us couldn't sleep. When we tried to move him he became sort of crazy like, and it took three on us to get him out of the room and take him upstairs. He seems sot on getting back in that room. The other day he crawled down stairs and we found him trying to get into the room, but I had it locked and we had another fight to get him upstairs again."