Lindy still remained standing at the foot of the bed.

"Didn't yer hear me say I didn't want nuthin'?" asked Mrs. Putnam.

"I will leave the room then," replied Lindy quietly.

"I wish you would," said Mrs. Putnam, "and you'll do me a favor if you'll pack yer duds as quick as yer can and git out of the house and never come back agin."

"I will leave the room, but I cannot leave the house while you are alive," remarked Lindy firmly.

"Why not?" said Mrs. Putnam. "I want to die in peace, and I shall go much easier if I know I haven't got to set my eyes on your face agin."

"I promised Jones," said Lindy, "that I would never leave you while you were alive."

"Oh, you promised Jones, did yer?" cried Mrs. Putnam with a sneer. "Wall, Jones will let you off on yer promise jest to 'blige me, so yer needn't stay any longer."

As Lindy walked towards the door, Mrs. Putnam spoke again.

"Did yer ever tell anybody I wasn't yer mother?" Lindy hesitated. "Why don't you out with it," said Mrs. Putnam, "and say no, no matter if it is a lie? Samanthy can lie faster'n a horse can trot, and I know you put her up to it."

"I have been impudent and disrespectful to you many times, Mrs. Putnam, when you were cross to me, but I never told you a deliberate lie in my life. I have told one person that you were not my mother."

"What did yer do it fur?" asked Mrs. Putnam.

"I wished to retain his good opinion," replied Lindy.

"Who was it?" inquired Mrs. Putnam eagerly. Lindy did not answer. "Oh, you won't tell!" said Mrs. Putnam. "Wall, I bet I can guess; it's that feller that's boardin' over to Pettingill's."

Mrs. Putnam saw the blood rise in Lindy's face, and she chuckled to herself.

"What reason have you for forming such an opinion?" asked Lindy.

"Wall, I can kinder put two and two together," said Mrs. Putnam. "The day Alice Pettengill came over here with him you two wuz down in the parlor together, and I had to pound on the floor three times afore I could make him hear. I knew you must be either spoonin' or abusin' me."

It was with difficulty that Lindy kept back the words which rose to her lips, but she said nothing.

"Did yer tell him that I wuz goin' to leave my money to some one else?"

"It wasn't necessary," said Lindy, "I judged from some things that he said that you had told him yourself."

"Did he tell you who it wuz?" persisted Mrs. Putnam.

"No," said Lindy. "I did my best to find out, but he wouldn't tell me."

"Good for him," cried Mrs. Putnam. "Then ye don't know?"

"I can put two and two together," replied Lindy.

"But where'd yer git the two and two?" asked Mrs. Putnam.

"Oh, I have surmised for a long time," continued Lindy. "This morning I asked Samanthy where she was going, and she said down to Pettengill's. Then I knew."

"I told her not to tell," said Mrs. Putnam, "the lyin' jade. If I git up off this bed she'll git her walkin' ticket."

"She's ready to go," said Lindy; "she told me this morning that she'd wait until you got a new girl."

Mrs. Putnam closed her eyes and placed both of her hands over her heart. Despite her fortitude the intense pain wrung a groan from her.

Lindy rushed forward and dropped on her knees beside the bed. "Forgive me, Mrs. Putnam," said she, "but you spoke such cruel words to me that I could not help answering you in the same way. I am so sorry. I loved your son with all my heart, and I had no right to speak so to his mother, no matter what she said to me."

The paroxysm of pain had passed, and Mrs. Putnam was her old self again. Looking at the girl who was kneeling with her head bowed down she said, "I guess both of us talked about as we felt; as for loving my son, yer had no right to, and he had no right to love you."

"But we were brother and sister," cried Lindy, looking up.

"'Twould have been all right if he'd let it stop there," replied Mrs. Putnam. "Who put it into his head that there was no law agin a man marryin' his adopted sister? You wuz a woman grown of eighteen, and he wuz only a young boy of sixteen, and you made him love yer and turn agin his mother, and then we had ter send him away from home ter keep yer apart, and then you ran after him, and then he died, and it broke my heart. You wuz the cause of it, but for yer he would be livin' now, a comfort to his poor old mother. I hated yer then for what yer did. Ev'ry time I look at yer I think of the happiness you stole from me, an' I hate yer wusser'n ever."

"Oh, mother, mother!" sobbed Lindy.

"I'm not your mother," screamed Mrs. Putnam. "I s'pose you must have had one, but you'll never know who she wuz; she didn't care nuthin' fer yer, for she left yer in the road, and Silas was fool enough to pick yer up and bring yer home. What yer right name is nobody knows, and mebbe yer ain't got none."

At this taunt Lindy arose to her feet and looked defiantly at Mrs. Putnam. "You are not telling the truth, Mrs. Putnam," said the girl; "you know who my parents were, but you will not tell me."

"That's right," said Mrs. Putnam, "git mad and show yer temper; that's better than sheddin' crocodile's tears, as yer've been doin'; yer've been a curse to me from the day I fust set eyes on yer. I've said I hate yer, and I do, an' I'll never forgive yer fer what yer've done to me."

Lindy saw that words were useless. Perhaps Mrs. Putnam might, recover, and if she did not provoke her too far she might relent some day and tell her what she knew about her parents; so she walked to the door and opened it. Then she turned and said, "Good-by, Mrs. Putnam, I truly hope that you will recover."

"Wall, I sha'n't," said Mrs. Putnam. "I'm goin' to die, I want ter die. I want ter see Jones; I want ter talk ter him; I want ter tell him how much I loved him—how much I've suffered through yer. I'm goin' ter tell him how I've hated yer and what fer, and when I git through talkin' to him, I'll guarantee he'll be my way o' thinkin'."

As the old woman said this, with an almost superhuman effort she raised herself to a sitting posture, pointed her finger at Lindy, and gave utterances to a wild, hysterical laugh that almost froze the blood in the poor girl's veins.

Lindy slammed the door behind her, rushed to her own room, locked the door, and threw herself face downward upon the bed. Should she ever forget those last fearful words, that vengeful face, that taunting finger, or that mocking laugh?

Samanthy took Alice up to Mrs. Putnam's room about eight o'clock. Alice knelt by the bedside. She could not see the old lady's face, but she took her withered hands in hers, and caressed them lovingly, saying, "Aunt Heppy, I am sorry you are so sick. Have you had the doctor?"

The old lady drew the young girl's head down close to her and kissed her upon the cheek. "The docter kin do me no good. I've sent fer yer becuz I know yer love me, and I wanted to know that one person would be sorry when I wuz gone."

"I'm so sorry," said Alice, "that I cannot see to help you, but you are not going to die; you must have the doctor at once."

"No," said Mrs. Putnam, "I want to die, I want to see my boy. I sent for you becuz I wanted to tell you that I am goin' to leave this house and farm and all my money to you."

"To me!" cried Alice, astonished. "Why, how can you talk so, Aunt Heppy? You have a daughter, who is your legal heir; how could you ever think of robbing your own flesh and blood of her inheritance?"

"She's no flesh and blood of mine!"

"What!" cried Alice, "isn't Lindy your own child?"

"No," said Mrs. Putnam savagely. "Silas and me didn't think we'd have any children, so we 'dopted her jest afore we moved down from New Hampshire and settled in this town."

"Do you know who her parents were?" inquired Alice.

"Alice, what did you do with that letter I gave you the las' time you were here?"

"It is locked up in my writing desk at home," answered Alice.

"What did yer promise to do with it?" said Mrs. Putnam.

"I promised," replied Alice, "not to let any one see it, and to destroy it within twenty-four hours after your death."

"And you will keep yer promise?" asked the old woman.

"My word is sacred," said Alice solemnly.

"Alice Pettengill," cried Mrs. Putnam, "if you break your word to me I shall be sorry that I ever loved you; I shall repent that I made you my heiress." And her voice rose to a sharp, shrill tone. "I'll haunt you as long as you live."

The girl shrank back from her.

"Don't mind a poor old woman whose hours are numbered, but you'll keep yer promise, won't yer, Alice?" And she grasped both Alice's hands convulsively.

"Aunt Heppy," said Alice, "I've given you my promise, and I'll keep my word whatever happens. So don't worry any more about it, Auntie."

For a few moments Mrs. Putnam remained quiet; then she spoke in clear, even tones. Not a word was lost upon Alice. "This adopted daughter of mine has been a curse to me ever since I knew her. She was two years older than Jones. They grew up together as brother and sister, but she wasn't satisfied with that, she fell in love with my son, and she made him love her. She turned him agin his mother. She found out that there wuz no law agin a man's marryin' his adopted sister. We had to send him away from home, but she followed him. She wuz goin' to elope with him, but I got wind of it, and I stopped that; then Jones died away from home and left her all his money. He wuz so bitter agin me that he put in his will that she was not to touch a dollar of my money, but better that than to have her marry him. I stopped that!" and the old woman chuckled to herself. Then her mood changed. "Such a marriage would 'a' been a sin agin God and man," she said sternly. "She robbed me of my son, my only boy, but I'll git even with her. She asked me this mornin' if I knew who her parents wuz. I told her no, that she was a waif picked up in a New Hampshire road, but I lied to her. I had to."

"But do you know who they were?" said Alice.

"Certainly I do," said Mrs. Putnam; "that letter you've got, and that yer promised to destroy, tells all about 'em, but she shall never see it. Never! Never!! Never!!!"

Again she rose to a sitting posture, and again that wild, mocking laugh rang through the house. Lindy, still lying upon her bed in her room, heard it, shuddered, and covered her ears with her hands to shut out the terrible sound. Samanthy, in the kitchen, heard it, and saying to herself, "Mrs. Putnam has gone crazy, and only that blind girl with her," ran upstairs.

When Mrs. Putnam uttered that wild laugh, Alice started from her chair with beating heart and a frightened look upon her face. As the door opened and Samanthy entered, Alice stepped forward. She could not see who it was, but supposing it was Lindy, she cried out, "Oh, Lindy, I'm so glad you've come!"

Mrs. Putnam had fallen back exhausted upon her pillow; when she heard the name Lindy she tried to rise again, but could not. But her indomitable spirit still survived.

"So you've come back, have you?" she shrieked. "Yer couldn't let me die in peace. You want to hear more, do you? Well, I'll tell you the truth. I know who your parents are, but I destroyed the letter; it's burned. That's what I had the fire built for this mornin'. You robbed me of my son and I've got even with yer." The old woman pointed her finger at poor Samanthy, who stood petrified in the doorway, and shrieked again, "Go!" and she pointed her withered finger toward the door, "and hunt for your parents."

The astonished Samanthy finally plucked up courage to close the door; she ran to Lindy's room and pounded upon the door until Lindy was forced to admit her; then the frightened girl told Lindy what she had heard, and again the worse than orphan threw herself upon her bed and prayed that she, too, might die.

Alice did not swoon, but she sank upon the floor, overcome by the horror of the scene. No sound came from the bed. Was she dead? Alice groped her way back to the chair in which she had previously sat; she leaned over and listened. Mrs. Putnam was breathing still—faint, short breaths. Alice took one of her hands in hers and prayed for her. Then she prayed for the unhappy girl. Then she thought of the letter and the promise she had made. Should she keep her promises to the dying woman, and thus be a party to the wronging of this poor girl?

"Mrs. Putnam! Mrs. Putnam!! Aunt Heppy!!!" she cried; "take back your fortune, I do not want it; only release me from my oath. Oh, that I could send for that letter and put it back into her hands before she dies! If Mr. Sawyer were only here; but I do not know where to find him."

For hours, it seemed ages to Alice, she remained by the bedside of the dying woman, seeing nothing, but listening intently, and hoping that she would revive, hear her words, and release her from that horrid oath.

Suddenly, Alice started; the poor old wrinkled, wasted hand that she held in hers, was cold—so cold—she leaned over and put her ear above the old woman's lips. There was no sound of breathing. She pulled down the bed-clothes and placed her hand upon her heart. It was still. Mrs. Putnam had gone to meet the boy she had loved and lost.

Feeling her way along the wall, she reached the door. Flinging it wide open, she cried, "Samantha! Lindy!"

Samanthy came to the foot of the stairs.

"What is it, Miss Pettengill?" asked she.

"She's dead," said Alice, and she sank down upon the stairway.

Samanthy ran quickly upstairs. She went first to Miss Lindy's room and told her that all was over; then she came back, went into Mrs. Putnam's room, pulled down the curtains, went to the bed and laid the sheet over Mrs. Putnam's face. She looked at the fire to see that it was safe, came out and closed the door. Then she helped Alice down stairs, led her into the parlor and seated her in an easy-chair.

"I'll bring you a nice cup of hot tea," said she; "I've just made some for dinner."

Lindy came down stairs and went to the front door. Hiram was there, smoking a cigar, and beating his arms to keep warm. He had been waiting outside for a couple of hours, and he was nearly frozen.

"Mr. Maxwell," said Lindy; and Hiram came up the steps. "Mrs. Putnam is dead," said she. "She expired just a few moments ago, about one o'clock," she continued, looking at her watch. "I want you to go right down to Mrs. Hawkins's and bring Betsy Green back to stay with her sister; then tell Mr. Stiles to come up at once with the buggy and a wagon to carry my trunks to the station. Tell Mr. Stiles I am going to Boston on the next train. When you come back you can take Miss Pettengill home. She will be through her lunch by the time you get back. After you've taken her home, I want you to go and get Mrs. Pinkham, the nurse; tell her Mrs. Putnam, is dead, and that I want her to come and lay her out. Then drive over to Montrose and tell Mr. Tilton, the undertaker, that I want him to make all the arrangements for the funeral And take this for your trouble," said she, as she passed him a five dollar bill.

"Oh, that's too much," cried Hiram, drawing back.

"Take it," said Lindy, with a smile; "I have plenty more—more than I need—more than I know what to do with."

As Hiram drove off he said to himself, "Lucky girl; she's mighty putty, too. I wonder that city feller didn't shine up to her. I s'pose she's comin' back to the funeral."

As Lindy turned to go upstairs she looked into the parlor, and saw Alice sitting with her head bowed upon her hand. Her first impulse was to go in and try to justify herself in the eyes of this girl, with whom she knew that Mr. Sawyer was in love; but no, she was but a waif, with no name, no birthright, no heritage; that woman had cut her off from her people. Truly, she had avenged her fancied wrongs.

So Lindy went upstairs to her room, and remained there until after Alice went home.

When Abner Stiles returned from Eastborough, after having seen Lindy Putnam and all her belongings safe on board the Boston train, he stopped at the Putnam house to see if he could be of any further service. Mrs. Pinkham had arrived some time before, and had attended to those duties which she had performed for many years for both the young and old of Mason's Corner, who had been called to their long home. Mr. Tilton, the undertaker from Montrose, had come over immediately, and had given the necessary professional service which such sad occasions demand. Mrs. Pinkham called to Mr. Tilton, and he came to the door.

"No; there is really nothing you can do, Mr. Stiles, unless you will be so kind as to drive around to Deacon Mason's, Mr. Pettengill's, and Mrs. Hawkins's, and inform them that the funeral will be from the church, at two o'clock Friday afternoon. I will see that you are paid for your services."

Undertakers are naturally polite and courteous men. They step softly, speak low, and are even-tempered. Their patrons do not worry them with questions, nor antagonize their views of the fitness of things.

When Abner reached his boarding house, after making his numerous calls, it was about five o'clock; as he went upstairs he noticed that the door of Strout's room was ajar. In response to his knock, the Professor said, "Come in."

"Wall, how do find things?" said Abner, as he entered the room.

"By lookin' for 'em," said the Professor, with a jaunty air.

"Oh, yer know what I mean," said Abner, throwing himself into a chair and looking inquiringly at Strout. "What was goin' on this noon 'tween you and that city feller?"

"Well, you see," continued Strout, "Mr. Sawyer and me have been at swords' points the las' two months over some pussonal matters. Well, he kinder wanted to fix up things, but he knew I wouldn't consent to let up on him 'less he treated me square; so I gets a third interest in the grocery store, the firm name is to be Strout & Maxwell, and I'm to be postmaster; so, you see, I got the best end after all, jest as I meant to from the fust. But, see here, Stiles, Mr. Sawyer and I have agreed to keep our business and our pussonal matters strictly private in the futer, and you mustn't drop a word of what I've told yer to any livin' soul."

"I've carried a good many of yer secrets 'round with me," responded Abner, "and never dropped one of 'em, as far as I know."

"Oh, yer all right, old man," said the Professor; "but, yer know, for the last two months our game has been to keep talkin'; now it will pay us best to keep our mouths shet."

"Mine's shut," said Abner; "now, what do I git? That job in the grocery store that you promised me?"

"Well, you see," said Strout, "when I made yer that promise, I expected to own the whole store, but now, yer see, Maxwell will want ter pick one of the men."

"Yis, I see," said Abner; "but that leaves one fer you to pick, and I'm ready to be picked."

"Yes, I know," answered Strout; "but the work is goin' to be very hard, liftin' barrels and big boxes, and I'm afraid you couldn't stand it very long."

A disappointed look came over Abner's face; he mused for a moment, then he broke out, "Yes, I see; I'm all right for light work, sech as tellin' lies 'bout people and spyin' out their actions, and makin' believe I've seen things that I never heard of, and hearin' things that were never said; but when it comes to good, clean, honest work, like liftin' barrels and rollin' hogshead's, the other feller gets the job. All right, Professor!" said he, getting up and walking towards the door; "when you want anythin' in my line, let me know." And he went out and slammed the door behind him.

As he went upstairs to his room, he said to himself, "I have sorter got the opinion that the Professor took what wuz given him, instid of gittin' what he asked fer. I kinder guess that it'll pay me to be much more partickler about number one in the futer than I've been."



CHAPTER XXXII.

AUNT ELLA.

Deacon Mason had an early caller Wednesday morning. He was out in the barn polishing up his silver-plated harness, for he was going to the funeral on Friday with his family. Hiram had given him notice that he would have to go up to the store at once. The Deacon didn't have anybody in mind to take Hiram's place, and thought he might as well get used to doing his own work until he came across the right party.

He heard a voice. It said, "Good mornin', Deacon Mason;" and, looking up, he saw Abner Stiles standing before him.

"Good mornin', Abner," answered the Deacon, pleasantly; "what does the Professor want?"

"I don't know," said Abner; "I heerd that Hiram was goin' to leave yer, so I came 'round to see if yer wanted ter hire a man."

"Do yer know of one?" asked the Deacon with a smile.

"That's all right, Deacon," said Abner. "I don't blame yer fer havin' yer little joke. I've worked so long fer the Professor that I expect to have it flung up at me. But I've renounced the Evil One and all his wicked ways, and I want to be taken into a good Christian home, and eventooally jine the church."

"While the lamp holds out to burn, The vilest sinner may return,"

quoted the Deacon, as he hung up one piece of harness and took down another.

"That's true as Gospel," said Abner; "and I hope you'll see it's your duty, as I've heerd Parson Howe say, to save the brand from the burnin'."

"Well, you go in and talk to Mrs. Mason," said the Deacon; "she's the one that wants the work done, and if she's satisfied to give yer a trial, it's all the same to me."

"Thank yer, Deacon," answered Abner. "There's one p'int in my favor, Deacon; I hain't got no girl, and I sha'n't take any of your time to go courtin';" and with this sly dig at Hiram, he went in to settle his fate with the Deacon's wife.

On that same Wednesday morning all of the Pettengill family were together at the breakfast table. The conversation naturally turned to Mrs. Putnam's death, and Ezekiel remarked "that she was a nice old lady, and that she and his mother were great friends. It beats all," continued he, "the way Lindy has acted. Abner Stiles told me that she took the half-past three train to Boston, and he said Bob Wood took over an express wagon full of trunks. Samanthy Green told Stiles that Lindy hadn't left a single thing in the house that belonged to her, and it don't look as though she was comin' back to the funeral."

During this recital, Alice listened intently. She flushed then grew pale, and finally burst into tears. All present, of course, attributed her agitation to her well known love for Mrs. Putnam.

"Shall I go upstairs with you, Sis?" asked Ezekiel.

"No," said Alice, drying her eyes, "I'm going into the parlor. I told Mandy to build a fire there, and I want you and Uncle Ike and Mr. Sawyer to come with me."

When they were gathered in the parlor, Alice began her story. Every word said by the dead woman had burned itself deep into her memory, and from the time she entered the sick room until she fell exhausted upon the stairway, after calling loudly for Samanthy and Lindy, not a word was missing from the thrilling narrative. Her audience, including even Quincy, listened intently to the dramatically told story, and they could almost see the frenzied face, the pointed finger, and hear the wild, mocking laugh.

For a few moments nothing was said. Finally, Ezekiel broke the silence.

"Well, I guess," said he, "that will of her'n will stand, all right. Lindy's got enough of her own; she won't be likely to interfere; and I never he'rd of their havin' any other relatives."

Then Uncle Ike spoke up. "I shall go to the funeral, of course, next Friday, and I shall expect to hear the Rev. Mr. Howe stand up in his pulpit and tell us what a good Christian woman Hepsy was; she was so kind and so benevolent, and so regardful of the feelings of others, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference if you went and told him what you've told us, Alice; he'd say just the same thing."

"Oh, hush! Uncle Ike," cried Alice, pleadingly; "she was a good woman, excepting on that one point, and you must own that she had some provocation. Let me ask you a question, Uncle Ike. How far should promises made to the dead be kept?"

"Just so far," replied Uncle Ike, "as they do not interfere with the just rights of the living. Where is that letter that she wanted you to destroy?" he asked.

"Here it is," said Alice, and she took it from the bosom of her dress.

"Well," said Uncle Ike, "if I were in your place I'd open that letter, read it, and if it was likely to be of any value to Miss Putnam in finding her parents or relatives, I'd hunt her up and give it to her. Mrs. Putnam owned up that she lied about it, and the whole thing, any way, may be a bluff. Perhaps it's only blank paper, after all."

"No," said Alice, "I could never open it or read it. I laid awake all night, thinking about my promise, and I finally made up my mind that I would go to see Lindy this morning, and let her read it; but now she has gone away, and we do not know where to find her. What shall I do with this dreadful thing?" she cried, as she held the letter up in her hand.

Quincy felt called upon to speak.

"Miss Pettengill," said he, "I think I could find Miss Putnam for you." A slight flush arose to Alice's cheek which did not escape Quincy's notice. He continued, "When I went to Boston, last Saturday, I happened to meet her on the train. She told me then something of her story, and said she was going to leave the house forever, as soon as Mrs. Putnam died. She also told me that if I ever learned anything about her parents I could reach her by advertising in the Personal Column of the New York 'Herald,' addressing 'Linda,' and signing it 'Eastborough.'"

"And will you do this at once for me?" cried Alice, eagerly. "I am so thankful; you have taken such a load from my mind, Mr. Sawyer. How fortunate it was that you met her as you did?

"I think Mr. Sawyer is about as lucky as they make 'em," remarked! Uncle Ike, with a laugh.

"Kind fortune owes me one or two favors yet before I shall be entirely satisfied," said Quincy. "Now, Miss Pettengill, will you allow me to make a suggestion that will free you from the further care of this document?"

"I don't care what is done with it," said Alice; "but no one but Lindy must read it."

"That is any idea exactly," assented Quincy. "I will go to Boston on the noon train and send that advertisement to the New York 'Herald,' With your permission, I will turn that document over to a legal friend of mine. He will put it in an envelope and seal it up. He will write on the outside, 'To be delivered only to Miss Putnam, on the written order of Miss Alice Pettengill,' and it will repose quietly in his big safe until Miss Putnam is found."

"That will do splendidly!" said Alice, with animation. "What magicians you lawyers are! You discover a way out of every difficulty."

"Wait until you get one of those lawyers working against you," remarked Uncle Ike, "then you'll change your mind. Well, I s'pose now this matter's settled, I can go upstairs and have my morning smoke."

"And I've got to go to the store," said Ezekiel to Uncle Ike, "and get some corn, or those chickens of your'n will swaller the hen coop." And both men left the room together.

"If you can give me a little of your time, Miss Pettengill," said Quincy, "I have some news for you that I think will please you very much."

"About my stories?" cried Alice.

"Yes," replied Quincy. "Just before I went to Boston last Saturday I got a letter from Leopold, asking me to call on him as soon as convenient. I found him at home Sunday evening, and this is what he said. The New York house has accepted your series of eight detective stories, and will pay you twenty-five dollars for each of them. The house will send you a check from time to time, as they publish them. Leopold has accepted your long story for the magazine published by the house for which he is reader. He says Jameson will get your other story into one of the Sunday papers, and he will have his dramatic version ready for production next fall. He can't tell how much you will make out of these just yet; the magazine pays by the page and the newspaper by the column, and, of course, Jameson will give you part of his royalty, if he gets the play on."

"Why, Mr. Sawyer, you are showering wealth upon me like another Count of Monte Cristo."

"But you have not heard all," continued Quincy. "Leopold has placed your two songs with a music publishing house, and you will get a royalty on them in time. He says they don't pay any royalty on the first three hundred copies, and perhaps they won't sell; the public taste on sheet music is very fickle. Then, that composer, I can never remember his name, is at work on your poem, 'The Lord of the Sea.' He told Leopold he was going to make it his opus vitae, the work of his life, you know, and he is talking it up to the director of the Handel and Haydn Society."

"How true it is," said Alice, "that gladness quickly follows sadness! I was so unhappy this morning", but now the world never looked so bright to me. You have brushed away all my sorrows, Mr. Sawyer, and I am really very happy to hear the good news that you have told me."

"There is one sorrow that I have not yet relieved you of," continued Quincy.

"And that?" asked Alice, brushing back the wavy golden hair from her forehead, and looking up at him with her bright blue eyes, which bore no outward sign of the dark cloud that dimmed their vision,—"and that is?"—she repeated.

"That letter," taking the hand that held it in both of his own. "If I am to get that noon train I have no time to lose."

"Before you take it," said Alice, "you must promise me that it shall not be opened, and no eye but Lindy's must ever rest upon it."

"You have my word," he replied.

"Then take it," said she; and she released her hold upon it.

He took the letter with one hand, his other hand still retaining its grasp upon hers.

"I go," said Quincy, assuming a bantering tone, "upon your quest, fair lady. If I return victorious, what shall be my reward?"

"Gallant knights," said Alice, as she withdrew her hand from his, "do not bargain for their reward until they have fulfilled their trust."

"I accept the reproof," said Quincy gravely.

"It was not so intended, Sir Knight," responded Alice brightly; "so I will make amends by answering your query. If you return successful, tell me what you would prize the most, and even if it be half my kingdom, it shall be yours."

"I am content, but modern locomotives do not wait even for gallant knights of old. So adieu."

He quitted the room, and Alice stood where he had left her until she heard the rumble of wheels as he drove off for the station; then she found her way to her chair before the fire, and her mind wove the outline of a romantic story, in which there was a gallant knight and a lovely maiden. But in her story the prize that the knight asked when he returned successful from his quest was the heart and hand of the lovely maiden.

Jim Cobb went over to Eastborough Centre, so as to drive the team back. Before going to the station, Quincy stepped into the post office and found a letter addressed to him in a peculiar, but familiar, handwriting.

"From Aunt Ella," he said. "I will read it after I get on the train."

Quincy's Aunt Ella was Mrs. Robert Chessman, his mother's widowed sister.

As soon as the train started Quincy opened his letter. It was short and to the point.

"My DEAR QUINCY:—Maude gave me your address. What are you doing in a miserable, little country town in the winter? They are bad enough in the summer, but in March!—'Bah! Come and see me at once, you naughty boy! AUNT ELLA."

"Dated yesterday," said Quincy; "how fortunate. I will go up to Mt. Vernon Street to-morrow noon and take lunch with her."

When Quincy reached Boston he went directly to his father's office. The Hon. Mr. Sawyer was not present, but his partners, Mr. Franklin Crowninshield and Mr. Atherton Lawrence, were busily engaged. Quincy took a seat at the desk which, he had occupied before going to Eastborough, and wrote out his advertisement for the New York "Herald." It read as follows: "Linda. Important paper discovered; communicate at once with Q.A.S., Eastborough."

He enclosed a check to cover a fortnight's insertion; then walked down State Street to the post office to mail his letter. When he returned, Mr. Lawrence informed him that his father was in his private office. His father greeted him pleasantly, but not effusively; in fact, any marked exhibition of approval or disapproval was foreign to the Sawyer character, while the Quincys were equally notable for their reticence and imperturbability.

"When shall we have the pleasure of your continued presence at home?" asked the father.

"To-night," replied Quincy, with a smile, "I shall be with you at dinner, stay all night, and take breakfast with you."

"I trust your long visit will not oblige you to neglect other more important matters," said the father.

"Oh, no!" answered Quincy. "I have looked out for that."

"And when do you think your health will allow you to resume your position in the office?" inquired the Hon. Nathaniel.

"That is very uncertain," replied Quincy.

"If you do not intend to come back at all," continued the father, "that would simplify matters. I could then make room for a Harvard graduate to study with us."

Quincy reflected. He had been taught by his father not to give a positive answer to any question on the spur of the moment, if more time could be taken, as well as not, for consideration. So, after a few moments of thought, Quincy said, "I will write you in the course of ten days or a fortnight, and give you a positive answer."

"That will be entirely satisfactory," answered his father. "As you are going out, will you kindly tell Mr. Crowninshield that I wish to consult with him?"

Quincy knew that the interview had expired by limitation. He went home, but found that his mother and sisters were out riding.

"They will return in time for dinner," said Delia, the parlor maid.

Quincy went into the parlor and opened the grand piano. He sat down before it, touched a few of the keys casually, then sang, with great expression, the song by J.R. Thomas entitled "Pleasant Memories." He next wandered into the library, and took down and glanced at several books that he had devoured with avidity when a boy of sixteen. Then he went upstairs to his own room, which he had occupied since he was eight years old. It looked familiar, everything was in its accustomed place; still, the room did not look homelike. Strange as it may seem, Quincy had been happier in the large west chamber, with its old-fashioned bureau and carpet and bed, than he had ever been in this handsomely furnished apartment in the Beacon Street mansion. There was no wide fireplace here, with ruddy embers, into whose burning face he could look and weave fanciful dreams of the fortune and happiness to be his in the future.

He spent a pleasant evening with the family. His father was present, but passed the time in reading the newspapers and a legal brief that he wished to more closely examine. His mother was engrossed in a new novel, but no approving smile or sympathetic tear demonstrated any particular interest in the fates of the struggling hero or suffering heroine.

Florence sat at the piano, and, in response to Quincy's request that she would give him some music, played over some chromatic scales and arpeggios. He declared that they reminded him of grand opera, which remark sent Maude into a fit of satirical laughter, and Florence up to her room in a pout.

Then Maude fell to asking Quincy questions about himself, to which he returned evasive and untruthful answers, until she was, as she said, completely disgusted. Then she dropped her head upon his shoulder, and with the arms of the brother whom she dearly loved clasped around her, she went to sleep. He looked at the sweet girlish face and thought, not of her, but of Alice.

Next morning he was up early, for he knew that a busy day was before him. The last thing before retiring, and the first thing upon getting up, he examined his inside vest pocket, to see if that precious letter, that priceless trust that he had given his knightly word to deliver, was safe.

He breakfasted early, and eight o'clock found him in Bowdoin Square, at the corner of Green and Chardon Streets. His first visit was to a safe manufactory, a few doors from the corner, where he purchased one for the firm of Strout & Maxwell.

After traversing both sides of Friend Street, he finally settled upon two horses, stout country roadsters, and left an order for their shipment to Eastborough Centre, when they were notified that the wagons were ready. He bought the wagons in Sudbury Street. They had red bodies and yellow wheels, and the words, "Strout & Maxwell, Mason's Corner, Mass.," were to be placed on them in gold letters.

These tasks completed, Quincy walked up Tremont Row by Scollay's Building. Crossing Pemberton Square, he continued up Tremont Street until he came to the building in which was the law office of Curtis Carter, one of his law school chums.

"Hello, Curt!" said he, as he entered the somewhat dingy office.

"Well, 'pon honor, Quincy," cried Curtis, "the sight of you is good for sore eyes, and I've got such a beastly cold that I can't see with one eye and can't read with the other."

"Well," said Quincy, "I came in here intending to consult you professionally, but I don't think a blind lawyer will answer my purpose."

"Oh, I shall be all right in a few minutes," replied Curtis. "I dropped into Young's as I came up and took an eye-opener. What's the matter, old fellow, breach of promise?"

Quincy took a seat near Curtis's desk.

"No," said he, "it's a case of animosity carried beyond the grave."

"Oh! I see," said Curtis, "party cut off with a shilling, going to try and break the will?"

"Have a cigar?" asked Quincy. "While you are lighting it and getting it under way I may slide in and get a chance to state my business."

"Oh! you want to do the talking?" said Curtis good humoredly. "Well, go ahead, old man;" and he leaned back and smoked complacently.

Quincy then related as much as he thought necessary of the story of the sealed letter, and as he concluded he took the package from his pocket and placed it on the corner of the lawyer's desk.

"You are doing just right," said Curtis; "the probate judges nowadays are looking more carefully at wills, especially when their provisions indicate that the signer was more red Indian than white Christian. I understand you perfectly," he continued; "what you wish me to do is to put this letter in an envelope, seal it securely, and endorse upon it these words, 'To be delivered only to Miss Lindy Putnam upon the written order of Miss Alice Pettengill.'"

"That's it exactly," said Quincy; "only I wish a receipt from you for the document."

"Certainly," replied Curtis. As he raised the lid of his old-fashioned desk the letter fell to the floor. The envelope had received rough treatment in its progress from hand to hand, and it was not strange that when it struck the floor one corner was split open by the fall.

As Quincy stooped to pick it up, he noticed that something that resembled a small piece of white cloth dropped from the broken corner of the envelope. When he picked it up to replace it, he saw that it was a small piece of white cotton cloth, and his quick eye caught the name "Linda Fernborough" stamped thereon with indelible ink. He said nothing, but replacing the piece of cloth passed the package to Curtis, who enclosed, sealed, and endorsed it, and gave a receipt therefor to Quincy.

"I will put this in my big steel vault," said he, as he went into another room.

Quincy knew that Curtis would accept no fee for such a slight service, so placing a five dollar greenback under a paperweight, he quietly left the office and was out of sight long before Curtis, with the bill in his hand, ran down stairs, bareheaded, and looked up and down the street in search of him.

Five minutes later Quincy reached his aunt's house. A "Buttons," dressed in blue livery, opened the door, and Quincy was ushered into the long parlor, which ran the full depth of the house, some sixty feet, in which he had passed many pleasant evenings. He sent up his card, and in a few moments Buttons returned and delivered the speech which Mrs. Chessman had taught him and which he had learned by heart: "Mrs. Chessman desires that you will come up at once."

Quincy bounded upstairs, to the evident astonishment of Buttons, and made his way to the front chamber, which he knew was his aunt's room. She loved the sunlight, and it was a constant visitor in that room, summer and winter. His aunt did not greet him with a "how do you do?" and a hand-shake. Instead of such a formal reception, she gave him a hearty hug and kissed him three times, once on the forehead, then on the cheek, and finally on the lips, in which latter osculation Quincy took part.

His aunt led him to an easy-chair, then threw herself upon a lounge opposite to him. She eyed him attentively for a moment.

"Quincy," said she, "you are better looking than ever; you're almost as good looking as Robert was, and he was the handsomest man I ever saw. How many different country girls have you kissed since you saw me last?"

"I kept the count," said Quincy, "till I went to a surprise party a week ago Monday, and then I lost it."

"Of all the kisses that you have had, whose do you prize the most?"

"Those from my beloved Aunt Ella," replied Quincy.

Aunt Ella smiled and said, "You know how to keep on the right side of an old woman who has got money."

"I didn't think of that until you called my attention to it," said Quincy gravely.

"And I didn't believe it when I said it," added Aunt Ella. A few moments later she rang and ordered a light lunch. When this was over she went to an old secretary with brass handles, opened a drawer, and took out a cigar box.

"I have a few of Robert's cigars left," she said.

Quincy took one and resumed his seat in the easy-chair.

Aunt Ella opened another drawer in the secretary and took out a pouch of tobacco, a package of rice paper and a box of wax tapers. She put these articles on a small diamond-shaped table and placed the table between Quincy and herself. She handed Quincy the match-box, then deftly rolling a cigarette, she lighted it, leaned back upon the lounge and blew rings of smoke into the air, which she watched until they broke.

"Do you think it's horribly unbecoming for me to smoke?" she asked, looking at Quincy.

"Do you wish me to express my real thoughts?" replied Quincy, "or flatter you because you have money?"

Aunt Ella reddened a little, then said, "A good shot, Quincy, but I deserve it. Go on."

"Well, Aunt Ella," said he, "you are the only woman whom I ever saw smoke who, in my opinion, knew how to do it gracefully."

"I think you are sincere," she rejoined, "and I beg pardon for wounding your feelings as I did before. Give me your hand on it."

They shook hands as two men would have done after settling differences.

Then she said, "Now draw your chair up closer, Quincy, and tell me what you've been doing, and what other people have been doing to you since the day before Christmas, the last time I set eyes on you until to-day. You know I am your mother confessor."

Quincy complied, and in his quiet, concise way gave her a full account of his doings in Eastborough, omitting nothing, concealing nothing. If anything, he gave fuller details of his acquaintance with Huldy, Lindy, and Alice than he did of the other portions of his story. He could not forbear to give at full length the account of his final settlement with the Professor.

Aunt Ella laughed heartily at some parts of the recital, and looked sorrowful and sympathetic when she listened to other portions. She rolled and smoked half a dozen cigarettes during its continuance, and when she saw that Quincy had finished his cigar she placed the remainder of the box before him.

When he closed she said, "Quincy, you're a brick. I haven't enjoyed myself so much for years. I do so love anything that isn't commonplace, and your experience is both novel and interesting. What a dear old man Deacon Mason is, and Ezekiel Pettengill is a fine young fellow, honest and square. That Hiram and Mandy must be a team. Are they going to get married?"

"I think so," said Quincy. "He stammers, you know, and I think he is afraid he will break down when he tries to propose."

Aunt Ella laughed heartily; then she said, "What a constitutional liar that Stiles must be, and as for the Professor, I would like to have a set-to with him myself."

As she said this she doubled up her fists.

"Oh, he wouldn't meet you that way," said Quincy. "He only fights with a woman's weapon, his tongue;" and he told her of his little boxing match with Robert Wood.

Aunt Ella continued: "I can imagine what a pretty, sweet, little country girl Huldy Mason is. My heart aches for Lindy, her martyrdom has been out of all proportion to her contemplated wrongdoing, if wrongdoing it really was. Had I been in her place I would have married Jones and left my clothes behind; and then," said Aunt Ella, "how my heart goes out to that dear, sweet girl that you call Alice! Do you love her, Quincy?"

"Devotedly," answered Quincy, "I never really loved a woman before."

"Then marry her," cried Aunt Ella decidedly.

"Everybody at home but Maude will object," said Quincy.

"Maude's the best one in the family, next to yourself," snapped Aunt Ella.

"They will bring up Uncle Jim," continued Quincy.

"Nonsense!" replied Aunt Ella. "Uncle Jim was a fool; any man is a fool who thinks he can win the battle of life by making a sot of himself. Bring this girl to me, Quincy. She must be a genius, if she can write as you say she can. Let me care for her and love her and make life pleasant and beautiful for her until you get ready to do it yourself."

"I will, some day, Aunt Ella. You are the best friend I have in the world, and when I have the right to bring Alice to you, I will lose no time in doing so. Thank you for your kind words about her. I shall never forget them, and she shall hear them some day. But I must go now."

They both arose, "Promise that you will come and see me every time you are in Boston, Quincy; if you don't, I shall come down to Eastborough to see you."

She gave him another kiss at parting.

As he left the house he deliberated for a moment as to where he should go next. It was half-past four. He decided to go to Leopold's lodgings in Chestnut Street. He found him at home, but for a wonder he was not working.

"This is an off day with me," he explained; "this is our haying season, and I've been working nights, days, and Sundays for a fortnight."

"I came to express Miss Pettengill's obligations and thanks for your kind and very successful efforts in her behalf."

"Oh! that's all right," said Leopold. "By the way, have you told her she ought to write a book?"

"Not yet," said Quincy; "but I'm going to soon. She has just lost a dear friend; but I won't forget it."

"Don't!" repeated Leopold. "She is a diamond that ought to be dug up, cut, and set in eighteen carat gold. Excuse my apparently brutal language, but you get my meaning."

"Certainly," said Quincy; "and you are not working to-day."

"No," replied Leopold; "loafing and enjoying it, too. I've a good mind to turn vagrant and loaf on, loaf ever."

"Come down to Parker's and have dinner with me."

"Can't do it," replied Leopold; "my stomach is loafing, too. 'Twouldn't be fair to make it work and do nothing myself. Just as much obliged. Some other day. Don't forget the book," he cried, as Quincy left the room.

Quincy took his dinner at Parker's, caught the five minutes past six express, and reached Eastborough Centre at half-past seven. Abbott Smith drove him home to the Pettengill house.

The next day was Friday. Everybody at Mason's Corner, with quite a number from Eastborough and Montrose, came to Mrs. Putnam's funeral. The little Square in front of the church, as well as the shed, was filled with teams. While waiting for the arrival of the body, quite a number of the male residents of Mason's Corner were gathered upon the steps of the church.

Strout spied Abner Stiles and approached him. "Bob Wood has jest told me," said the Professor, "that he has decided not to leave his present place, so I've concluded on second thoughts to give yer that job at the grocery store."

Abner's eyes twinkled.

"I've had my second thoughts, too," said he, "I've hired out to Deacon Mason for life, and if I jine the church he says I can work for him in the next world. So I kinder guess I shall have to decline yer kind invitation to lift boxes and roll barrels."

When the services were over every person in the church passed up the centre aisle to take a last view. Her husband had been buried in the Montrose cemetery, and she had told Mr. Tilton that she was to be laid by his side. The Eastborough cemetery was in West Eastborough, and for that reason many of the late residents of Mason's Corner slept their last sleep at Montrose.

As they stood by the coffin, Alice said, "How does she look?"

"Very pleasant," replied Quincy; "there is a sweet smile upon her face."

"I am so glad," said Alice. She pressed his arm a little tighter, and looking up to him, she said, "Perhaps she has met her boy, and that smile is but the earthly reflection of the heavenly one that rests upon her face in her home above."

"I hope so," replied Quincy; and they walked slowly out of church and took their places on the rear seat of the Pettengill carryall, Ezekiel and Uncle Ike sitting in front.

Mandy Skinner and Mrs. Crowley had not gone to the funeral The latter was busy skimming cream from a dozen large milk pans, while Mandy sat before the kitchen stove, with Swiss by her side. She was thinking of Hiram, and wondering if he really intended to ask her to marry him.

"I don't think he's been foolin' me, but now he's goin' into business I should think it was about time for him to speak up or quit."

Swiss suddenly arose, sniffed and went to the kitchen door. The door was opened softly and some one entered the room. Mandy did not turn her head. Perhaps she guessed who it was. Then some one placed a chair close to Mandy and took a seat beside her.

"Say, M-m-m-m-m-a-andy," said Hiram, "will you please read this to me? It's an important document, and I want to be sure I've got it jest right." As he said this he passed Mandy a folded paper.

She opened it and the following words met her eye: "This is to certify that I, Hiram Maxwell, of Mason's Corner, in the town of Eastborough, county of Normouth, and Commonwealth of Massachusetts, hereby declare my intention to ask Miss Amanda Skinner of the village, town, county, and state aforesaid, to become my lawful wedded wife."

"Oh, you big silly!" cried Mandy, dropping the paper, for she didn't think it necessary to read any further.

"Is it all right?" cried Hiram, "it cost a quarter to git it drawn up. Then I swore to it before old Squire Rundlett over to Montrose, and it ought ter hold water. You'd better keep it, Mandy, then I can't fling it up at yer that I never axed yer to marry me."

"Who told you that?" asked the girl indignantly.

"Ma Hawkins. Well, she didn't exactly say it to me, but she spoke it out so loud to Betsy Green that I heered it clear out in the wood-shed and I'll tell yer what, Mandy, it kinder made me mad."

"Well, it's all right now," said Mandy soothingly.

"Is it?" asked Hiram, his face beaming with delight.

The next instant there was a succession of peculiar sounds heard in the room. As Swiss came back from the kitchen door but one chair was needed for the happy couple, and an onlooker would have thought that chair was occupied by one person with a very large head, having light curly hair on one side and straight dark hair on the other, no face being visible.

It was upon this picture that Mrs. Crowley looked as she opened the door leading into the kitchen and started to come into the room with a large pan full of cream.

Astonished, she stepped backward, forgetting the two steps that she had just ascended. Flat upon her back she fell, the pan of cream drenching her from head to foot.

"It's drownded I am! It's drownded I am!" she cried at the top of her voice.

"What's the matter? How did it happen?" said Mandy, as she rushed into the room, followed by Swiss.

"Shure it's thinkin' I was," moaned Mrs. Crowley, "when the milk fell on me."

"Thinkin' of what?" cried Mandy sharply. "You couldn't have been thinkin' of your business."

"Shure I was thinkin' of the day when Pat Crowley and I both sat in the same chair, forty years ago," said Mrs. Crowley, rising to her feet and wiping the cream from her eyes, and nose, and ears.

During this time Swiss was busily engaged having a rich feast upon the cream left in the pan. Hiram appeared at the kitchen door to learn the cause of Mandy's absence.

Raising her hands high in the air, Mrs. Crowley said, "Bless you, my darlints; may yer live long and may all the saints pour blessin's on yer hids."

And with this invocation the poor old woman hobbled off to her room in the ell and was not seen again until the next morning.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE WEDDIN'S.

The next day was Saturday. While the Pettengill family was at breakfast, Squire Rundlett arrived. He had driven over from Montrose with the partnership papers for Strout, Hiram, and Quincy to sign and also the will of the late Mrs. Hepsibeth Putnam.

As he came into the kitchen he espied Mandy, and a broad smile spread over his face as he said, "Good morning, Miss Skinner, was that paper all right?" Mandy flushed scarlet but said nothing. "Honestly, Miss Skinner," said the Squire, "I think it was a very sensible act on Hiram's part. If men were obliged to put their proposals in writing there wouldn't be any more breach of promise cases."

"I think he was a big goose," finally ejaculated Mandy, laughing in spite of herself.

"At any rate," continued the Squire, "he knew how to pick out a smart, pretty little woman for a wife;" and he raised his hat politely and passed into the dining-room.

Here he was asked to have some breakfast. He accepted a cup of coffee, and, while drinking it, informed Quincy and Alice of the twofold purpose of his visit.

Quincy led Alice into the parlor, the Squire accompanying them. Quincy then retired, saying he would join the Squire in a short time and ride up to the store with him.

When they were alone, the Squire informed Alice that by the terms of Mrs. Putnam's last will she had been left sole heiress of all the real and personal property of the deceased. The dwelling house and farm were worth fully ten thousand dollars, while the bonds, stocks, and other securities, of which he had had charge for many years, were worth at least forty thousand more. For several years Mrs. Putnam's income had been about twenty-five hundred dollars a year.

"It was very kind of her to leave it to me," said Alice; "I have never done anything to deserve it and I would not take it were it not that I understand there are no near relatives, and that Miss Lindy Putnam was amply provided for by her brother."

There was a knock upon the door, and Quincy looked in.

"Come in, Mr. Sawyer," said the Squire. "I have an important bit of news for you that concerns this young lady."

Quincy did as requested and stood expectantly.

The Squire went on: "Mrs. Putnam's old will, made some six years ago, gave all the property to Miss Pettengill, but provided that its provisions should be kept secret for ninety days. In that will I was named as sole executor."

"Why did she change it?" asked Alice earnestly.

"I don't know," replied the Squire. "About three weeks ago she sent for me and cut out the ninety-day restriction and named our young friend here as co-executor with myself."

Alice remained silent, while a look of astonishment crept into Quincy's face.

"I do not quite comprehend her reason for making this change," remarked Quincy.

"Mrs. Putnam was a very far-seeing lady," said the Squire, with a laugh, looking first at Alice and then at Quincy.

A slight flush mounted to Alice's cheeks, and Quincy said coolly, "I do not perceive the application of your remark."

"Easy enough," said the Squire, seeing that he had put his foot in it, and that it was necessary to explain his false step in some way; "easy enough. I have had sole charge of her property for six years, and she wished some cool-headed business man to go over my accounts and see if I had been honest in my dealings with her."

"That way of stating the case is satisfactory," said Quincy, a little more genially.

"I don't think I am in danger of being robbed with two such trusty guardians," said Alice.

Then all three laughed, and the little rift was closed. But the Squire's words had not been unheeded and two hearts were busily thinking and wondering if he had really meant what he said.

The Squire then turned to Quincy. "If you will name a day we will go over to the county town, present the will for probate, and at any time thereafter my books will be ready for inspection."

Quincy named the following Wednesday, and then both men congratulated Miss Pettengill on her good fortune, bade her good morning, and then started to go to the store.

As they passed through the kitchen Mandy was not in sight. She evidently did not intend to have a second interview with the Squire.

When they reached the store they found Strout and Hiram and Mr. Hill and his son already there. The business with Mr. Hill was soon concluded, and he delivered the keys of the property to Squire Rundlett; then the co-partnership papers were duly signed and witnessed, and then the Squire passed the keys to Mr. Obadiah Strout, the senior partner of the new firm of Strout & Maxwell, who formally took possession of the property in his own name and that of his partners.

Since Abner's curt declination of a position in the store, Strout had been looking around for some one to take his place, and had finally settled upon William Ricker, or, as he was generally called, Billy Ricker, a popular young resident of Montrose, as it was thought he could control a great deal of trade in that town.

For a similar reason, Quincy and Hiram had united in choosing young Abbott Smith, who was known by everybody in Eastborough Centre and West Eastborough. Abbott had grown tired of driving the hotel carriage and wished to engage in some permanent business.

The choice was naturally not particularly palatable to Strout, but he had consented to let bygones be bygones and could offer no valid objection. These two young men were to report for duty that Saturday evening, and the close of that day's business terminated Benoni and Samuel Hill's connection with the grocery store.

Sunday morning all of the Pettengill family went to church and listened to a sermon by Mr. Howe, the minister, from the text, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall inherit the kingdom of Heaven."

As they were driving home, Uncle Ike remarked in his dry, sarcastic way, "I s'pose Mr. Howe was thinkin' of Mrs. Putnam when he was praisin' the peacemakers; it's a fashion in the country, I understand, the Sunday after a funeral to preach in a general way about the departed one."

"Mrs. Putnam has been very kind to me," protested Alice, "and you should forgive her for my sake."

"I'll forgive her," said Uncle Ike, "when the wrong she has done has been righted." He shut his teeth together sharply, faced the horses again, and lapsed into silence.

In the afternoon Quincy joined Alice in the parlor, and they sang some sacred music together.

Quincy picked up a book from the table and said, "Why, Miss Pettengill, by this turned down corner I imagine there are some thirty pages of this very interesting story, 'The Love of a Lifetime,' that I have not read to you. Would you like to have me finish it this afternoon?"

"I have been afraid to hear the last chapter," said Alice. "I fear Herbert and Clarice will both die, and I so hate a book with a sad ending. Why don't authors keep their lovers alive—"

"Marry them off and let them live happily ever afterward," Quincy concluded.

"I don't think I could ever write a book with a sorrowful conclusion," mused Alice.

Quincy saw the opportunity for which he had long waited.

"Why don't you write a book?" asked he earnestly. "My friend Leopold says you ought to; he further said that you were a genius, and if I remember him correctly, compared you to a diamond—"

"In the rough," added Alice quickly.

"That's it," said Quincy; "but Leopold added that rough diamonds should be dug up, cut, and set in a manner worthy of their value."

"I am afraid Mr. Ernst greatly overrates my abilities and my worth," said she, a little constrainedly. "But how unkind and ungrateful I am to you and Mr. Ernst, who have been so kind and have done so much for me. I will promise this much," she continued graciously. "I will think it over, and if my heart does not fail me, I will try."

"I hope your conclusion will be favorable," remarked Quincy. "In a short time you will be financially independent and freed from any necessity of returning to your former vocation. I never knew of an author so completely successful at the start, and I think you have every encouragement to make literature your 'love of a lifetime.'"

"I will try to think so too," replied Alice softly.

Then he took up the book and finished reading it. When he had closed, neither he nor she were thinking of that future world in which Herbert and Clarice had sealed those vows which they had kept so steadfastly and truly during life, but of the present world, bright with promise for each of them, in which there was but one shade of sorrow—that filmy web that shut out the beauties of nature from the sight of that most beautiful of God's creations, a lovely woman.

Monday morning Quincy made another trip to Boston. He had obtained the measurements for a large sign, upon which, on a blue ground, the words "Strout & Maxwell" were to appear in large gold letters. He paid another visit to the carriage factory, and ordered two leather covered wagon tops, to be used in stormy weather, and picked out two sets of harness resplendent with brass buckles and bosses and having "S. & M." in brass letters on the blinders.

He reached Aunt Ella's in time for lunch. He told her of the approaching wedding of Ezekiel and Huldy; then, leaning over, he whispered something in her ear, which made her face beam with delight.

"What a joke it will be," cried she, "and how the country folks will enjoy it. Can't I come down to the wedding, Quincy, and bring my landau, my double span of cream-colored horses, and my driver and footman in the Chessman livery? I'll take you and your lady love to the church."

"Why, certainly," said Quincy. "I'll ask Miss Mason to send you an invitation."

"Let me do something to help," begged the impetuous but good-hearted Aunt Ella. "Bring the girls up some morning early. We will go shopping, then we'll lunch here. We will have to go without our wine and cigars that day, you know, and then we'll go to the modiste's and the milliner's in the afternoon. We'll make a day of it, young man."

Quincy leaned back in his easy-chair and blew a ring of blue smoke from one of Uncle Robert's cigars.

"Excuse me, Aunt Ella," said he, "but do you ever intend to get married again?"

"Quincy Adams Sawyer!" cried Aunt Ella, with an astonished look on her face, "are you joking?"

"Certainly not," replied Quincy. "My question was intended to be a serious and respectful inquiry. You are only forty, fine looking, well educated, well connected and wealthy. Why should you not?"

"I will answer you seriously then, Quincy. I could not marry again. Ten years' life with Robert Chessman was a greater pleasure than a lifetime with an ordinary man. I was twenty-five when I married him; we lived together ten years; he has been dead for five. How often I have wished that Robert had lived to enjoy his fortune with me.

"But he was satisfied," she continued. "'Better be a success at the end,' he used to say, 'than be a success in middle life and fall from your greatness. Look at Wolsey, look at Richelieu, look at Napoleon Bonaparte.' He would often remark: 'Earth has no sadder picture than a broken idol.' He used to consider Abraham Lincoln the most successful man that ever lived, for he died before making a mistake, and when he was strongest in the hearts of the people.

"Your question reminds me," continued Aunt Ella, "of something I had in mind to say to you at some future day, but I may as well say it now. How much money have you, Quincy, and what is your income?"

"Father gave me fifty thousand dollars outright when I was twenty-one; it pays on an average six per cent. Besides this he allows me two thousand a year for supposed professional services rendered in his law office."

"That makes five thousand a year," said Aunt Ella quickly. "Well, I'll allow you five thousand more a year, and the day you are married I'll give you as much outright as your father did. That's unconditional. Now, conditionally, if you bring your wife here and live with me you shall have rooms and board free, and I'll leave you every dollar I possess when I'm through with it. Don't argue with me now," she continued, as Quincy essayed to speak. "Think it over, tell her about it. You will do as you please, of course, but I shall not change my mind on this point."

"Didn't your husband leave any relatives that might turn up and prevent any such disposition of your property?"

"When we married, Robert said he was alone in the world," replied Aunt Ella; "he had no sisters, and only one brother, named Charles. Charles was an artist; he went to Paris to study about thirty-five years ago. From there he went to London. Some thirty years ago Robert got a letter from him in which he said he was going to return to America. Robert waited, but he did not come; then he wrote again to his English address, but the letter was returned with the words 'Gone to America' endorsed thereon."

"Was he married?" inquired Quincy.

"Robert never knew," said Aunt Ella, "but he imagined not, as Charlie, as he called him, never spoke in his letters of being in love, much less of being married."

Quincy caught the three o'clock train to Eastborough Centre, and Ellis Smith, another son of 'Bias Smith, who had taken the hotel carriage in place of his brother Abbott, drove him home.

A few days thereafter invitations to the wedding of Ezekiel Pettengill and Hulda Ann Mason were sent broadcast through Eastborough Centre, West Eastborough, Mason's Corner, and Montrose. Then it was decided by the gossips that Ezekiel was going to have Mr. Sawyer and Hiram Maxwell and Sam Hill to stand up with him, while Huldy Ann was going to have Alice Pettengill, Mandy Skinner, and Tilly James as bridesmaids.

The whole town turned out when the two gaudy wagons, with their handsome horses and fine harness reached Eastborough Centre, and a number of Centre folks followed the unique procession over to Mason's Corner. One of the wagons contained the new sign, which was soon put in place, and was a source of undisguised admiration for a long time.

On the tenth of April, Strout & Maxwell's two heavy teams went over to Eastborough Centre and returned about noon heavily loaded, followed by three other teams from the Centre equally well filled. Then Mr. Obadiah Strout could contain himself no longer. He let the cat out of the bag, and the news spread like wildfire over the village, and was soon carried to Eastborough Centre and to Montrose. The Mason's Corner church was to have a new organ, a present from Mr. Sawyer, and Professor Obadiah Strout had been engaged to officiate for one year.

The nineteenth of April was fixed for Huldy's wedding day. The hour was ten in the morning. As early as eight o'clock teams began to arrive from north, east, south, and west. Enough invitations had been issued to fill the church, and by half-past nine every seat was taken.

The little church was profusely decorated with vines, ferns and potted plants, while a wealth of cut flowers adorned the altar, the front of the new organ, which rose towering to the very top of the church, and the pews reserved for the bridal party.

Outside the edifice hundreds of sightseers, not honored with invitations, lined both sides of the spacious Square in front of the church, and occupied positions of vantage on the steps.

It lacked but ten minutes of ten. The sexton rung a merry peal from the sweet-toned bell, which was the pride of the inhabitants of Mason's Corner. Within the church the ushers, having attended to the seating of the audience, stood just within the door awaiting the arrival of the bride and groom. They were in dress suits, with white gloves, and each had a white rose in his butonhole. Robert Wood and Cobb's twins had been assigned to the right of the centre aisle, while Abbott Smith, Benjamin Bates, and Emmanuel Howe had charge of the left side of the edifice. If any noticed the absence of Samuel Hill and Hiram Maxwell, it did not provoke general remark, although Mrs. Hawkins asked Jonas if he'd seen Mandy anywhere, and Tilly James's school chum, Eliza Allen, managed to occupy two seats, so as to have one for Tilly when she came.

At exactly five minutes of ten, Professor Strout emerged from the rear of the platform and proceeded towards the new organ. He, like the ushers, was in a dress suit, with a white rose in the lapel of his coat. He was greeted with applause and bowed his acknowledgements. He took his seat at the organ and played a soft prelude, during which the Rev. Caleb Howe entered and advanced to the altar.

Then loud cheers were heard from the assembled crowd outside. The organ stopped and the sexton again filled the air with merry peals. The sight outside was one which those inside could not see, and therefore could not appreciate. What was that coming up the road? Mason's Corner had never seen an equipage like that before. An open carriage, drawn by four cream-colored horses, with white manes and tails and silver-tipped harness. A coachman in livery sat upon the box, while a footman, in similar livery, rode behind. Following behind this were other carriages, containing the other members of the bridal party.

Within the church every eye was turned upon the door through which the party was to come. Professor Strout's sharp eye saw the first couple as they reached the entrance, and the strains of Mendelssohn's Wedding March, that have preceded so many happy bridals, sounded through the church. The party included Ezekiel and Huldy, Deacon Mason and wife, Mr. Sawyer and Miss Alice Pettengill, and a handsome, richly dressed lady unknown to any of the villagers, who was escorted by Mr. Isaac Pettengill.

Ezekiel and Huldy advanced and took their positions before the minister, while the remainder of the party took seats in one of the bridal pews.

When the ceremony was over the audience naturally expected that the wedded couple would leave the church by the right-hand aisle, on both sides of which, from end to end, white silk ribbons had been drawn to keep the passage clear.

But no! Shouts and cheers were again heard from outside the church, again the church bell rang out, and once more the melody of the Wedding March fell upon the ears of the Professor's auditors, while to their astonishment Ezekiel and his wife seated themselves quietly in the front bridal pew. Again every eye was turned, every neck was craned, and Samuel Hill and Tilly James walked down the centre aisle and took their places before the clergyman. Again the solemn words were spoken, and this time the spectators felt sure that the double couple would leave the church by the silken pathway.

But no; again were cheers and shouts from the outside borne to the excited spectators within. Once more the sexton sent out pleasing tones from the church bell; once more the Professor evoked those melodious strains from the sweet-toned organ; and as Samuel Hill and his wife took their seats in the front pew beside Mr. and Mrs. Ezekiel Pettengill, the excitement of the audience could no longer be controlled. It overcame all restraint, and as Hiram Maxwell and Mandy Skinner entered, the people arose to their feet and cheered loudly, as they would have done at a political meeting or a circus.

Again, and for the last time, the Rev. Mr. Howe went through the time-honored ceremony, and at its close Mr. and Mrs. Ezekiel Pettengill, Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Hill, and Mr. and Mrs. Hiram Maxwell left the church by way of the right-hand aisle, preceded by the ushers, who strewed the aisle with white roses as they advanced, and were followed by the occupants of the second bridal pew.

As Quincy rode over to Eastborough Centre with his Aunt Ella, after partaking of the wedding breakfast, which was served in Deacon Mason's dining-room, she remarked to him that the events of the day had been most enjoyable, and that she didn't know, after all, but that she should change her mind about getting married again.

When asked by Quincy if she had seen any one whom she thought would suit her for a second husband, she replied that "Mr. Isaac Pettengill was a very well-preserved old gentleman, and the most original man in thought and speech that she had met since Robert died."

Quincy did not inform her that Uncle Ike had a wife and two grown-up daughters living, thinking it best to reserve that information for a future occasion.

That night Strout & Maxwell's grocery store was the centre of attraction. Strout was in his glory, and was, of course, in his own opinion, the most successful feature of that eventful day. It was a very common thing to get married, but it was a most uncommon thing to play on a new church organ, and play as well as he had done, "for the first time, too," as he remarked a score of times.

Stepping upon a barrel, the Professor called out in a loud voice, "Order, please," and in a short time the assembled crowd became quiet.

"Friends and Feller Citizens: I have this day received my commission as postmaster at Mason's Corner, Mass. Mail matter will be sorted with celerity and delivered only to the proper parties, while the firm of Strout & Maxwell will always keep on hand a full assortment of the best family groceries at reasonable prices. Soliciting your continued patronage, I remain, yours respectively.

OBADIAH STROUT, Postmaster.

As the Professor stepped down from the barrel, Abner Stiles caught him by the arm and said in a low voice, "Isn't Deacon Mason one of your bondsmen?"

"Yes," said Strout, somewhat pompously, "but what of it?"

"Why, yer see," said Abner, "I'm workin' for the Deacon now, and I'm just as devoted to his interests as I used to be to yourn onct, and with a much better hope of reward, both on this earth and in Heaven, and if he's got money put up on yer, of course yer won't object if I drop in onct in a while and kinder keep an eye on yer." And with this parting shot he dashed out a side door and was lost to sight.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

BLENNERHASSETT.

When comparatively great events follow each other in quick succession, those of minor importance are liable to escape mention. It was for this reason, probably, that the second visit of Dr. Tillotson was not spoken of at the time of its occurrence. He examined Alice's eyes and declared that progress towards recovery was being made, slowly but surely. He left a bottle of new medicine, and advised Alice, as an aid to recovery, to take a long walk, or a ride, each pleasant day. This advice he repeated to Uncle Ike, who was waiting for him outside the front door, and to Quincy, who brought him from the station and took him back.

On the day fixed upon, Quincy drove over to Montrose, and accompanied by Squire Rundlett, went to the county town and presented Mrs. Putnam's will for probate. In due time the will was admitted, the executors' bonds were filed and approved, and Quincy, at the age of twenty-three, found himself one of the financial guardians of the young heiress, Mary Alice Pettengill, she being his junior by less than two years.

About ten days after Quincy's interview with his Aunt Ella, in which she had signified her intention of making him an allowance, he received a letter from a Boston banking firm, informing him that by direction of Mrs. Ella Chessman, the sum of five thousand dollars had been placed to his credit, and that a similar sum would be so placed on the first business day of January in each succeeding year. A blank card was enclosed for a copy of his signature, and the statement made that his drafts would be duly honored.

When Quincy and his aunt reached Eastborough Centre, after the trio of weddings, they found that they had a full hour to wait before the arrival of the next ingoing train.

This gave plenty of time for the reloading of the horses and carriage on the special car in which they had been brought from Boston and which had been side-tracked.

Quincy wished to accompany his aunt to Boston and escort her to her home, but she demurred. He insisted, but his aunt replied, "Don't go, please don't, Quincy; they will take me for your mother, and I really am not quite old enough for that."

This argument was unanswerable, and Quincy bade her a laughing good-by as the train sped on towards Boston, the special car in charge of the coachman and footman bringing up the rear.

Thus Aunt Ella's visit to Mason's Corner became an event of the past, but the memory of it remained green for a long time in the minds of those who had witnessed her arrival and departure.

Ellis Smith drove Quincy home to the Pettengill house. It was to be home no longer, for Hiram and Mandy were to have the room that Quincy had occupied so long. His trunk and other belongings he had packed up the night before, and at Quincy's request, Cobb's twins had taken them out to Jacob's Parlor, where he found them. He knew that Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins were to spend the afternoon with their daughter and son-in-law.

Quincy also knew that Uncle Ike and Alice were at Deacon Mason's, where Ezekiel and Huldy were to remain for the coming week.

For the first time since he had been at Mason's Corner, Quincy felt lonesome and deserted. He reflected on his way to Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house that these weddings were all very nice, to be sure, but they had deprived him of the society of many good friends, who were now united by stronger ties than those of simple, everyday friendship.

He did not care to go to the grocery store, for he felt that the Professor was entitled to all the credit that he was likely to get for his day's performance, and he did not wish to detract from it. So he went directly to his room, and for the first time felt out of sorts with Eastborough and its people.

He was not hungry for food, so he did not answer the call to supper, but sat in the dark and thought. He realized that he was hungry, yes, desperately hungry, for love—the love of one woman, Alice Pettengill. Why should he wait longer? Even if his father and mother objected his Aunt Ella was on his side, and her action had made him independent. He had felt himself so before, but now there was no doubt of it.

This determined young man then made up his mind he would declare his love at the first auspicious moment. Then he would go to his parents and learn their verdict on his proposed action. Thinking thus he went to bed, and in his dreams, ushers, and bridesmaids, and cut flowers, and potted plants, and miles of silken ribbon, and cream-colored horses, and carriages, and clergymen, and organists, and big pipe organs were revolving about him and Alice, as the planets revolve about the sun.

Once more Quincy's breakfast was on the stove being kept warm, and once more Mrs. Hawkins was waiting impatiently for him to come down.

Betsy Green and she were washing the breakfast dishes. How happy Eve must have been in Eden, where there was no china, no knives and forks, and no pots and kettles, and what an endless burden of commonplace drudgery she entailed upon her fair sisters when she fell from her high estate. Man's labor is uniformly productive, but woman's, alas! is still almost as uniformly simply preservative.

"Mr. Sawyer," said Mrs. Hawkins to Betsy Green, "is no doubt a very nice young man, but I shouldn't want him for a steady boarder, 'less he got up on time and eat his meals reg'lar."

"I s'pose he's all tired out," remarked Betsy. "He had a pretty hard day of it yesterday, you know, Mis' Hawkins."

"Wall, I s'pose I ought to be kinder easy on him on that account. I must say he managed things fust rate."

"How did the brides look?" asked Betsy.

Poor girl, she was one of the few who were not able to view the grand sight.

"I can think of no word to express my feelin's," replied Mrs. Hawkins after a pause, "but splendiferous! Huldy's dress was a white satin that would a stood alone. She had a overskirt of netted white silk cord, heavy enough to use for a hammock. You know she's neither light nor dark, kind of a between, but she looked mighty poorty all the same."

"Was Tilly James dressed in white, too?" inquired Betsy.

"No," answered Mrs. Hawkins. "She wore a very light pink silk, with a lace overskirt, and it just matched her black eyes and black hair fine, I can tell yer."

"Mandy must have looked pretty, with her light curly hair and blue eyes, and those rosy cheeks."

"Well," said Mrs. Hawkins reflectively, "I'm her mother, and a course I'm prejoodished, but I honestly think she was the best lookin' one of the three. Of course Hiram is no beauty, and I'm all out of patience when he tries to talk to me. But I know he'll make Mandy a good husband, and that's a tarnal sight better'n good looks."

"What color was Mandy's dress?" persisted Betsy.

"Lord a massy," cried Mrs. Hawkins, "I e'en a'most forgot to tell yer. Her dress was a very light blue silk, with a lace overskirt, 'bout the same as Tilly's. Mr. Sawyer gave her two hundred dollars to buy her things with, 'cause she's been so nice to him since he boarded at Pettengill's."

"Who was that stylish lookin' lady that came in a carriage with the four beautiful horses? I saw her outer the attic winder."

"She was a Mrs. Chessman," replied Mrs. Hawkins. I heern tell she's a widder'd aunt of Mr. Sawyer's, and she's as rich as Creazers."

"How rich is that?" inquired Betsey, with an astonished look.

"Creazers," replied Mrs. Hawkins, with an expression that savored of erudition, "was a man who was so all fired rich that he had to hire folks to spend his money for him."

At that moment a step was heard in the dining-room, and both Mrs. Hawkins and Betsy flew to wait upon the new-comer who proved to be Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer. As he took his seat at the table the Connecticut clock on the mantelpiece struck ten.

At eleven o'clock that same morning Mr. Sawyer knocked at the front door of Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill's residence. How strange it seemed, how much more homelike it would have been to have entered by the back door and to have come through the kitchen and dining-room, as of old. But no! He was not a regular boarder now, only an occasional visitor.

The door was opened by young Mrs. Maxwell, and her usually rosy cheeks were ruddier than ever when she saw who the caller was.

"Is Miss Pettengill in?" Quincy politely inquired.

"She's in the parlor, sir; won't you walk in?" And she threw open the door of the room in which Alice sat by the fire.

"Do I disturb your dreams, Miss Pettengill?" asked Quincy, as he reached her side.

"I'm so glad you have come, Mr. Sawyer," said Alice, extending her hand. "I never was so lonesome in my life as I have been this morning. The house seems deserted. Uncle Ike ate too many good things yesterday, and says he is enjoying an attack of indigestion to-day. I had Swiss in here to keep me company, but he wouldn't stay and Mandy had to let him out."

"He came up to Mrs. Hawkins's," said Quincy, as he took his accustomed seat opposite Alice. "He walked down with me, but when he saw me safe on the front doorstep he disappeared around the corner."

"I didn't tell him to go after you," said Alice, laughing; "but I am very glad that you have come. I have a very important matter to consult you about. You know you are my business man now."