"At the end of that time," he wrote, "I will either withdraw my objections or present them in detail, accompanied by affidavits in opposition to the appointment."

Having finished the letters, he went downstairs to the kitchen, and, as usual, found Hiram engaged in conversation with Mandy.

"You are just the man I want," said he to Hiram; "I would like to have you take these letters to the Mason's Corner post office and mail them at once. You can tell Mr. Hill that the papers relating to the store are nearly ready, and if he and his son will come here this afternoon we will execute them. I would like to have you and Mr. Pettengill on hand as witnesses."

Hiram started off on his mission, and Quincy returned to his room and busied himself with the preparation of the documents for the transfer of the grocery store, and the making out of the necessary notes to cover the twenty-five hundred dollars due for the same.

He had not seen Alice at breakfast, nor did she appear at the dinner table. He had followed the rule since she came to the house not to make any open inquiries about her health, but from words dropped by Ezekiel and Uncle Ike, he had kept fairly well informed as to the result of her treatment. At dinner Ezekiel remarked that his sister had commenced to take her new medicine, and that he reckoned it must be purty powerful, for she had said that she didn't wish anything to eat, and didn't want anything sent to her room.

Quincy politely expressed his regrets at her indisposition and trusted that she would soon be able to join them again at meal time.

About three o'clock in the afternoon, Samuel Hill and his father arrived, and Hiram, remembering Quincy's instructions, had found Ezekiel Pettengill, and all came to the room together. It took a comparatively short time to sign, seal, and deliver the documents and papers. It was arranged that Samuel Hill and his father should take charge of the grocery store and carry on the business until a week from the following Monday; as Quincy told young Hill that he had some business to attend to the early part of the following week that would prevent his giving any attention to the store until the latter part of the week.

Quincy treated his principals and witnesses to cigars, and an interchange of ideas was made in relation to the result of the auction sale.

"How does Strout take it?" inquired Quincy.

"I don't know," spoke up Hiram. "He acts as though he thought I was pizen. Every time he sees me he crosses over on t'other side of the street, if we happen to be comin' towards each other."

"Well, I imagine," said Quincy, "that your usefulness to him has departed in some respects, but it's just as well."

"Well," said young Hill, "I can tell you what he said the other night in the grocery store. There was a crowd of his friends there, and he remarked that you," turning to Quincy, "might own Hill's grocery store, but that wasn't the whole earth. He said that he had no doubt that he would be elected unanimously as tax collector, and he was sure of his appointment as postmaster, and if he got it he should start another grocery store on his own hook and make it lively for you."

"Well," said Quincy with a laugh, "competition is the life of trade, and I sha'n't object if he does go into the business; but if he does, I will guarantee to undersell him on every article, and I will put on a couple of teams and hire a couple of men, and we'll scour Eastborough and Mason's Corner and Montrose for orders in the morning, and then we'll deliver all the goods by team in the afternoon in regular Boston style. I never knew just exactly what I was cut out for. I know I don't like studying law, and it may be, after all, that it's my destiny to become a grocery-man."

Quincy took Ezekiel by the arm, led him to the window, and whispered something to him.

Ezekiel laughed, then turned red in the face, then finally said in an undertone, "Waal, I dunno, seems kinder early, but I dunno but it jest as well might be then as any other time. I hain't got nuthin' ter do this afternoon, so I think I'll take a walk up there to see how the land lays."

He said, "Good afternoon" to the others and left the room.

Quincy then took Samuel Hill by the arm in the same manner as he had done to Ezekiel, led him to the window, and said something to him which wrought a similar effect to that produced upon Ezekiel.

Samuel thought for a moment and then said, "That ain't a bad idea; I'm satisfied if the other party is. I'm going to drive over this afternoon and tell the old gentleman that matters are all fixed up, and I'll find out if there's any objection to the plan. Guess I'll go now, as I've got to git back to-night."

So he said "Good afternoon," and, accompanied by his father, took his departure.

"Sit down, Hiram," said Quincy, "I want to have a talk with you. Have you settled up that little matter with Mandy?"

"No," said Hiram, "not yet; I've ben tryin' to muster up courage, but I haven't ben able to up to the present moment."

"I should think," remarked Quincy, "that a man who had carried his captain off the field with a shower of bullets raining about him, or who had pushed forward with his country's flag in the face of a similar storm of bullets, ought not to be afraid to ask a young girl to marry him."

"Waal, do yer know," said Hiram, "I'm more afraid o' Mandy than I would be of the whole army."

"Well," said Quincy, "I don't see any other way for you except to walk up like a man and meet your fate. Of course if I could do it for you I'd be willing to oblige you."

"No, thank yer," said Hiram, "I kinder reckon thet little matter had better be settled between the two principals in the case without callin' in a lawyer."

Quincy leaned over and whispered something to him.

"By crickey!" said Hiram, "what put thet idea inter yer head?"

"Oh," said Quincy, "since I've had to spend so much time plotting against my enemies, I've got into the habit of thinking out little surprises for my friends."

"Waal, I swan!" cried Hiram, "that would be the biggest thing ever happened in Mason's Corner. Well, I rather think I shall be able to tend to that matter now, at once. One, two, three," said Hiram, "just think of it; well, that's the biggest lark that I've ever ben connected with; beats buying the grocery store all holler."

"Well," continued Quincy, "you three gentlemen understand it now, and if matters can be arranged I will do my part, and I promise you all a grand send-off; but not a word of it must be breathed to outside parties, remember. It won't amount to anything unless its' a big surprise."

"All right," said Hiram, "I kinder reckon Sawyer's surprise party will be a bigger one than Strout's was."

"Oh," continued Hiram, "I 'most forgot. Mandy was up ter see her mother abeout thet room for thet man that's comin' down from Boston Monday night, and Mis' Hawkins says the price of the room is three dollars per week and the board fifty cents a day. Mandy paid for the room for a week, and Mis' Hawkins says after she takes out what the board comes to she'll give the balance back ter Mandy."

"That's all right," said Quincy, "I've heard from the man in Boston, and he'll surely occupy the room next Monday night. Mandy can tell her mother to have it all ready."

Next morning about ten o'clock, Abbott Smith drove over from Eastborough Centre, accompanied by his father and Wallace Stackpole. Quincy took his place beside Mr. Stackpole on the rear seat of the carryall, and Abbott drove off as though he intended to return to Eastborough Centre, but when he reached the crossroad he went through, then turning back towards Mason's Corner, drove on until he reached Deacon Mason's barn, following the same plan that Ezekiel had on the night of the surprise party.

They found the Deacon at home, and all adjourned to the parlor, where 'Bias Smith stated his business, which was to ask the Deacon to act as Moderator at the town meeting on the following Monday. The Deacon objected at first, but finally consented, after Mr. Smith had explained several matters to him.

"Yer know," said the Deacon, "my fellow citizens have tried on several occasions to have me run for selectman, but I reckoned thet I wuz too old to be out so late nights and have to drive home from Eastborough at ten or 'leven o'clock at night. Besides I've worked hard in my day, and there's no place I like so well as my own home. I'm alwus sorry to go away in the mornin' and alwus glad ter git home at night, and although I consider that every citizen ought ter do everything he can for the public good, I reckon thet there's a good many more anxious than I am to serve the town, and I'm not so consated but thet I think they know how ter do it better'n I could. But as that Moderator work comes in the daytime, as I stand ready to do all I can for my young friend here," turning towards Quincy, "I'll be on hand Monday mornin' and do the best I can to serve public and private interests at the same time."

Wallace Stackpole, while the others were talking, had taken a couple of newspapers from his pocket, and as Deacon Mason finished, he looked up and said, "There's an item here in the 'Eastborough Express,' Deacon, that I imagine you'll be interested in. I'll read it to you: 'We are informed on the best authority that Miss Huldy Mason, only daughter of Deacon Abraham Mason of Mason's Corner, is engaged to Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill. The day of the marriage has not been fixed, but our readers will be informed in due season.'"

"I'm afraid, Deacon," said Quincy, "that's all my fault. I met young Chisholm last Tuesday when I was over to the Centre, and he told me something that actually obliged me to confide in him the fact that I knew that your daughter was not likely to become Mrs. Obadiah Strout, but he promised me on his word of honor that he would not put it in the paper unless he got the same information from some other source."

The Deacon haw-hawed in good old-fashioned country style.

"Waal," said he, "young Chisholm tackled me, and said he heard a rumor abeout Huldy and Strout, and, as you say, Mr. Sawyer, he kinder 'bliged me to set him right. But he made me a promise, as he did you, thet he wouldn't say anythin' abeout it unless some other feller told him the same thing."

"That young man is sure to get ahead in the world; he buncoed us both, Deacon," said Quincy.

"Waal, I dunno as I know just what you mean by buncoed," said the Deacon, "but I kinder think he got the best of both on us on thet point."

As they took their places again in the carryall, Quincy said to Mr. Smith, "If you can drive to Mr. Pettengill's house and wait a few minutes, I think I'll go over to Eastborough Centre with you. I'm going to Boston this afternoon, and shall not be back again until Monday night."

This they consented to do, and after Quincy had obtained certain papers and had packed his travelling bag, he left word with Mandy that he would not be back to the house until Tuesday of the following week, and it might be Wednesday, as he was going to Boston to see his parents.

When they reached Eastborough Centre, Quincy went at once to the post office; there he found a short letter from Leopold Ernst. It read as follows:

"Dear Q:—

"Come up and see me as soon as you can; I shall be at home all day Sunday. Am ready to report on the stories, but have more to say than I have time to write.

Invariably thine, LEOPOLD ERNST."

Quincy then crossed the Square and entered the office of the "Eastborough Express." Sylvester flushed a little as Quincy came in, but the latter reassured him by extending his hand and shaking it heartily.

"Is the editor in?" asked Quincy.

"No," replied Sylvester, "he never shows up on Saturdays."

"Who is going to report the town meeting?" continued Quincy.

"I am," answered Sylvester. "The editor will be on hand, but he told me yesterday that he should depend on me to write the meeting up, because he had a little political work to attend to that would take all his time. He told me he was going over to see 'Bias Smith on Sunday, so I imagine that Mr. Smith and he are interested on the same side."

"Well, Mr. Chisholm," said Quincy, "you managed that little matter about Miss Mason's engagement so neatly that I have something for you to do for me. I'm going to Boston this afternoon, and shall not be back until half-past seven Monday night. I'm going over to see Mr. Parsons when I leave here, and shall arrange with him to supply all our boys with all they want to eat and drink next Monday."

"Well, the boys, as you call them, will be pretty apt to be hungry and thirsty next Monday," laughed Sylvester.

"That's all right," said Quincy, "I'll stand the bills."

"How's Parsons going to know which are our boys?" continued Chisholm. "They ought to have some kind of badge or some kind of a password, or your enemies, as well as your friends, will be eating up your provisions."

"That's what I want you to attend to," added Quincy. "I'll arrange with Parsons that if anybody gives him the letters B D on the quiet, he is to consider that they are on our side, and mustn't take any money from them, but chalk it up on my score. Now, I depend upon you, Mr. Chisholm, to give the password to the faithful, and to pay you for your time and trouble just take this."

And he passed a twenty-dollar bill to Sylvester. The latter drew back.

"No, Mr. Sawyer," said he, "I cannot take any money for that service. This work is to be done, for I understand the whole business, to defeat the man who, I think, has treated my sister in a very mean manner, and I'm willing to work all day and all night without any pay to knock that fellow out. Let's put it that way,—I'm working against him, and not for you; and, looking at it that way, of course, there's no reason why you should pay me anything."

"All right," rejoined Quincy, "I should have no feeling if you took the money, but I can appreciate your sentiments, and will have no feeling because you do not take it. One of these days I may be able to do as great a service for you, as you are willing to do for me between now and next Monday."

They shook hands and parted, and Quincy made his way to the Eagle Hotel, of which Mr. Seth Parsons was the proprietor. Mr. Parsons greeted him heartily and invited him into his private room. Here Quincy told the arrangement that he had made with young Chisholm, and gave him the password.

"Don't stint them," said Quincy, "let them have a good time; but don't let anybody know who pays for it. I shall be down on the half-past seven express, Monday night, and I would like to have a nice little dinner for eight or nine people ready in your private dining-room at eight o'clock. Mr. Tobias Smith knows who my guests are to be, and if I am delayed from any cause, he will tell you who are entitled to go in and eat the dinner."

The next train to Boston was due in ten minutes, and shaking hands with the hotel proprietor, he made his way quickly to the station. As he reached the platform he noticed that Abner Stiles was just driving away; the thought flashed through his mind that somebody from Mason's Corner was going to the city; but that was no uncommon event, and the thought passed from him.

He entered the car, and, to his surprise, found that it was filled; every seat in sight was taken. He walked forward and espied a seat near the farther end of the car. He noticed that a lady sat near the window; when he reached it he raised his hat, and leaning forward, said politely, "Is this seat taken?"

"No, sir," replied a pleasant, but somewhat sad voice, and he sank into the seat without further thought as to its other occupant.

When they reached the first station beyond Eastborough Centre he glanced out of the window, and as he did so, noticed that his companion was Miss Lindy Putnam.

"Why, Miss Putnam," cried he, turning towards her, "how could I be so ungallant as not to recognize you?"

"Well," replied Lindy, "perhaps it's just as well that you didn't; my thoughts were not very pleasant, and I should not have been a very entertaining companion."

"More trouble at home?" he inquired in a low voice.

"Yes," answered Lindy, in a choked voice, "since Mr. Putnam died it has been worse than ever. While he lived she had him to talk to; but now she insists on talking to me, and sends for me several times a day, ostensibly to do something for her, but really simply to get me in the room so she can talk over the old, old story, and say spiteful and hateful things to me. May Heaven pardon me for saying so, Mr. Sawyer, but I am thankful that it's nearly at an end."

"Why, what do you mean," asked Quincy, "is she worse?"

"Yes," said Lindy, "she is failing very rapidly physically, but her voice and mental powers are as strong as ever; in fact, I think she is more acute in her mind and sharper in her words than she has ever been before. Dr. Budd ordered some medicine that I could not get at the Centre, and so there was no way for me except to go to the city for it. Let me tell you now, Mr. Sawyer, something that I should have been obliged to write to you, if I had not seen you. I shall stay with Mrs. Putnam until she dies, for I promised Jones that I would, and I could never break any promise that I made to him; but the very moment that she's dead I shall leave the house and the town forever!"

"Shall you not stay to the funeral?" said Quincy; "what will the townspeople say?"

"I don't care what they say," rejoined Lindy, in a sharp tone; "she is not my mother, and I will not stay to the funeral and hypocritically mourn over her, when in my secret heart I shall be glad she is dead."

"Those are harsh words," said Quincy.

"Not one-tenth nor one-hundredth as harsh and unfeeling as those she has used to me," said Lindy. "No, my mind is made up; my trunks are all packed, and she will not be able to lock me in my room this time. I shall leave town by the first train after her death, and Eastborough will never see me nor hear from me again."

"But how about your friends," asked Quincy, "supposing that I should find out something that would be of interest to you; supposing that I should get some information that might lead to the discovery of your real parents, how could I find you?"

"Well," replied Lindy, "if you will give me your promise that you will not disclose to any one what I am going to say, I will tell you how to find me."

"You have my word," replied Quincy.

"Well," answered Lindy, "I'm going to New York! I would tell you where, but I don't know. But if you wish to find me at any time advertise in the Personal Column of the 'New York Herald'; address it to Linda, and sign it Eastborough," said she, after a moment's thought. "I shall drop the name of Putnam when I arrive in New York, but what name I shall take I have not yet decided upon; it will depend upon circumstances. But I shall have the 'New York Herald' every day, and if you advertise for me I shall be sure to see it."

She then relapsed into silence, and Quincy forbore to speak any more, as he saw she was busy with her own thoughts. They soon reached the city and parted at the door of the station. She gave him her hand, and as he held it in his for a moment, he said, "Good-by, Miss Linda." She thanked him for not saying "Miss Putnam" with a glance of her eyes. "I may not see you again, but you may depend upon me. If I hear of anything that will help you in your search for your parents, my time shall be given to the matter, and I will communicate with you at the earliest moment. Good-by."

He raised his hat and they parted.

Town Meeting Day proved to be a bright and pleasant one. At nine o'clock the Town Hall was filled with the citizens of Eastborough. They had come from the Centre, they had come from West Eastborough and from Mason's Corner. There were very nearly four hundred gathered upon the floor, the majority of them being horny-handed sons of toil, or, more properly speaking, independent New England farmers.

When Jeremiah Spinney, the oldest man in town, who had reached the age of ninety-two, and who declared that he hadn't "missed a town meetin' for seventy year," called the meeting to order, a hush fell upon the assemblage. In a cracked, but still distinct voice, he called for a nomination for Moderator of the meeting. Abraham Mason's name, of Mason's Corner, was the only one presented. The choice was by acclamation; for it was acknowledged on all sides that Deacon Mason was as square a man as there was in town.

The newly-elected Moderator took the chair and called upon the clerk to read the warrant for the meeting. This was soon done, and the transaction of the town's business begun in earnest. It will be, of course, impossible and unnecessary to give a complete and connected account of all that took place in town meeting on that day. For such an account the trader is referred to the columns of the "Eastborough Express," for it was afterwards acknowledged on all sides that the account of the meeting written by Mr. Sylvester Chisholm was the most graphic and comprehensive that had ever appeared in that paper. We have to do only with those items in the warrant that related directly or indirectly to those residents of the town with whom we are interested.

When the question of appropriating a certain sum for the support of the town Almshouse was reached, Obadiah Strout sprang to his feet and called out, "Mister Moderator," in a loud voice. He was recognized, and addressed the chair as follows:

"Mister Moderator, before a vote is taken on the questions of appropriatin' for the support of the town poor, I wish to call the attention of my fellow-citizens to a matter that has come to my knowledge durin' the past year. A short time ago a man who had been a town charge for more than three years, and whose funeral expenses were paid by the town, was discovered by me to be the only brother of a man livin' in Boston, who is said to be worth a million dollars. A very strange circumstance was that the son of this wealthy man, and a nephew of this town pauper, has been livin' in this town for several months, and spendin' his money in every way that he could think of to attract attention, but it never occurred to him that he could have used his money to better advantage if he had taken some of it and paid it to the town for takin' care of his uncle. These facts are well known to many of us here, and I move that a ballot—"

Tobias Smith had been fidgeting uneasily in his seat while Strout was speaking, and when he mentioned the word "ballot," he could restrain himself no longer, but jumped to Bids feet and called out in his stentorian voice, "Mister Moderator, I rise to a question of privilege."

"I have the floor," shouted Strout, "and I wish to finish my remarks. This is only an attempt of the opposition to shut me off. I demand to be heard!"

"Mister Moderator," screamed Abner Stiles, "I move that Mr. Strout be allowed to continue without further interruption."

The Moderator brought his gavel down on the table and called out, "Order, order." Then turning to Tobias, he said, "Mr. Smith, state your question of privilege."

Strout sank into his seat, his face livid with passion; turning to Stiles, he said, "This is all cooked up between 'em. You know you told me you saw Smith and Stackpole and that city chap drivin' away from the Deacon's house last Saturday mornin'."

Stiles nodded his head and said, "I guess you're right."

Mr. Smith continued, "My question of privilege, Mister Moderator, is this: I desire to present it now, because when I've stated it, my fellow citizen," turning to Strout, "will find that it's unnecessary to make any motion in relation to the matter to which he has referred. I hold in my hand a letter from Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer, whose father is the Hon. Nathaniel Sawyer of Boston, and whose uncle was Mr. James Sawyer, who died in the Eastborough Poorhouse several weeks ago. By conference with Mr. Waters, who is in charge of the Poorhouse, and with the Town Treasurer, he ascertained that the total expense to which the town of Eastborough has been put for the care of his uncle was four hundred and sixty-eight dollars and seventy-two cents. I hold his check for that sum, drawn to the order of the Town Treasurer, and certified to be good by the cashier of the Eastborough National Bank. He has requested me to offer this check to the town, and that a receipt for the same be given by the Town Treasurer."

Strout jumped to his feet.

"Mister Moderator, I am glad to learn," cried he, "that this son of a millionaire has had his heart touched and his conscience pricked by the kindness shown by the town of Eastborough to his uncle, and I move the check be accepted and a receipt given by the Town Treasurer, as requested."

"Second the motion!" called out Abner Stiles.

"Before puttin' the question," said the Moderator slowly, "I want to say a few words on this matter, and as it may be thought not just proper for me to speak from the chair, I will call upon the Rev. Caleb Howe to take the same durin' my remarks."

The well-known clergyman at Mason's Corner came forward, ascended the platform, took the chair, and recognized Deacon Mason's claim to be heard.

"I have heerd the motion to accept this check, an' I desire ter say thet I am teetotally opposed to the town's takin' this money. If the Honorable Nathaniel Sawyer, who's the dead man's brother, or Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer, who's his nephew, had known that he wuz a pauper, they would 'er relieved the town of any further charge. We hev no legal claim agin either of these two gentlemen. Our claim is agin ther town of Amesbury, in which Mr. James Sawyer was a citizen and a taxpayer. If Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer wishes to pay ther town of Amesbury after ther town of Amesbury has paid us, thet's his affair and none o' our business, but we've no legal right to accept a dollar from him, when our legal claim is agin the town in which he hed a settlement, and I hope this motion will not prevail."

As Deacon Mason regained the platform loud cries of "Vote! Vote! Vote!" came from all parts of the hall.

Tellers were appointed, and in a few moments the result of the vote was announced. In favor of Mr. Strout's motion to accept the check, eighty-five. Opposed, two hundred and eighty. And it was not a vote.

"We will now proceed," said the Moderator, as he resumed the chair, "to consider the question of appropriating money for the support of the Poor-farm."

The next matter on the warrant of general interest was the appropriation of a small sum of money to purchase some reference books for the town library, which consisted of but a few hundred volumes stowed away in a badly-lighted and poorly-ventilated room on the upper floor of the Town Hall.

This question brought to his feet Zachariah Butterfield, who was looked upon as the watchdog of the town treasury. He had not supported Strout on the question of accepting the check, because he knew the position taken by the Moderator was legally correct, and he was very careful in opposing appropriations to attack only those where, as it seemed to him, he had a good show of carrying his point. He had been successful so often, that with him success was a duty, for he had a reputation to maintain.

"Mister Moderator," he said, "I'm agin appropriatin' any more money for this 'ere town lib'ry. We hev got plenty of schoolbooks in our schools; we hev got plenty of books and newspapers in our houses, and it's my opinion thet those people who spend their time crawlin' up three flights er stairs and readin' those books had better be tillin' ther soil, poundin' on ther anvil, or catchin fish. Neow, I wuz talkin' with Miss Burpee, the librari'n, and she sez they want a new Wooster's Dictshuneery, 'cause ther old one iz all worn eout. Neow, I looked through the old one, and I couldn't see but what it's jest as good as ever; there may be a few pages missin', but what's thet amount ter when there's more'n a couple of thousan' on 'em left?"

Mr. Tobias Smith was again fidgeting in his seat. He evidently had something to say and was anxious to say it.

Mr. Butterfield continued: "Neow, to settle this question onct fer all, I make ther motion that this 'ere lib'ry be closed up and the librari'n discharged; she gits a dollar a week, and ther town ken use that fifty-two dollars a year, in my opinion, to better advantege."

"Mister Moderator," came again from Mr. Tobias Smith, "I rise to a question of privilege—"

Mr. Butterfield kept on talking: "Mister Moderator, this is not a question of privilege; this is a question of expenditure of money for a needless purpose. Yes, Mister Moderator, for a needless purpose."

Mr. Butterfield had evidently lost the thread of his discourse, and Mr. Smith, taking advantage of his temporary indecision, said, "I agree with the gentleman who has just spoken; I am in favor of closing up this musty, dusty old room, and saving the further expenditure of money upon it."

Mr. Butterfield, hearing these words, and not having sufficiently collected his thoughts to say anything himself, nodded approvingly and sank into his seat.

Mr. Smith continued, "I have a proposition to submit in relation to the town library. I hold in my hand a letter from Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer, whose name has been previously mentioned—"

Mr. Strout jumped to his feet.

"Mister Moderator, I rise to a question of privilege."

"I second the motion!" cried Abner Stiles.

"State your question of privilege, Mr. Strout," said the Moderator.

"I wish to inquire," answered Strout, "if the time of this town meetin' is to be devoted to the legitimate business of the town, or is it to be fooled away in hearin' letters read from a person who is not a citizen of the town, and who is not entitled to be heard in this town meetin'?"

"Mister Moderator," said Mr. Smith, "I am a citizen of this town, and I'm entitled to be heard in this meeting, and the matter that I'm about to bring to the attention of this meeting is a most important one and affects the interests of the town materially. I consider that I have a right to read this letter or any other letter that relates to the question before the meeting, which is, 'Shall money be appropriated to buy books for what is called the town library?' I say NO; and my reason for this is contained in this letter, which I propose to read."

"Go on, Mr. Smith," said the Moderator.

"Well," continued Mr. Smith, "Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer, in this letter, offers to the town of Eastborough the sum of five thousand dollars, to be used either for purchasing books and paying the expenses of a library to be located in the Town Hall; or a portion of the money may be used to build a suitable building, and the balance for the equipment and support of the library."

Mr. Butterfield was on his feet again.

"Mister Moderator, I'm agin acceptin' this donation. If we take it, we shall only jump out er the fryin-pan inter the fire; instead of buyin' a few books and payin' the librari'n a dollar a week, we shall hev to hev a jan'ter for the new buildin', and pay fer insurance, and we shell hev ter hev a librari'n ev'ry day in ther week, and by'm by the ungodly will want ter hev it open on a Sunday, so thet they kin hev a place to loaf in; and I'm agin the whole bizness teetotally. I've sed my say; neow, you kin go ahead, and do jest as you please."

This was Mr. Butterfield's usual wind-up to his arguments; but on this occasion it seemed to fail of its effect.

The Moderator said, "Was Mr. Butterfield's motion seconded?" There was no response. "Then the matter before the meeting is the question of appropriating money for the support of the town library."

"Mister Moderator," said Mr. Smith, "I move that the donation from Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer be accepted, and that the library be named 'The Sawyer Free Public Library of the Town of Eastborough.'"

"Second the motion!" came from a hundred voices.

Strout was on his feet again.

"Mister Moderator," said he, "I move to amend the motion by havin' it read that we decline, that the town declines the donation without thanks."

A loud laugh arose from the assemblage.

Abner Stiles had evidently misinterpreted Mr. Strout's motion, for he called out, "Mister Moderator," and when he got the floor, "I move to amend so that the motion would read, this library shall be called the Strout Free Library of the Town of Eastborough."

This was greeted with shouts of laughter, and Strout grasped Abner by his coat collar and pulled him violently back upon the settee.

"Shut up, you fool," cried he between his teeth to Abner; "do you want to make a laughin' stock of me?"

"I kinder thought I wuz a-helpin' yer," said Abner, as he ran his fingers down under his chin and pulled away his shirt collar, which had been drawn back so forcibly that it interfered with his breathing.

"The question now," said the Moderator, "is on the adoption of Mr. Smith's motion. Those in favor will please stand up and be counted."

When the tellers had attended to their duty the Moderator said, "Those opposed will now rise and be counted."

The vote was soon announced. In favor of accepting the donation, three hundred and one; opposed, fifty-eight.

"It's a vote," declared the Moderator.

A dozen matters of minor importance were quickly disposed of, and but one remained upon the warrant, with the exception of the election of town officers. Little squads of the members were now gathered together talking over the most important question of the meeting, which was the election of town officers for the ensuing year. The last item on the warrant read: "Will the town appropriate money to buy a new hearse?"

Mr. Butterfield had evidently been holding himself in reserve, for he was on his feet in an instant, and he secured the eye of the Moderator and the floor.

"Mister Moderator," began Mr. Butterfield, "I desire to raise my voice agin this biznez of unnecessary and unexampled extravagance. What do we want of a new hearse? Those who are dead and in the cemetery don't find any fault with the one we've got, and those who are livin' have no present use for it, and why should they complain? I know what this means. This is only an enterin' wedge. If this 'ere bill passes and we git a new hearse, then it'll be said thet ther horses don't look as well as the hearse, and then if ther hearse gits out in ther storm, we shell hev ter pay money to git it polished up agin, and we who are livin' will hev to work harder and harder for the benefit of those who are jest as well satisfied with the old hearse as they would be with a new one. I move, Mister Moderator, that instid of buyin' a new hearse, thet ther old one be lengthened six inches, which ken be done at a slight expense."

Mr. Tobias Smith now took the floor.

"I am glad that my friend has not opposed this measure entirely, but has provided for my proper exit from this world when my time comes. I must confess that it has troubled me a great deal when I have thought about that hearse. I was born down in the State of Maine, where the boys and the trees grow up together. I stand six feet two in my stockings and six feet three with my boots on, and I haven't looked forward with any pleasure to being carried to my last resting place in a hearse that was only six feet long. I second Mr. Butterfield's motion, but move to amend it by extending the length to seven feet."

The vote was taken, and Mr. Butterfield's motion was carried by a vote of three hundred and forty to twenty-two. Mr. Butterfield sank back in his seat with an expression on his face that seemed to say, "I've done the town some service to-day."

The Moderator then rose and said, "Fellow-citizens, all the business matters upon the warrant have now been disposed of. We will now proceed to the election of town officers for the ensuing year."

Mr. Stackpole rose and called out, "Mister Moderator, it is now nearly twelve o'clock, and some of us had to leave home quite early this morning in order to be in time at the meeting. I move that we adjourn till one o'clock, at which time balloting for town officers usually commences."

Forty voices cried out, "Second the motion," and although Strout, Stiles, and several others jumped to their feet and endeavored to secure the Moderator's eye, the motion was adopted by an overwhelming vote, and the greater portion of the members made their way out of the hall and directed their steps towards the Eagle Hotel, as if the whole matter had been prearranged. Here, Mr. Parsons, the proprietor, had set out a most tempting lunch in the large dining-room, and those who were able to give the password were admitted to the room, and feasted to their heart's content.

Abner Stiles, impelled by curiosity, had followed the party, and had noticed that each one said something to the proprietor before he was admitted to the dining-room. Going up to Parsons, he said, "What's goin' on in there?"

"Oh, I guess they're having a caucus," replied Mr. Parsons.

"When thet last feller went in," said Abner, "I saw that the table was all set, and I kinder 'magined they must be havin' a dinner. I'd kinder like some myself."

"Well, I'm sorry," said Mr. Parsons, "but I cannot accommodate any more than have already applied. You can get a lunch over to the railroad station, you know, if you want one."

"I know," answered Abner, "but I kinder 'magine they're talkin' over 'lection matters in there, and I'd rather like ter know what's goin' on."

"Well, I guess you'll find out when they get back to the Town Hall," remarked Mr. Parsons; and he stepped forward to greet three or four other citizens, who leaned over and whispered in his ear.

Mr. Parsons smiled and nodded, and opening the door admitted them to the dining-room.

"Well, that beats all," said Abner, as he went out on the platform in front of the hotel. "They jest whispered somethin' to him and he let 'em right in. I kinder think somethin's goin' on and thet Strout ain't up to it. Guess I'll go back and tell him," which he proceeded to do.

He found Strout and some sixty or seventy of the citizens still remaining in the Town Hall, the majority of whom were eating the luncheons that they had brought with them from home. Taking Strout aside, Abner confided to him the intelligence of which he had become possessed.

"'D'yer know what it means?" asked Abner.

"No, I don't," said Strout, "but I bet a dollar that it's some of that city chap's doin's. Is he 'round about town this mornin'?"

"No," said Abner, "he went to Bosting on the same train with Miss Lindy Putnam, for I fetched her down, and I saw him git inter the same car with her as I wuz drivin' off."

One o'clock soon arrived, and the large party that had regaled themselves with the appetizing viands and non-alcoholic beverages supplied by mine host of the Eagle Hotel came back to the Town Hall in the best of spirits. The majority of them were smoking good cigars, which had been handed to them by the proprietor, as they passed from the dining-room.

When asked if there was anything to pay, Mr. Parsons shook his head and remarked sententiously, "This is not the only present that the town has received to-day," which was a delicate way of insinuating the name of the donor of the feast without actually mentioning it.

The election of a dozen minor officers calls for no special attention, except to record the fact that Abner Stiles, who had cautiously taken a position several settees removed from Strout, arose as the nominations were made for each office, and in every case nominated Mr. Obadiah Strout for the position, and it is needless to add that Mr. Obadiah Strout had at least one vote for each office in the gift of the town.

The nomination of a collector of taxes for the town was finally reached. Abner Stiles was first on his feet, and being recognized by the Moderator, nominated "Mr. Obadiah Strout, who had performed the duties of the office so efficiently during the past year."

Now the battle royal began. Mr. Tobias Smith next obtained the floor and nominated Mr. Wallace Stackpole.

"In presenting this nomination, Mister Moderator, I do it out of justice to an old soldier who served the country faithfully, and who lost the election a year ago on account of an untrue statement that was widely circulated and which could not be refuted in time to affect the question of his election. I hold in my hand three documents. The first one is a certified copy of the war record of Wallace Stackpole, who entered one of our regiments of Volunteers as a private, served throughout the war, and was honorably discharged with the rank of captain. This record shows that during his four years of service he was three times wounded; in one instance so badly that for weeks his life hung by a thread, and it was only by the most careful treatment that amputation of his right arm was avoided. I hold here also the war record of the present incumbent of the office. From it I learn that he entered the army as a private and was discharged at the end of two years still holding the rank of private, and sent home as an invalid. He is not to blame for this, but inspecting his record I find that within a month after he joined the army he was detailed for service in the hospital, and during the two years of his connection with the army he was never engaged in a single battle, not even in a skirmish."

Cries rose from certain parts of the hall in opposition to the speaker, and Deacon Mason remarked that while it was perfectly proper to compare the war records of the two candidates for the position, it must be borne in mind that because a man was a soldier, or, rather, because he did a little more fighting than the other one, was no reason that he would make a better tax collector.

The Moderator's remarks were greeted with applause, and Strout's face brightened.

"I am glad to see the Deacon's bound to have fair play," said he to an old farmer who sat next to him.

"Waal, I guess you're more liable to git it than you are disposed to give it," drawled the old farmer, who evidently was not an adherent of the present incumbent of the office.

Mr. Tobias Smith continued his remarks:

"I acknowledge the correctness of the remarks just made by our honored Moderator, and desire to say that I hold in my hand a third document, which is a statement of the taxes due and collected during the past twenty years by the different persons who have held the office of tax collector. I find during nineteen years of that time that the lowest percentage of taxes left unpaid at the end of the year was five per cent; the highest percentage during these nineteen years, and that occurred during the war, was fourteen per cent; but I find that during the past year only seventy-eight per cent of the taxes due have been collected, leaving twenty-two per cent still due the town, and the non-receipt of this money will seriously hamper the selectmen during the coming year, unless we choose a man who can give his entire time to the business and collect the money that is due. This statement is certified to by the town treasurer, and I do not suppose that the present incumbent will presume to question its accuracy."

Strout evidently thought that a further discussion of the matter might work to his still greater disadvantage, for he leaned over and spoke to one of his adherents, who rose and said:

"Mister Moderator, this discussion has taken a personal nature, in which I am not disposed to indulge. I don't think that anything will be gained by such accusations and comparisons. It strikes me that the last speaker is trying to give tit for tat because his candidate lost at the last election; but I am one of those who believe that criminations and recriminations avail nothing, and I move that we proceed to vote at once."

"Second the motion!" screamed Abner Stiles from the settee on which he had assumed a standing posture.

The vote was taken. Those in favor of Obadiah Strout being called upon to stand up first, they numbered exactly one hundred and one. Then those in favor of Wallace Stackpole were called upon to rise, and they numbered two hundred and eighty-four; several citizens having put in an appearance at one o'clock who had not attended the morning session.

The next matter was the election of the Board of Selectmen; and the old board was elected by acclamation without a division. The meeting then adjourned without day.

The five minutes past six train, express from Boston, arrived on time, and at twenty minutes of eight, Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer entered the private dining-room in the Eagle Hotel. There he found gathered Mr. Tobias Smith, Mr. Wallace Stackpole, Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill, Mr. Sylvester Chisholm, and the Board of Selectmen, making the party of eight which Quincy had mentioned. It was eleven o'clock before the dinner party broke up, and during that time Quincy had heard from one or another of the party a full account of the doings at the town meeting.

It is needless to say that he was satisfied with the results, but he said nothing to indicate that fact in the presence of the Board of Selectmen. They were the first to leave, and then there was an opportunity for mutual congratulations by the remaining members of the party. To these four should be added Mr. Parsons, the proprietor, upon whose face rested a broad smile when he presented his bill for the day's expenses, and the sum was paid by Quincy.

"We had a very pleasant time," remarked Mr. Parsons to Mr. Sawyer as he bade him good evening.

"I am delighted to hear it," said Quincy, "and I regret very much that my business in the city prevented my being here to enjoy it."

On the way home with Ezekiel they went over the events of the day again together, and Ezekiel told him many little points, that for obvious reasons had been omitted at the dinner party.

Quincy was driven directly to Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house, for he had explained his programme to Ezekiel. He turned up his coat collar and pulled his hat down over his eyes, as he was admitted; and, although Mrs. Hawkins's eyes were naturally sharp, she did not recognize the late comer, who proceeded upstairs to his room, which Mrs. Hawkins informed him was right opposite the head of the stairs, and there was a light burning in the room and a good warm fire, and if he needed anything, if he would just call to her inside of the next ten minutes, she would get it for him.

Quincy said nothing, but went into his room and shut the door, and there we will leave him.

As Strout and Abner drove back to Mason's Corner, after the adjournment of the town meeting, nothing was said for the first mile of the trip.

Then Abner turned to him and remarked, "You ought ter be well satisfied with to-day's perceedin's."

"How do you make that out?" growled Strout.

"Waal, I think the events proved," said Abner, "that you wuz the most pop'lar man in ther town."

"How do you make that out?" again growled Strout.

"Why," said Abner, "you wuz nominated for every office in the gift o' ther town, and that's more'n any other feller could say."

"If you don't shut up," said Strout, "I'll nominate you for town idyut, and there won't be any use of any one runnin' agin yer!"

Abner took his reproof meekly. He always did when Strout spoke to him. No more was said until they reached home. Strout entered the boarding house and went upstairs to his room, forgetting that there was a man from Boston, to arrive late that evening, who was to have the next room to his.

Abner put up the horse and went home. As he went by Strout's door, thoughts of the rum and molasses, and the good cigar that he had enjoyed the night of the surprise party one week ago went through his mind, and he stopped before Strout's door and listened attentively, but there was no sound, and he went upstairs disconsolately, and went to bed feeling that his confidence in the Professor had been somewhat diminished by the events of the day.



CHAPTER XXIX.

MRS. HAWKINS' BOARDING HOUSE.

Mrs. Hawkins waited patiently until eight o'clock for the gentleman from Boston to come down to breakfast. She then waited impatiently from eight o'clock till nine. During that time she put the breakfast on the stove to keep it warm, and also made several trips to the front entry, where she listened to see if she could hear any signs of movement on the part of her new boarder.

When nine o'clock arrived she could restrain her impatience no longer, and, going upstairs, she gave a sharp knock on the door of Quincy's room.

"What is it?" answered a voice, somewhat sharply.

"It's nine o'clock, and your breakfast's most dried up," replied Mrs. Hawkins.

"I don't wish for any breakfast," said the voice within the room, but in a much pleasanter tone. "What time do you have dinner?"

"Twelve o'clock," said Mrs. Hawkins.

"All right," answered the voice, cheerfully. "I'll take my breakfast and dinner together."

"That beats all," said Mrs. Hawkins, as she entered the kitchen.

"What beats all?" asked Betsy Green, who worked for Mrs. Hawkins.

"It beats all," repeated Mrs. Hawkins, "how these city folks can sit up till twelve o'clock at night, and then go without their breakfast till noontime. I've fixed up somethin' pretty nice for him, and I don't propose to see it wasted."

"What are you goin' to do with it?" asked Betsy. "'Twon't keep till to-morrer mornin'."

"I'm goin' to eat it myself," said Mrs. Hawkins. And suiting the action to the word, she transferred the appetizing breakfast to the kitchen table, and, taking a seat, began to devour it.

"Have you seen your sister, Samanthy, lately?" she asked.

"I was up there Sunday evening," replied Betsy, "and she said Mis' Putnam was failin' very fast. She keeps her bed all the time now, and Samanthy has to run up and down stairs, 'bout forty times a day. She won't let Miss Lindy do a thing for her."

"Well, if I was Lindy," said Mrs. Hawkins, "I wouldn't do anything for her if she wanted me to. She used to abuse that child shamefully. Is Miss Lindy goin' to keep house arter her mother dies?"

"No," said Betsy, "she's got her things all packed up, and she told Samanthy she should leave town for well and good as soon as her mother was buried."

"I don't blame her," exclaimed Mrs. Hawkins. "Where's Samanthy goin'?"

"Oh, she says she wants to rest awhile afore she goes anywheres else to live. She's all run down."

"P'r'aps she'll go and stay with yer mother for a while."

"No," said Betsy, "she won't go there."

"Ain't yer mother 'n' her on good terms?"

"Oh, yes," replied Betsy, "but the four boys send mother five dollars a month apiece, and us girls give her two dollars a month apiece, and it's understood that none of us is to go and loaf 'round at home, 'less we pay our board."

"That's all right," said Mrs. Hawkins. "You can tell Samanthy for me that she can come here and stay a couple o' weeks with you. Your bed's big enough for two, and I won't charge her no board if she's willin' to wait on table at dinner time. You'll get the benefit of it, ye know, Betsy, for you kin get the dinner dishes done so much earlier."

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Hawkins," said Betsy, and the conversation lapsed for a moment till she inquired, "Will your daughter Mandy stay with Mr. Pettengill arter he marries Huldy Mason?"

"I don't know," replied Mrs. Hawkins. "Mandy says that Hiram Maxwell is the biggest fool of a man she ever saw."

"Then she must think a good deal of him," laughed Betsy.

"Wall, I fancy she does," replied Mrs. Hawkins; "and I've no objections to him, seein' as that Mr. Sawyer is goin' to put him inter the grocery store and back him up. But Mandy says that he won't come to the pi'nt. He hints and hints and wobbles all 'round the question, but he don't ask her to marry him right out and out. Mandy says she won't gin in until he does, for if she does, she says he'll be chuckin' it at her one of these days that he didn't ask her to marry him and be sayin' as how she threw herself at him, but there's too much of the old Job Skinner spirit in Mandy for her to do anythin' like that."

At this moment Mrs. Hawkins looked up and saw Hiram Maxwell standing in the half-open doorway that led into the wood-shed.

"List'ners never hear any good of themselves," remarked Mrs. Hawkins, as Hiram advanced into the room.

"I didn't hear nothin'," said Hiram. "I've got too many things in my head to tell yer to mind any women's talk," he continued.

"What is it?" cried Mrs. Hawkins and Betsy simultaneously.

"Well, fust," said Hiram, "early this mornin' your sister Samanthy," here he looked at Betsy, "came tearin' down to Deacon Mason's house and said as how Mis' Hepsey Putnam was powerful bad, and she wanted me to run down to 'Zeke Pettengill's and have him bring his sister right up to the house, 'cause Mis' Putnam wanted to see her afore she died, and the Deacon's wife said as how I could go up with him and her, and so we druv up, and a little while ago your sister Samanthy," here he looked at Betsy again, "asked me if I'd drive over and ask Mis' Hawkins if you," here he looked at Betsy for the third time, "could come up and stay with her this arternoon, for she thinks Mis' Putnam is goin' to die, and she don't want to be left alone up in that big house."



Betsy looked at Mrs. Hawkins inquiringly.

Mrs. Hawkins saw the glance and said, "I can't spare yer till arter dinner, Betsy; say 'bout one o'clock. You kin go and stay till the fust thing to-morrer mornin'. I guess I kin manage supper alone."

"Samanthy will be much obleeged, Mis' Hawkins," said Hiram. "I'll drive right back and tell her, and I'll drive down agin about one o'clock arter Betsy."

"List'ners get a good p'int now and then," remarked Hiram to himself. "Now I see what made Mandy so durned offish. Wall, she won't have any excuse in the future. I guess I kin ask her a straight question when I git good and ready, Mother Hawkins." And he struck the horse such a violent blow with the whip that it required all his attention for the next few minutes to bring him down to a trot. When he had done so he had reached his destination and his resentful feelings had subsided.

After Hiram had gone, Mrs. Hawkins and Betsy busied themselves getting dinner. Happening to glance out of the window, the former exclaimed, "Why, there's Jonas, and what on airth has he got in his hands?"

Betsy ran to the window and looked out.

"I guess it's a head of lettuce," said she.

At that moment the door opened and Jonas Hawkins entered, bearing a huge head of lettuce in his hand.

"Wall, Marthy," said Mr. Hawkins, "how did the man from Bosting like his breakfast? I kalkilated them fresh-laid eggs would suit him to a T."

"He ain't got up yet," replied Mrs. Hawkins.

"Must have been putty tired," continued Mr. Hawkins. "I kinder envy him. Do yer know, Marthy, if I wuz rich I wouldn't 'git up any day till it wuz time to go to bed agin." And he laughed loudly at his own remark.

"What do yer expect me to do with that head of lettuce?" asked Mrs. Hawkins with some asperity in her tone.

"Wall," said Jonas, "I was over to Hill's grocery and he'd ordered some from Bosting for Mis' Putnam, but she's too sick to eat 'em, so Sam gave me this one, 'cause we're putty good customers, you know, and I kalkilated that if you made up one of them nice chicken salads o' yourn it might please the new boarder and the old ones too;" and chuckling to himself he laid the lettuce on the kitchen table and walked out into the wood-shed. In a few moments he was vigorously at work chopping wood, whistling to himself as he worked.

"Mr. Hawkins is an awful good-natured man, isn't he?" asked Betsy.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Hawkins, "he's too all-fired good-natured for his own good. If I'd known him twenty-five years ago he'd have money in the bank now. His fust wife wuz slacker'n dish water. But I guess we've talked enough for one mornin', Betsy. You jest git that chicken I boiled and bone it and chop it up, and I'll make the dressin'."

When twelve o'clock sounded from the bell in the church tower, dinner was on the table at Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house. By five minutes past twelve there were fourteen seated at the table, with one vacant chair. Professor Strout sat at the head of the table. At his left was Abner Stiles, while Robert Wood sat next to Stiles. The vacant seat was at the Professor's right hand, and all eyes were turned toward it, for all had heard of the Boston man who had arrived the night before, but who, much to their disappointment, had not appeared at breakfast.

At ten minutes past twelve the door leading into the dining-room from the front entry was opened quietly, and the young man who entered, seeing the vacant chair near the head of the table, took possession of it.

For a moment nobody looked up, each apparently waiting for some one else to take the initiative.

Quincy, for it was he, broke the silence, and immediately every face at the table was turned towards him.

"How do you do, Professor?" said he. "Good afternoon, Mr. Stiles and Mr. Wood. Ah, glad to see you, Mr. Hill," he added, as he espied Samuel Hill at the farther end of the table.

The Professor's face grew crimson, then bright red, and finally assumed a bluish tinge. Abner sat transfixed. The others at the table had a charming diversity of expressions on their faces, ranging from "grave to gay, from lively to severe." No one at the table enjoyed the situation any more than Samuel Hill, who was very fond of a joke and who knew of Quincy's intention to meet his enemy at close quarters.

For several minutes no one spoke. Betsy flew from one to the other waiting upon table, but a solemn hush seemed to have fallen upon the dinner party. Again Quincy broke the silence.

"I trust, gentlemen," said he, "that you will not let my presence interfere with your usual conversation. I have no doubt Mr. Stiles can tell us a good story, and I am equally sure that Professor Strout has some entertaining bit of village gossip that he would like to circulate."

Here Samuel Hill purposely dropped his fork upon the floor and was obliged to get under the table to recover it, Betsy assisting him in the search. When they emerged from under the table their faces were red with their exertions.

As we have seen on other occasions, the Professor was very quick in rescuing himself from any dilemma into which he might be thrown. He saw an opportunity to divert attention from himself and speedily improved it.

"I think I'll have to walk over and see Miss Tilly James this afternoon," said the Professor.

At this shot at Samuel Hill and Betsy everybody laughed, including Quincy, and thus the ice was broken.

"I've heard some pretty big lies told in my life," said Robert Wood, "but I think Abel Coffin, yer know him, Professor, old Jonathan Coffin's son, the one that goes carpenterin', he lives over in Montrose, yer know, can beat anybody we've got in this town, not exceptin' you, Stiles;" and he gave the latter a nudge with his elbow that nearly knocked him out of his chair.

"Tell us the story, Robert," said the Professor, who had recovered his self-complacency; "we're dyin' to hear it."

"Well," continued Robert Wood, "Abel had been shinglin' a house, and I told him there wuz a place where he'd left off a shingle. Abel laughed and, sez he, 'If I hadn't better eyesight than you've got I'd carry a telescope 'round with me.' 'Well,' sez I, thinkin' I'd fool him, 'let's see which one of us has got the best eyesight.' I pointed up to the ridgepole of the house, which was 'bout a hundred feet off from where we stood, and sez I to Abel, 'Can you see that fly walkin' along on the ridgepole near the chimney? I ken.' Abel put his hand up back of his ear, and sez he, 'No, I can't see him, but I can hear him walkin' 'round.'"

As Robert concluded, a loud shout of laughter went up from the table. Quincy had no desire to be considered "stuck up," so he joined in the laugh, although he had heard the story in a different form before.

So had the Professor, and he never allowed an old story to be told in his presence without working in two lines of doggerel which he had composed, and of which he was very proud. So, turning to Robert Wood he said patronizingly, "That was very well told, Robert. The story is an old one, but you worked it up very nicely; but," continued the Professor, "as I have often remarked on similar occasions:

It makes no difference whether a story's new or old, Everything depends on the way it's told."

Turning quickly to Quincy he said, "No doubt Mr. Sawyer can favor us with a story that we've never heard before."

Quincy was a little taken aback, for the appeal was unexpected, but he quickly recovered his self-possession and said in a low but pleasant voice, "I am afraid that my story will have to depend on the way it is told rather than upon its novelty." He wondered if his hearers were acquainted with the travels of Baron Munchausen, but decided to try the experiment. "About a year ago," resumed Quincy, "I went down to Maine on some law business. I transacted it, but had to travel some ten miles to the county town to record my papers. I had a four-wheeled buggy, and a strong, heavily-built horse. It began to snow very fast after I started, but I knew the road and drove steadily on. As I approached the county town I noticed that the snow was deeper than the highest building in the town, in fact, none of the town was visible, excepting about three feet of the spire of the tallest church in the place."

Quincy stopped and glanced about the table. Every eye was fastened upon him, and all, including the Professor and Stiles particularly, were listening intently. Quincy continued his story:

"I was well supplied with buffalo robes, so after tying my horse firmly to the weather vane on the spire, I made up a bed on the snow with my buffalo robes, and slept soundly and comfortably all night. When I woke in the morning I was still enveloped in the robes, but found to my surprise that I was lying upon the ground. I looked around, but there was no sign of snow anywhere. I arose and looked about for my horse and buggy, but they were not in sight. Then I remembered that I had tied my horse to the weather vane. Casting my eyes upward I saw my horse and buggy hanging by the strap, the horse having secured a footing on the side of the spire. Happily I had a revolver with me, and with one shot I severed the broad leathern strap. Naturally the horse and buggy fell to the ground. I put my buffalo robes back into the buggy, rode to the court house, had my papers recorded, and then drove back ten miles to town, none the worse for my adventure, but the stableman charged me fifty cents for the strap that I was obliged to leave on the church spire."

A number of low whistles, intermixed with several "whews!" were heard, as Quincy finished his story.

"Wall, by thunder!" ejaculated Stiles, "how do yer account for—"

"I think it must have been a sudden thaw," remarked Quincy, with a grave face.

"One thing puzzles me," said the Professor.

"What is that?" asked Quincy politely, "perhaps I can explain."

"Before you left the church," asked the Professor, "why didn't you reach up and ontie that strap?"

Another loud shout of laughter broke from the company, and Quincy, realizing that the Professor had beaten him fairly by putting a point on his own story, joined heartily in the laugh at his own expense.

"That reminds me," said Abner Stiles, "of an adventure that I had several years ago, down in Maine, when I wuz younger and spryer'n I am now."

"How old be you?" said the Professor.

"Wall," replied Abner, "the family Bible makes me out to be fifty-eight, but jedgin' from the fun I've had I'm as old as Methooserlar."

This remark gave Stiles the preliminary laugh, which he always counted upon when he told a story.

"Did yer ever meet a b'ar?" asked he, directing his remark to Quincy.

"Yes," said Quincy, "I've stood up before one many a time."

"Well, really," exclaimed Abner, "how'd yer come off?"

"Usually with considerable less money than when I went up," replied Quincy, seeing that Abner was mystified.

"What?" said Abner. "I mean a real black b'ar, one of those big, shaggy fellers sech as you meet in the woods down in Maine."

"Oh," said Quincy, "I was talking about an open bar, such as you find in bar-rooms and hotels."

This time the laugh was on Abner, and he was considerably nettled by it.

"Go on, Abner, go on!" came from several voices, and thus reassured, he continued:

"Wall, as I wuz goin' to say, I was out partridge shooting down in Maine several years ago, and all I had with me was a fowlin' piece and a pouch of bird shot. In fact, I didn't have any shot left, for I'd killed 'bout forty partridges. I had a piece of strong twine with me, so I tied their legs together and slung 'em over my shoulder. I was jest goin' to start for hum when I heerd the boughs crackin' behind me, and turnin' 'round I saw—Geewhillikins!—a big black b'ar not more'n ten feet from me. I had nothin' to shoot him with, and knew that the only way to save my life wuz to run for it. I jest bent over and threw the partridges on the ground, thinkin' as I did so that perhaps the b'ar would stop to eat them, and I could git away. I started to run, but caught my toe in some underbrush and went down ker-slap. I said all the prayers I knew in 'bout eight seconds, then got up, and started to run ag'in. Like Lot's wife, I couldn't help lookin' back, and there wuz the b'ar flat on his back. I went up to him kinder cautious, for I didn't know but he might be shammin', them black b'ars are mighty cute; but, no, he wuz deader'n a door nail. I took the partridges back to town, and then a party on us came back and toted the b'ar home."

Every one sat quietly for a moment, then Quincy asked with a sober face, "What caused the bear's death; was it heart disease?"

"No," said Abner, "'twas some sort of brain trouble. Yer see, when I threw those partridges onter the ground it brought a purty powerful strain onto my galluses. When we cut the b'ar up we found one of my pants buttons right in the centre of his brain."

Abner's story was greeted with those signs of approval that were so dear to his heart, and Quincy, realizing that when you are in Rome you must do as the Romans do, was not backward in his applause.

All eyes were now turned to the Professor.

"I don't think," said he, "that I can make up a lie to match with those that have jist been told, but if any of you are enough interested in the truth to want to listen to a true story, I kin tell you one that came under my observation a few days ago."

All looked inquiringly at Strout, but none spoke.

"Wall," said he, "I s'pose I must consider as how silence means consent, and go ahead. Wall" he continued, "you all know, or most all on yer do, old Bill Tompkins, that lives out on the road to Montrose. This occurrence took place early las' summer. Old Bill hisself is too close-mouthed to let on about it, but when I was over there the other day, arter givin' Lizzy Tompkins her music-lesson, I got talkin' with her mother, and one thing led to another, and finally I got the whole story outer her. Old Bill had a cow that they called 'Old Jinnie.' She was always mischeevous, but last year she'd been wusser'n ever. She'd git out of the barn nights, and knock down fences, and tramp down flower gardens, and everybody said she wuz a pesky noosance. One night old Bill and his family wuz seated 'round the centre table in the sittin'-room. There wuz Mary, his wife; and George, his oldest boy, a young fellow about eighteen; Tommy, who is a ten-year-older, and little Lizzy, who is about eight. George wuz readin' somethin' out of a paper to 'em, when they heerd a-runnin' and a-jumpin', and old Bill said, 'That varmint's got out of the barn and is rampagin' 'round agin,' The winder curt'ins wuz up, and old Jinnie must 'a' seed the light, for she run pell-mell agin the house, and drove her horns through the winder, smashin' four panes. Old Bill and George managed to git her back inter the barn and tied her up.

"As they wuz walking back to the house, old Bill said, 'Consarn her picter, I'll make beef o' her to-morrer or my name ain't Bill Tompkins,' When they got back to the settin'-room, George said, 'How be yer goin' ter do it, dad?' 'Why, cut her throat,' said Bill. 'You can't do it,' said George, 'the law sez yer must shoot her fust in the temple,' 'All right,' said old Bill, 'you shoot and I'll carve,' So next mornin' they led old Jinnie out with her head p'inted towards the barn. George had loaded up the old musket, and stood 'bout thirty feet off. George didn't know just edzactly where the cow's temple wuz, but he imagined it must be somewhere atween her eyes, so he fired and hit her squar' in the forehead. That was enough for old Jinnie, she jist ducked her head, and with a roar like the bull of Bashan she put for George. He dropped the musket and went up the ladder inter the haymow livelier'n he ever did before, you kin bet. Old Jinnie struck the ladder and knocked it galley-west. Old Jinnie then turned 'round and spied little Tommy. He put, and she put arter him. There wasn't nothin' else to do, so Tommy took a high jump and landed in the pig-sty. Old Bill is kinder deef in one ear, and he didn't notice much what wuz goin' on on that side of him. He was runnin' the grindstone and puttin' a good sharp edge on his butcher knife, when he happened to look up and seed old Jinnie comin' head on. He dropped the knife and started for the house, thinkin' he'd dodge in the front door. Over went the grindstone and old Jinnie, too, but she wuz up on her feet ag'in quicker'n scat. She seemed to scent the old man, for when she got to the front door she turned in and then bolted right into the parlor. Old Bill heerd her comin', and he went head fust through the open winder, and landed in the orchard. He got up and run for a big apple-tree that stood out near the road, and never stopped till he'd clumb nearly to the top. Little Lizzie gave a yell like a catamount and ran behind the pianner, which was sot out a little from the wall. Old Jinnie went bunt inter the planner and made a sandwich of Lizzie, who wuz behind it. Mis' Tompkins heard Lizzie scream, and come to see what the matter was. When she see Jinnie she jist made strides for the wood-shed, and old Jinnie sashayed arter her. Mis' Tompkins went skitin' through the wood-shed. There wuz a pair of steps that led up inter the corn barn, and Mis' Tompkins got up there jist as old Jinnie walked off with the steps. Then old Jinnie took a walk outside and looked 'round as unconsarned as though nothin' had happened. Jist about this time one of them tin peddlers come along that druv one of them red carts with pots, and pans, and kittles, and brooms, and brushes, and mops hung all over it. He spied old Bill up in the tree, and sez he, 'What be yar doin', Farmer Tompkins?' 'Pickin' apples,' said old Bill. He don't waste words on nobody. 'Ain't it rather early for apples?' inquired the peddler. 'These are some I forgot to pick last fall,' replied old Bill. 'Anythin' in my line?' said the peddler. 'Ain't got no money,' said Bill. 'Hain't you got something you want to trade?' asked the peddler. 'Yes,' said Bill, 'I'll swap that cow over yonder; you kin have her for fifteen dollars, an' I'll take it all in trade,' 'Good milker?' said the man. 'Fust-class butter,' said old Bill. 'What do you want in trade?' said the man. 'Suit yerself,' said Bill, 'chuck it down side of the road there.' This was soon done, and the peddler druv up front of old Jinnie and went to git her, so as to tie her behind his waggin. She didn't stop to be led. Down went her head agin and she made for the peddler. He got the other side of his team jist as old Jinnie druv her horns 'tween the spokes of the forrard wheel. Down come the pots, and pans, and kittles, in ev'ry direction. A clotheshorse fell on the horse's back and off he started on a dead run, and that wuz the end of poor Jinnie. Before she could pull back her horns, round went the wheel and broke her neck. The peddler pulled up his horse and went back to see old Bill, who was climbin' down from the apple tree. 'What am I goin' to do about this?' said the peddler. 'I wuz countin' on drivin' her over to the next town and sellin' her or tradin' her off, but I hain't got no use for fresh beef.' 'Wall,' said old Bill, 'considering circumstances we'll call the trade off. You kin keep your stuff and I'll keep my beef.' The peddler loaded up and druv off. Then old Bill went in and pulled Lizzie out from behind the pianner, and put up the steps so Mrs. Tompkins could come down from the corn barn, and fished Tommy out of the pig-sty, and threw a bucket of water over him, and put up the ladder so George could git down from the haymow, and they all got round poor old Jinnie and stood as hard as they could and laughed." Here Professor Strout pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. "That's how old Bill Tompkins got his beef."

There was a general laugh and a pushing back of chairs, and the whole company arose and went in various directions to their afternoon work. Professor Strout went into the front entry, for he always entered and left the house by the front door. Quincy followed him, and closing the door that led into the dining-room, said, "Mr. Strout, I would like to see you in my room for half an hour on important business."

"I guess 'tain't as important as some business of my own I've got to attend to this arternoon. I'm goin' over to the Centre to fix up my accounts as tax collector with the town treasurer."

"I think my business is fully as important as that," said Quincy, "it relates to your appointment as postmaster."

"Oh, you've got a hand in that, have yer?" asked Strout, an angry flush suffusing his face.

"I have both hands in it," replied Quincy imperturbably, "and it rests with you entirely whether I keep hold or let go."

"Wall," said Strout, looking at his watch, "I kin spare you half an hour, if it will be as great an accommodation to yer as yer seem to think it will."

And he followed Quincy upstairs to the latter's room.



CHAPTER XXX.

A SETTLEMENT.

When they entered the room Quincy motioned Strout to a chair, which he took. He then closed the door and, taking a cigar case from his pocket, offered a cigar to Strout, which the latter refused. Quincy then lighted a cigar and, throwing himself into an armchair in a comfortable position, looked straight at the Professor, who returned his gaze defiantly, and said:

"Mr. Strout, there is an open account of some two month's standing between us, and I have asked you to come up here to-day, because I think it is time for a settlement"

"I don't owe you nuthin'," said Strout, doggedly.

"I think you owe me better treatment than you have given me the past two months," remarked Quincy, "but we'll settle that point later."

"I guess I've treated you as well as you have me," retorted Strout, with a sneer.

"But you began it," said Quincy, "and had it all your own way for two months; I waited patiently for you to stop, but you wouldn't, so the last week I've been squaring up matters, and there is only one point that hasn't been settled. From what I have heard," continued Quincy, "I am satisfied that Miss Mason has received full reparation for any slanderous remarks that may have been started or circulated by you concerning herself."

The Professor attentively regarded the pattern of the carpet on the floor.

Quincy continued, "Miss Lindy Putnam has repeated to me what she told Mr. Stiles about her visit to Boston, and attributed the distorted and untrue form in which it reached the inhabitants of this town to your well-known powers of invention. Am I right?"

The Professor looked up. "I'll have somethin' to say when you git through," he replied.

"I expect and ask no apology or reparation for what you've said about me," remarked Quincy. "You made your boast that one of us had got to leave town, and it wouldn't be you. When I heard that I determined to stay at whatever cost, and we'll settle this afternoon which one of us is going to change his residence."

"I don't think you kin run me out o' town," said Strout, savagely.

"Well, I don't know," rejoined Quincy. "Let us see what I have done in a week. You insulted Mr. Pettengill and his sister by not inviting them to the surprise party. I know it was done to insult me rather than them, but you will remember that we three were present, and had a very pleasant time. I was the lawyer that advised Deacon Mason not to loan that five hundred dollars to pay down on the store. I told the Deacon I would loan him five hundred dollars if the store was knocked down to you, but I would have had that store if it had cost me ten thousand dollars instead of three. I was the one who put your war record in the hands of Mr. Tobias Smith, and I was the one that prepared the statement which showed how negligent you had been in attending to your duties as tax collector."

"Payin' so much attention to other people's business must have made yer forget yer own," said Strout, shutting his teeth together with a snap.

"Oh, no," remarked Quincy, with a laugh; "I had plenty of time left to take a hand in village politics, and my friend Mr. Stackpole was elected by a very handsome vote, as you have no doubt heard." Strout dug his heel into the carpet, but said nothing.

"Now," continued Quincy, "I've had your appointment as postmaster held up till you and I come to terms."

"You're takin' a lot of trouble for nothin'," said Strout. "I can't be postmaster unless I have a store. I guess I kin manage to live with my music teachin' and organ playin' at the church."

"I've thought of that," said Quincy. "I don't wish to go to extremes, but I will if it is necessary. Before you leave this room, Mr. Strout, you must decide whether you will work with me or against me in the future."

"S'posin' I decide to work agin yer?" asked Strout; "what then?"

"Well," said Quincy sternly, "if you drive me to it, I'll bring down a couple of good music teachers from Boston. They'll teach music for nothing, and I'll pay them good salaries. The church needs a new organ, and I'll make them a present of one, on condition that they get a new organist."

Strout looked down reflectively for a few minutes, then he glanced up and a queer smile passed over his face. "S'posin' I switch 'round," said he, "and say I'll work with yer?"

"If you say it and mean it, Mr. Strout," replied Quincy, rising from his chair, "I'll cross off the old score and start fresh from to-day. I'm no Indian, and have no vindictive feelings. You and I have been playing against each other and you've lost every trick. Now, if you say so, we'll play as partners. I'll give you a third interest in the grocery store for a thousand dollars. The firm name shall be Strout & Maxwell. I'll put in another thousand dollars to buy a couple of horses and wagons, and we'll take orders and deliver goods free to any family within five miles of the store. Maxwell will have a third, and I'll have a third as silent partner, and I'll see that you get your appointment as postmaster."

Quincy looked at Strout expectantly, awaiting his answer. Finally it came.

"Considerin' as how you put it," said Strout, "I don't think you and me will clash in the futur'."

Quincy extended his hand, which Strout took, and the men shook hands.

"That settles it," said Quincy.

"Just half an hour!" exclaimed Strout, looking at his watch.

A loud knock was heard on the door.

"I guess Abner has got tired o' waitin' and has come arter me," remarked Strout.

Quincy opened the door and Mr. Stiles stood revealed.

"Is Professor Strout here?" asked he.

"Yes," said Quincy; "come in."

"I guess I'll see him out here," continued Abner. "What I've got to say may be kinder private."

"Come in, Abner," cried Strout, "and let's hear what's on your mind."

"Wall," said Abner, looking askance at Quincy, "if yer satisfied, I am. Hiram Maxwell's jest came down from Mis' Putnam's, and Mis' Heppy Putnam's dead,"—Quincy started on hearing this,—"and Samanthy Green is at her wits' end, 'cause she never was alone in the house with a dead pusson afore, an' Hiram's goin' to take Betsy Green back to stay with her sister, and then he's goin' to take Miss Alice Pettengill down home, cuz Miss Pettengill's most tired out; cuz, you see, she's been there since eight o'clock this mornin', and Mis' Putnam didn't die till about one o'clock, and Samanthy says Mis' Putnam took on awful, so you could hear her all over the house, and Miss Lindy Putnam, she's goin' to take the next train to Bosting—she's goin', bag and baggage—and I've got to drive her over to the station, and Bob Wood, he's comin' along with a waggin to carry her trunks and bandboxes and sich, and so I've come to tell yer, Professor, that I can't take yer over to the Centre this arternoon, no how."

"That's all right, Abner," said Strout; "considerin' as how things has gone, to-morrow will do just as well, but I wish you'd drop in and tell the town treasurer that I'm goin' into business with Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Sawyer here,"—Abner's eyes dilated,—"under the firm name of Strout, Maxwell, & Co."

"No!" interrupted Quincy, "let the sign read, Strout & Maxwell."

"And," continued Mr. Strout, "Mr. Sawyer here is goin' to push through my app'intment as postmaster."

By this time Abner's mouth was wide open. Quincy saw it, and imagined the conflict going on in poor Abner's mind.

"What Mr. Strout says is correct," remarked Quincy, "but you have no time to lose now. Perhaps to-night Mr. Strout will explain the matter more fully to you."

Abner turned, without a word, and left the room.

"Mr. Stiles is a faithful friend of yours," said Quincy, turning to the Professor.

"Yes," assented Strout; "Abner's a very good shaft horse, but he wouldn't be of much vally as a lead."

Quincy again extended his cigar case. This time the Professor did not refuse, but took two. Holding up one of them between his fingers, he said, "This is the one I didn't take when I came in."

"I will have the partnership papers drawn up in a few days, Mr. Strout, ready for signature, and I will write at once to my friends in Washington, and urge them to see the Postmaster General, and have your appointment made as soon as possible."

"Yer don't let no grass grow under yer feet, do yer?" said Strout.

Quincy was a little taken aback by this remark, for he had not anticipated a compliment from the Professor. He turned to him and said, "Until you forfeit my esteem, we are friends, and it is always a pleasure to me to help my friends."

The men shook hands again, and the Professor left the room.

"Not a bad man at heart," soliloquized Quincy. "I am glad the affair has had such a pleasant termination. Poor Alice! What a time she must have had with Mrs. Putnam, and so Lindy is going to keep her word, and not stay to the funeral. Well, knowing what I do, I don't blame her. Perhaps Mrs. Putnam told Alice that Lindy was not her own child, for Alice would not accept the fortune, I know, if she thought she was wronging Lindy by doing so. I'll go home,"—he smiled as he said this,—"and probably Alice will tell me all about it."

He went down stairs, and not seeing Mrs. Hawkins in the dining-room, walked out into the kitchen, where she was hard at work washing the dinner dishes.

"Law, Mr. Sawyer, why didn't you holler for me ef you wanted anything?"

"I don't wish for anything particularly," said Quincy, "but I do wish to compliment you on your chicken salad; it was as fine as any I ever ate at Young's, or Parker's, in Boston, and," continued he, "here are twelve dollars." He held out the money to her, she wiped her hands on her apron.

"What's that fur?" she asked. "I've got six dollars of your money now."

"That's for Mandy," said Quincy; "and this," pressing the money into her hand, "is for four weeks' room rent; I am liable to come here any time during the next month. I am going into business with Mr. Strout and Mr. Maxwell—we're going to run the grocery store over here, and it will be very handy to be so near to the store until we get the business established. Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawkins," and he took her hand, which was still wet, in his, and shook it warmly.

He turned to leave the house by the kitchen door, but Mrs. Hawkins interposed.

"You better go out the front way," said she, and she ran before him and opened the door leading to the front entry, and then the front door. As he passed out, she said, "I wish you success, Mr. Sawyer, and we'll gin you all our trade."

"Thank you!" said Quincy. He walked down the path, opened the front gate, and as he closed it raised his hat to Mrs. Hawkins, who stood in the front doorway, her thin, angular face wreathed in smiles.

"Wall," said she, as she closed the front door and walked back into the kitchen, "what lies some folks tell. Now, that Professor Strout has allus said that Mr. Sawyer was so stuck up that he wouldn't speak to common folks. Wall, I think he's a real gentleman. 'Twon't do for any one to run him down to me after this."

Here she thought of her money, and, spreading out the three bills in her hand, she opened the kitchen door and screamed at the top of her voice, "Jonas! Jonas!! Jonas!!!" There were no signs of Jonas. "Where is that man? He's never 'round when he's wanted."

"What is it, Marthy?" said a voice behind her. Turning, she saw her husband puffing away at his brierwood pipe.

"I thought you went out to the barn," said she, "to help Abner hitch up?"

"Wall, I did," he replied; "but it didn't take two on us long to do that. I eat so much chicken salad that it laid kinder heavy on my stummick, so I went out in the wood-shed to have a smoke. But where did you git all that money?"

"Mr. Sawyer took the front room for two weeks and paid for it ahead, and do you know he said my chicken salad was jist as good as Mrs. Young and Mrs. Parker makes down to Bosting."

"I don't know Mrs. Young nor Mrs. Parker," said Jonas, "but on makin' chicken salad I'll match Mrs. Hawkins agin 'em any day;" and he went out in the wood-shed to finish his smoke.

As Quincy walked down the road towards the Pettengill house his mind was busy with his thoughts.

"To think," said he to himself, "that while I was listening to those stories, to call them by no worse name, at the dinner table, the woman I love was witnessing the death agony and listening to the last words of a dear friend—the woman who's going to leave her a fortune. Now that she knows that she's an heiress, I can speak; she never would have listened to me, knowing that she was poor and I was rich, and I never could have spoken to her with that secret in my mind that Mrs. Putnam told me—that she was going to leave her all her money. I am so glad for Alice's sake, even if she does not love me. She can have the best medical attendance now, and she will be able to give all her time to her literary work, for which she has a decided genius. Won't she be delighted when I tell her that Leopold has placed all her stories and wants her to write a book?"

As he reached the front gate he saw Hiram driving up the road and Alice was with him. As Hiram stopped, Quincy stepped forward and took Alice's hand to assist her in alighting from the buggy.

"Oh, Mr. Sawyer," said she, "have you heard that Mrs. Putnam is dead, and I've had such a terrible day with her?"

Her nervous system had been wrought to its highest tension by what she had undergone during the past six hours. She burst into a flood of tears. Then she tottered and would have fallen if Quincy had not grasped her.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

She took a step forward, but he saw at a glance that she had not sufficient strength to reach her room.

"Open the gate, Hiram. Then give the door-bell a good sharp ring, so that Mandy will come quickly."

He took her in his arms and went up the path, by the astonished Mandy, and upstairs to Alice's room, where he laid her tenderly upon her bed. Turning to Mandy, who had followed close at his heels, he said:

"She is not sick, only nervous and worn out. If you need me, call me."

He went into his own room and thanked Heaven that he had been at hand to render her the service that she so much needed. When he went down to supper Mandy told him that Miss Alice was asleep, and she guessed she'd be all right in the morning.



CHAPTER XXXI.

AN INHERITANCE.

Quincy reached his room at Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house about midnight of the day of the town meeting. About the same hour Mrs. Heppy Putnam awoke from a troubled sleep and felt a pain, like the thrust of a knife blade, through her left side. The room was dark and cold, the wood fire in the open grate having died out a couple of hours before, while a cool wind was blowing with great force outside.

Mrs. Putnam came of the old stock which considered it a virtue to suffer and be silent, rather than call out and be saved. So she lay for five long hours suffering intense pain, but declaring to herself, with all the sturdiness of an old Roman warrior or an Indian chief, that she would not ask for any assistance "till it wuz time for folks to git up."

This delay was fatal, or was destined to become so, but she did not know it; she had had colds before, and she had always got well. Why should'nt she now? It is a strange vagary of old people to consider themselves just as young as they used to be, notwithstanding their advanced years. To the majority of the old people, the idea of death is not so appalling as the inability to work and the incapacity to enjoy the customary pleasures of life.

Mrs. Putnam had always been an active, energetic woman until she had lost her power to walk as the result of rheumatic fever; in fact, it was always acknowledged and said by the country folk that she was the better half of the matrimonial firm of Silas and Hepsibeth Putnam. Since her husband's failure to mount to Heaven on the day fixed for the Second Advent she had had entire control of the family finances. Her investments, many of which had been suggested by her deceased son, J. Jones Putnam, had been very profitable.

She owned the house in which she lived, which was the largest, best finished, and best furnished one in the town of Eastborough. It occupied a commanding position on the top of a hill, and from its upper windows could be obtained a fine view of the surrounding country. The soil at Mason's Corner was particularly fertile, and this fact had led to the rapid growth of the village, which was three miles from the business centre of Eastborough, and only a mile from the similar part of the adjoining town of Montrose.

Back of the Putnam homestead were the best barns, carriage houses, sheds and other outbuildings to be found in the town, but for years they had been destitute of horses, cattle, and other domestic animals.

Mr. Putnam had disliked dogs because they killed sheep, and Mrs. Putnam detested cats. For years no chanticleer had awakened echoes during the morning hours, and no hens or chickens wandered over the neglected farm. The trees in the large orchard had not been pruned for a long time, and the large vegetable garden was overrun with grass and weeds.

Back of the orchard and the vegetable garden, and to the right and left of the homestead, were about a hundred and sixty acres of arable pasture and wood-land, the whole forming what could be easily made the finest farm in the town.

The farm had been neglected simply because the income from her investments was more than sufficient for the support of the family. The unexpended income had been added to the principal, until Mrs. Putnam's private fortune now amounted to fully fifty thousand dollars, invested in good securities, together with the house and farm, which were free from mortgage.

When the first streaks of morning reached the room in which Mrs. Putnam lay upon her bed of pain, she seized one of her crutches, and pounded vigorously upon the floor. In a short time Samanthy Green entered the room. She was buttoning up her dress as she came in, and her hair was in a dishevelled condition.

"Why, what on earth's the matter? You wheeze like our old pump out in the barn. You do look real sick, to be sure."

"Wall, if you don't like the looks of me," said Mrs. Putnam sharply, "don't look at me."

"But didn't you pound?" asked Samanthy. "Don't you want me to go for the doctor?"

"No," replied Mrs. Putnam, "I don't want no doctor. The fust thing that I want you to do is to go and comb that frowzy pate of yourn, and when you git that done I want yer to make me a mustard plaster 'bout as big as that;" and she held up her hands about a foot apart. "Now go, and don't stand and look at me as though I wuz a circus waggin."

Samanthy left the room quickly, but she had no sooner closed the door when Mrs. Putnam called out her name in a loud voice, and Samanthy opened the door and looked in.

"Did you call, marm?" she asked.

"Of course I did," said Mrs. Putnam testily. "I guess ye wouldn't have come back if yer hadn't known I did."

Mrs. Putnam was evidently in a bad temper, and Samanthy had learned by years of experience to keep a close mouth under such circumstances, so she waited for Mrs. Putnam's next words without replying. Finally Mrs Putnam spoke. "I wish you'd bring up some wood and start a fire, the room's kinder cold."

When Samanthy reached the kitchen she found Lindy there.

"Why, Miss Lindy," said she, "what are you up so early for?"

"I heard mother pounding and I thought she might be sick."

"She is awful sick," rejoined Samanthy; "I never saw her look so poorly afore; she seems to be all choked up. She wants a big mustard plaster and a fire up in her room, and I don't know which to do fust. Oh!" she cried, "I must comb my hair before I go back;" and she wet a brush and commenced brushing out her long brown hair, which, with her rosy cheeks, formed her two principal claims to good looks.

"Sit down," said Lindy, "and I'll fix your hair up much quicker than you can do it yourself."

"And much better, too," added Samanthy thankfully.

"While you're building the fire," continued Lindy, "I'll mix up the mustard plaster."

When Samanthy entered the chamber with the materials for the fire, Mrs. Putnam opened her eyes and said sharply, "Did yer bring that plaster?"

"No," said Samanthy, "I thought I would build the fire fust."

"Wall," said Mrs. Putnam, "I want the plaster fust, and you go right down stairs and mix it up quick."

When Samanthy returned to the kitchen she found that Lindy had the plaster all ready. Samanthy took it, and started upstairs.

Lindy said to her, "Don't tell her that I made it." As she said this she stepped back into the kitchen and closed the door.

As Samanthy approached the bedside with the plaster, Mrs. Putnam looked up and asked, "Did you make that plaster, Samanthy?"

"Yes'm," replied Samanthy.

"You're lyin', Samanthy Green, and you know yer are. You can't fool me. Didn't I hear yer talkin' to somebody in the kitchen?"

"Yes'm," assented Samanthy.

"Wall," rejoined Mrs. Putnam, "of course I know who it wuz yer wuz talkin' to. Did she make the plaster?"

"Yes'm," again assented Samanthy.

"Give it to me," said Mrs. Putnam.

Samanthy passed it to her, and the old lady crumpled it in her hand's and threw it across the room. "Now go down stairs, Samanthy Green, and make me a mustard plaster, as I told yer to, and when I git up outer this I'll see if I can't git somebody to wait on me that kin tell the truth 'thout my havin' to help 'em."

In the course of half an hour the new plaster was made and applied, and a bright fire was shedding its warmth into the room.

"Go down stairs and git yer breakfast," said Mrs. Putnam. "'Tis a trifle early, but I hearn tell that lyin' makes people hungry."

As Samanthy gave her an inquiring look, Mrs. Putnam said, "No, I don't want nothin' to eat or drink nuther, but when yer git the dishes washed I want yer ter go on an errand for me."

It was half past six when Samanthy Green again stood in Mrs. Putnam's room.

"I want yer to go right down to Zeke Pettengill's and tell his sister Alice that I want her to come right up here. Tell her it's my las' sickness, and I won't take 'no' for an answer. Be sure you put it to her jest as I do; and Samanthy," as Samanthy opened the door and was leaving the room, "say, Samanthy, don't git anybody to do the errand for you."

About ten minutes after Samanthy left the house, Lindy Putnam entered the sick room. Mrs. Putnam's pain had been relieved somewhat by the mustard, and this relief restored, to a great extent, her usual vigor of mind.

"What are you up here for?" cried Mrs. Putnam, a look of displeasure clouding her face.

"I knew Samanthy had gone out, and so I came up to see if I could do anything for you, mother."

"Don't mother me. I ain't your mother, and I mean everybody shall know it soon's I'm dead."

"I've had to say mother before other people," explained Lindy, "and that's why I forgot myself then. Pray excuse me."

"Oh, don't put on yer citified airs when yer talkin' to me. Ain't yer glad I'm goin' ter die?"

"I hope you will get better, Mrs. Putnam," answered Lindy.

"You know better," rejoined Mrs. Putnam. "You'll be glad when I'm gone, for then you kin go gallivantin' 'round and spend the money that my son worked hard fur."

"I've used very little of it," said Lindy; "less than the interest; I have never touched the principal."