As Quincy entered the little parlor, Alice sprang toward him with a cry of joy. He caught her in his arms, and this time one kiss did not suffice, for a dozen were pressed on hair and brow and cheek and lips.

"It is so long since you went away," said Alice.

"Only one short week," replied Quincy.

"Short! Those six days have seemed longer than all the time we were together at Eastborough. I cannot let you go away from me again," she cried.

"Stay with Me, My Darling, Stay," sang Quincy, in a low voice, and Alice tried to hide her blushing face upon his shoulder.

Then they sat down and talked the matter over. "I must leave you," said Quincy, "and only see you occasionally, and then usually in the presence of others, unless—"

"Unless what?" cried Alice, and a sort of frightened look came into her face.

"Unless you marry me at once," said Quincy. "I don't mean this minute; say Wednesday of this coming week. I have a license with me I got in Boston yesterday morning. We'll be married quietly in this little room, in which you first told me that you loved me. We could be married in a big church in Boston, with bridesmaids, and groomsmen, and music on a big organ. We could make as big a day of it as they did down to Eastborough."

"Oh, no!" said Alice; "I couldn't go through that. I cannot see well enough, and I might make some terrible blunder. I might trip and fall, and then I should be so nervous and ashamed."

"I will not ask you to go through such an ordeal, my dearest. I know that we could have all these grand things, and for that reason, if for no better one, I'm perfectly willing to go without them. No, Alice, we will be married here in this room. We will deck it with flowers," continued Quincy. "Leopold will go to Boston to-morrow and get them. Rosamond's Bower was not sweeter nor more lovely than we will make this little room. I will get an old clergyman; I don't like young ones; Leopold shall be my best man and Rosa shall be your bridesmaid. Mrs. Gibson and her brother, who I see is still here, shall be our witnesses, and we will have Tommy and Dolly for ushers."

Both laughed aloud in their childish glee at the picture that Quincy had painted. "I could ask for nothing better," said Alice; "the ceremony will be modest, artistic, and idyllic."

"And economical, too," Quincy added with a laugh.

And so it came to pass! They were married, and the transformation in the little room, that Quincy and Alice had seen in their mind's eye, was realized to the letter. Flowers, best man, bridesmaid, witnesses, ushers, and the aged clergyman, with whitened locks, who called them his children, and blessed them and wished them long life and happiness, hoped that they would meet and know each other some day in the infinite—all were there.

This was on Wednesday. On Thursday came a letter from Aunt Ella. It contained the most kindly congratulations, and a neat little wedding present of a check for fifty thousand dollars. She wrote further that she was lonesome and wanted somebody to read to her, and talk to her, and sing to her. If the book was done, would not Miss Very come to spend the remainder of the season with her, and if Mr. Ernst was there could he not spare time to escort Miss Very.

That same evening Leopold received a letter from Mr. Morton. It simply read, "Blennerhassett accepted; will be put in type at once and issued by the first of November, perhaps sooner."

The next morning Leopold and Rosa started for Old Orchard, and the lovers were left alone to pass their honeymoon, with the blue sea about them, the blue sky above them, and a love within their hearts which grew stronger day by day.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

LINDA'S BIRTHRIGHT.

For Quincy and Alice, day after day, and week after week, found them in a state of complete happiness. The little island floating in the azure sea was their world, and for the time, no thought of any other intruded upon their delightful Eden. It seemed to Quincy all a blissful dream of love, and everything he looked upon was wreathed in flowers and golden sunshine.

But lotus land is not so far distant from the abodes of mortal man but that his emissaries may reach it. The first jarring note in the sweet harmony of their married life came in the form of a letter from Dr. Culver, who wrote to remind Quincy that it would soon be time to start in ploughing the political field. Quincy's reply was brief and to the point.

"MY DEAR CULVER:—I will see you in Boston on the tenth of September. Q.A.S."

When Aunt Ella learned that her nephew was going to town, she made hurried preparations for her departure from Old Orchard, and wrote to him insisting that he and Alice should come and stay with her. This invitation they gladly accepted, Quincy arranging in his mind to explain matters to his family by saying that, as he had now entered politics and would necessarily have a great many callers to entertain, he thought it best to make his headquarters with Aunt Ella until the campaign was over.

Accordingly, the ninth of September saw them located at Mt Vernon Street. On the very day of their arrival, proof of the remaining stories and a large instalment of Blennerhassett reached them, with a note from Ernst:

"Please rush. Press is waiting."

Miss Very's assistance was now absolutely necessary, but when Quincy asked Leopold for her address, he was surprised at the reply he received.

"I haven't seen her," said Leopold, "since we came back from Old Orchard together. In fact, since that time, our relations, for some reason or other, have undergone a great change. However, I think I can help you out. I don't believe in keeping a good friend like you, Quincy, in suspense, so I will tell you the truth. I am married. My wife is fully as competent to assist Mrs. Sawyer as Miss Very would have been. She is in the library now at work. I will go and ask her."

He entered the room, closing the door behind him. Quincy threw himself rather discontentedly into a chair. He fancied he heard laughing in the next room, but he knew Alice would be disappointed, and he himself felt in no mood for laughter.

Leopold opened the library door. "Quincy, I've induced her to undertake the task," he said. "Do spare a moment from your work, Mrs. Ernst; I wish to introduce to you Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer, the husband of the author of that coming literary sensation, Blennerhassett. Mr. Sawyer," he continued, "allow me to present you to my wife, Mrs. Rosa Ernst." And as he said this, Leopold and Rosa stood side by side in the doorway.

"When did you do it?" finally ejaculated Quincy, rushing forward and grasping each by the hand. "Leopold, I owe you one." And then they all laughed together.

By some means, Dr. Culver said by the liberal use of money, Barker Dalton secured the regular nomination from Quincy's party. The latter kept his word and entered the field as an independent candidate. A hot contest followed. The papers were full of the speeches of the opposing candidates, and incidents connected with their lives. But in none relating to Quincy was a word said about his marriage, and the fact was evidently unknown, except to a limited few. When the polls closed on election day and the vote was declared, it was found that Sawyer had a plurality of two hundred and twenty-eight and a clear majority of twenty-two over both Dalton and Burke, the opposing candidates. Then the papers were full of compliments for Mr. Sawyer, who had so successfully fought corruption and bribery in his own party, and won such a glorious victory.

But Quincy never knew that the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer had used all his influence to secure his son's election, and for every dollar expended by Dalton, the Hon. Nathaniel had covered it with a two or five if necessary.

The publication of Blennerhassett had been heralded by advance notices that appeared in the press during the month of October.

These notices had been adroitly written. Political prejudices, one notice said, would no doubt be aroused by statements made in the book, and one newspaper went so far as to publish a double-leaded editorial protesting against the revival of party animosities buried more than two generations ago. The leaven worked, and when the book was placed in the stores on the eleventh of November, the demand for it was unparalleled. Orders came for it from all parts of the country, particularly from the State of New York, and the resources of the great publishing house of Hinckley, Morton, & Co. were taxed to the utmost to meet the demand.

While Quincy was fighting Dalton in the political field, another campaign was being planned in the clever diplomatic brain of Aunt Ella. It related to the introduction of Alice, the "farmer's daughter," to the proud patrician family of Sawyer, as Quincy's wife—no easy matter to accomplish satisfactorily, as all agreed.

The initial step was taken a couple of weeks after Thanksgiving, when a daintily-engraved card was issued from Mt. Vernon Street, which read:

"Your company is respectfully requested on the evening of the tenth of December at a reception to be given to Bruce Douglas, the author of Blennerhassett."

One evening, Quincy ran up the steps of the Mt. Vernon Street house. He opened the door and started to run up the stairs to his wife's room, as was his custom, when he came into collision with a young lady, who, upon closer inspection, he found to be his sister Maude.

"Come in here," she said. She grasped him by the arm, and, dragging him into the parlor, she closed the door behind him.

"Oh, Mr. Man!" she cried, "I've found you out, but horses sha'n't drag it out of me. No, Quincy, you're always right, and I won't peach. But 'twas mean not to tell me."

Quincy looked at her in voiceless astonishment. "What do you mean, Maude, and where did you gather up all that slang?"

"I might ask you," said Maude, "where you found your wife. I've been talking to her upstairs. She must have thought that papa and mamma knew all about it, for she told me who she was, just as easy. Who is she, Quincy?"

He drew his sister down beside him on a sofa. "She was Miss Mary Alice Pettengill. She is now known to a limited few, of which you, sister Maude, are one, as Mrs. Mary Alice Sawyer; but she is known to a wide circle of readers as Bruce Douglas, the author of many popular stories, as also of that celebrated book entitled Blennerhassett."

"Is that so?" cried Maude; "why, papa is wild over that book. He's been reading it aloud to us evenings, and he said last night that that young man—you hear, Quincy?—that young man, had brought the truth to the surface at last."

"Now, Maude," said Quincy, "you go right home and keep your mouth shut a little while longer, and when you are sixteen"—"the ninth of next January," broke in Maude—"I'll give you a handsome gold watch, with my picture in it."

"I don't have to be paid to keep your secrets, Quincy," replied Maude archly, as Quincy kissed her.

"I know it, dear," said Quincy; "I'll give you the watch, not as pay, but to show my gratitude."

Quincy took an early opportunity to explain to his wife his remissness in not informing his parents of his marriage, and disclosed to her Aunt Ella's plan.

On the tenth, Mrs. Chessman's spacious parlor was thronged from nine till eleven o'clock with bright and shining lights, representing the musical, artistic, literary, and social culture of Boston. Among the guests were the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer, his wife, and his daughters, Florence and Maude. The surprise of the visitors at the discovery that Bruce Douglas was a young woman was followed by one of great pleasure at finding her beautiful and affable.

The reception and entertainment were acknowledged on all sides to have been most successful, and a thoroughly pleased and satisfied company had spoken their farewells to author and hostess by quarter-past eleven. So, when Quincy came up Walnut Street and glanced across at his aunt's house, a little before twelve, he found the windows dark and the occupants, presumably, in their beds.

As part of her plan, Quincy had been advised by Aunt Ella to stay away from the reception, to spend the night at his father's house, and to be sure and take breakfast with them, so as to hear what was said about the previous evening.

As soon as the morning meal was over, Quincy ran quickly upstairs, seized his hand-bag, which he always kept packed, ready for an emergency, and in a very short space of time, reached Mt. Vernon Street. He found his wife and aunt in the den. The latter was reading a manuscript to Alice.

As soon as the greetings were over, and a little time given to discussing the reception, Quincy asked: "Who is this Mr. Fernborough that Maude told me about this morning?"

"He is an English gentleman," explained Alice, "who has come to this country to see if he can find any trace of an only daughter, who ran away from home with an American more than thirty years ago, and who, he thinks, came to this country with her husband. His wife is dead, he is alone in the world, and he is ready to forgive her and care for her, if she needs it."

"He hasn't hurried himself about it, has he?" said Quincy; "but why did he come to you?"

"That's the strange part of it," Alice replied, "He said he thoughtlessly picked up a magazine at a hotel where he was staying, and his eye fell upon my story, How He Lost Both Name and Fortune. He read it, and sought me out, to ask if it were fiction, or whether it was founded on some true incident. He was quite disappointed when I told him it was entirely a work of the imagination."

"Did he say what hotel?" asked Quincy.

"No," replied Alice; "but why are you so interested in a total stranger?"

Then Quincy told the story of the broken envelope—the little piece of cloth—and the name, Linda Fernborough.

"I must find him at once," said he, "for I have an impression that his daughter must have been Lindy Putnam's real mother. You gave me my reward, Alice, before my quest was successful, but I gave my word to find her for you, and I shall not consider myself fully worthy of you till that word is kept."

"But what did your father and mother say?" broke in Aunt Ella.

"My father took me to task," began Quincy, "for not being present at the reception, but I told him I had to see Culver on some political business. Then he remarked that I missed a very pleasant evening. He complimented Aunt Ella, here, for her skill as an entertainer, and expressed his surprise that Bruce Douglas, instead of being a young man, was a young and very beautiful woman. Yes, Aunt Ella, he actually called my wife here a very beautiful young woman."

"That is a capital beginning!" cried Aunt Ella. "Go on, Quincy."

"In order to continue the conversation, I ventured the remark that Bruce Douglas came from an ordinary country family and one not very well off; for which aspersion, I humbly ask your pardon, Mrs. Sawyer. Father replied that he thought that I must have been misinformed; that Bruce Douglas was worth fifty thousand dollars in her own right, and he added that she would become a very wealthy woman if she kept up her literary activity."

"What did sister Sarah say?" asked Aunt Ella.

"Well," said Quincy, "I resolved to do something desperate, so I asked: 'Doesn't she look countrified?' again asking your pardon, Mrs. Sawyer."

"No," said mother, "she has the repose of a Lady Clara Vere de Vere, and is as correct in her speech as was the Lady Elfrida Hastings."

"It will come out all right," cried Aunt Ella; and Quincy, kissing his aunt and wife, and promising to write or telegraph every day, caught up his hand-bag and started forth in search of the Hon. Stuart Fernborough, M.P.

When Quincy left his aunt's house he had not the slightest idea which way would be the best to turn his footsteps. He commenced his search, however, at the Revere House, then he tried the American House, but at neither place was Mr. Fernborough a guest.

At the Quincy House the clerk was busy with a number of new arrivals. He had just opened a new hotel register, and the old one lay upon the counter. Quincy took it up, and turning over the leaves, glanced up and down its pages. Suddenly he started back; then, holding the book closer to his eyes he read it again. There it was, under the date of September 10, "Mdme. Rose Archimbault and daughter." The residence given in the proper column was "New York." Quincy kept the book open at the place where he found this entry until the clerk was at leisure. He remembered Mdme. Archimbault and daughter in a general way. He was sure that they arrived from Europe the day that they came to the hotel, and he was equally sure that they went to New York when they left. What made him positive was that he remembered asking the young lady when she wrote New York in the register if she had not just returned from Europe. She said yes, but that her home residence was in New York.

Quincy thanked the clerk, and started forth again in search of the elusive Mr. Fernborough. A visit to Young's, Parker's, and the Tremont furnished no clue, and Quincy was wondering whether his search, after all, was destined to be fruitless, when he thought of a small hotel in Central Court, which led from Washington Street, a little south of Summer Street.

It was noted for its English roast beef, Yorkshire mutton chops, and musty ale, and might be just the sort of place that an English gentleman would put up at, provided he had been informed of its whereabouts.

On his way Quincy dropped into the Marlborough, but Mr. Fernborough had not been there, and Quincy imagined that the little hotel in Central Court was his last hope.

His persistence was rewarded. Mr. Fernborough was not only a guest, but he was in his room. Quincy sent up his card, and in a very short time was shown into the presence of a courtly gentleman, between sixty and seventy years of age. His face was smooth shaven, and had a firm but not hard expression. His eyes, however, showed that he was weighed down by some sorrow, which the unyielding expression of his face indicated that he would bear in silence rather than seek sympathy from others.

Quincy's story was soon told. The old gentleman listened with breathless interest, and when at the close Quincy said, "What do you think?" Mr. Fernborough cried, "It must be she, my daughter's child. There are no other Fernboroughs in England, and Linda has been a family name for generations. Heaven bless you, young man, for your kindly interest, and take me to my grandchild at once. She is the only tie that binds me to earth. All the others are dead and gone."

The old gentleman broke down completely, and for several minutes was unable to speak.

Quincy waited until his emotion had somewhat subsided. Then he said, "I am at your service, sir; we will do our best to find her. I have a feeling that she is in New York, but not a single fact to prove it. We can take the one o'clock train, if you desire."

The old gentleman began at once to prepare for the journey. Quincy told him he would meet him at the hotel office, and from there he sent a note to Aunt Ella informing her of his intended departure.

Arriving in New York they were driven at once to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Quincy prevailed upon Sir Stuart to retire at once, telling him that he would prepare an advertisement and have it in the next morning's issue of the "New York Herald."

Quincy wrote out two advertisements and sent them by special messenger to the newspaper office. The first one read: "Linda: important paper not destroyed, as suspected. Communicate at once with Eastborough, 'Herald' office." The second was worded as follows: "Celeste A——t: an American friend has a message for you from me. Send your address at once to Eastborough, 'Herald' office. ALGERNON H."



Then began the days of weary waiting; the careful examination of the "Herald" each morning, to be sure that the advertisements were in, for both had been paid for a week in advance. The request for mail made every morning at the "Herald" office received a stereotyped "no" for answer; then he vowed that he would advertise no more, but would enlist other aids in the search.

On the morning of the eighth day Quincy stood upon the steps of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He was undecided which way to go. It is in such cases of absolute uncertainty that unseen powers should give their aid, if they ever do, for then it is most needed. He did not hear any angels' voices, but he crossed over Broadway and started up town on the right-hand side of that great thoroughfare. As he walked on he glanced at the shop windows, for they were resplendent with holiday gifts, for Christmas was only one short week away.

Just beyond the corner of Broadway and Twenty-ninth Street his attention was attracted by a wax figure in a milliner's window. The face and golden hair reminded him of his wife, and he thought how pretty Alice would look in the hat that was upon the head of the figure. His first inclination was to go in and buy it, then he thought that it would make an unhandy package to carry with him, and besides his taste might not be appreciated.

Thinking, however, that he might return and purchase it, he glanced up at the sign. One look and he gave a sudden start backward, coming violently in contact with a gentleman who was passing. Quincy's apology was accepted and the gentleman passed on, giving his right shoulder an occasional pressure to make sure that it was not dislocated. Then Quincy took another look at the sign to make sure that he had not been mistaken. On it he read, in large golden letters, "Mdme. Archimbault."

It was but the work of an instant for Quincy to enter the store and approach the only attendant, who was behind the counter nearest the door.

"Could I see Mdme. Archimbault?" he inquired in the politest possible manner.

"Ze madame eez seeck zis morning, monsieur, mais ze Mademoiselle Celeste eez in ze boudoir."

As she said this she pointed to a partition with windows of ground glass, which extended across the farther end of the store, evidently forming a private department for trying on hats and bonnets. Quincy said nothing, but taking out his cardcase passed one to the attendant.

The girl walked towards the boudoir, opened the door and entered. Quincy followed her, and was but a few feet from the door when it was closed. He heard a woman's voice say, "What is it, Hortense?" And the girl's reply was distinctly audible. This is what she said, "A veezitor, mademoiselle."

An instant's silence, followed by a smothered cry of astonishment, evidently from mademoiselle. Then ensued a short conversation, carried on in whispers. Then Hortense emerged from the boudoir, and facing Quincy said, "Ze mademoiselle weel not zee you. She has no desire to continue ze acquaintance."

As she said this she stepped behind the counter, evidently thinking that Quincy would accept the rebuff and depart. Instead of doing this he took a step forward, which brought him between Hortense and the door of the boudoir. Turning to the girl he said in a low tone, "There must be some mistake. I have never met Mademoiselle Archimbault. I will go in and explain the purpose of my visit." And before Hortense could prevent him, Quincy had entered the boudoir and closed the door behind him.

In the centre of the room stood a beautifully carved and inlaid table. Before it sat an elegantly-dressed woman, whose hair, artistically arranged, was of the darkest shade of brown—almost black. Her arms were crossed upon the table, her face was buried in them, and from her came a succession of convulsive sobs, that indicated she was in great physical or mental distress.

Quincy felt that she knew he was there, but he did not speak.

Finally she said, and there was a tone of deep suffering in her voice: "Oh! Algernon, why have you followed me? I can never, never marry you. If it had been possible I would have met you that evening, as I promised."

The thought flashed across Quincy's mind, "This is the girl that ran away from Lord Hastings. But why did she call me Algernon?" Then he spoke for the first time. "Mademoiselle, there is some misunderstanding; my name is not Algernon. I am not Lord Hastings."

As he spoke he looked at the woman seated at the table. She looked up; there was an instantaneous, mutual recognition. In her astonishment she cried out, "Mr. Sawyer!"

As these words fell from her lips, Quincy said to himself, "Thank God! she's found at last." But the only words that he spoke aloud were, "Lindy Putnam!"

"Why do I find you here," asked Quincy, "and under this name? Why have you not answered my advertisements in the 'Herald?'" And he sank into a chair on the other side of the little table.

The revulsion of feeling was so great at his double discovery that he came nearer being unmanned than ever before in his life.

"How did you come by this card!" asked Mademoiselle Archimbault in a broken voice. "When you have explained, I will answer your questions."

Quincy took the card from her hand and glanced at it. "What a big blunder I made and yet what a fortunate one," cried he, for he now saw that he had sent in Lord Hastings's card bearing the London address. "Lord Hastings himself gave it to me," he continued. "He was a guest at my father's cottage at Nahant last summer. He came to America and spent three months vainly searching for you. He loves you devotedly, and made me promise that if I ever found you I would cable at once to the address on that card, and he said he would come to America on the next steamer. Of course when I made that promise I did not know that Lindy Putnam and Celeste Archimbault were one and the same person."

"But knowing it as you now do, Mr. Sawyer, you will not send him any word. Give me your solemn promise you will not. I cannot marry him. You know I cannot. There is no Lindy Putnam, and Celeste Archimbault has no right to the name she bears."

"Did you come to New York when you left Eastborough, as you promised you would?" inquired Quincy.

"No, I did not, Mr. Sawyer," said she. "Forgive me, but I could not. I was distracted, almost heartbroken when I reached Boston the day she died. She had robbed me of all hope of ever finding my relatives, and but for my hatred of her I believe I would have had brain fever. One thing I could not do, I would not do. I would not remain in America. I was rich, I would travel and try to drown my sorrow and my hatred. I did not go to a hotel, for I did not wish any one to find me. What good could it do? I looked in the 'Transcript' and found a boarding place. There I met Mdme. Archimbault, a widow, a French-Canadian lady, who had come to Boston in search of a niece who had left her home in Canada some five years before. Mdme. Archimbault had spent all the money she had in her unavailing search for her relative, and she told me, with tears in her eyes and expressive French gestures, that she would have to sell her jewelry to pay her board, as she had no way of making a living in a foreign land. Then I told her part of my story. She was sure her niece was dead, and so I asked her to be my mother, to let me take her name and be known as her daughter. I told her I was rich and that I would care for her as long as our compact was kept and the real truth not known. My visit to Nice and my meeting with Algernon Hastings, he has no doubt told you. I did not know he was a lord, but I suspected it. So much the more reason why he should not marry a nameless waif, a poor girl with no father or mother and all hope lost of ever finding them. I came back to America with Mdme. Archimbault, covering my tracks by cross journeys and waits which he could not anticipate. We landed in Boston."

"I found your names in the Quincy House register," remarked Quincy.

"I don't think I could escape from you as easily as I did from him," she said, the first faint sign of a smile showing itself upon her face. "I went to my bankers in Boston and told them that I had been adopted by a wealthy French lady named Archimbault. I informed them that we were going to return to France at once. They made up my account, and I found I was worth nearly one hundred and forty thousand dollars. I took my fortune in New York drafts, explaining that madame wished to visit relatives in New York, and that we should sail for France from that port. I did this so my bankers could not disclose my whereabouts to any one. We came here, but I could not remain idle. I always had a natural taste for millinery work, so I proposed to madame that we should open a store under her name. We did this late in September, and have had great success since our opening day. Now you know all about me, Mr. Sawyer. Give me your promise that you will not tell Lord Hastings where I am."

"Then," said Quincy, "you do not know why I am here."

"To keep your word to Lord Hastings, I presume. What other reason could you have?"

"Then you have not read the Personal Column in the 'New York Herald?'" Quincy inquired.

"No," said she. "Why should I?"

Quincy took a copy of the paper from his pocket, laid it upon the table and pointed with his finger to the word "Linda." She read the advertisement, then looked up to him with distended eyes, full of questioning.

"What does the paper say? It could not have disclosed much or you would not have waited so long to tell me."

Then Quincy related the story of the sealed package, how it had been given to Alice Pettengill long before Mrs. Putnam died; how Miss Pettengill had sworn to destroy it, but would not when she learned that it might possibly contain information relating to her parents. He told her that Miss Pettengill would not allow any one to read it but herself; and how he had promised to search for her until he found her. Then he related the incident at the lawyer's office and the piece of cloth bearing the name, "Linda Fernborough," "which," said Quincy, "I think must have been your mother's maiden name." He did not tell her of the old gentleman only five blocks away, ready and willing to claim her as his granddaughter without further proof than that little piece of doth.

Quincy looked at his watch. "I have just time," said he, "to get the one o'clock train for Boston. I will obtain the papers to-morrow morning, and be in New York again to-morrow night. The next morning early I will be at your residence with the papers, and let us hope that they will contain such information as will disclose your parentage and give you a name that you can rightfully bear."

She wrote her home address on a card and passed it to him.

He gave her hand a quick, firm pressure and left the store, not even glancing at Hortense, who gazed at him with wonderment. He hailed a hack and was driven to the hotel. He found Sir Stuart and told him that he had found his supposed granddaughter, but that he must wait until he returned from Boston with the papers, that his wife's feelings must be respected, and that the document could only be opened and read by the person who had been known to her as Lindy Putnam.

Quincy reached Mt. Vernon Street about eight o'clock that evening. His wife and aunt listened eagerly to the graphic recital of his search. He pictured the somewhat sensational episode in the boudoir in the most expressive language, and Alice remarked that Quincy was fast gathering the materials for a most exciting romance; while Aunt Ella declared that the disclosure of the dual personality of Linda and Celeste would form a most striking theatrical tableau.

Aunt Ella informed him that she had been requested by Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer to extend an invitation to Miss Bruce Douglas to dine with them on any day that might be convenient for her. "I was included in the invitation, of course," Aunt Ella added. "What day had we better fix, Quincy?" she inquired.

"Make it Christmas," replied Quincy. "Tell them Miss Bruce Douglas has invitations for every other day but that for a month to come. What a precious gift I shall present to my father," said he, caressing his wife, who laid her fair head upon his shoulder.

"Do you think he will be pleased?" asked Alice.

"I don't know which will please him most," replied Quincy, "the fact that such a talented addition has been made to the family, or the knowledge, which will surely surprise him, that his son was smart enough to win such a prize."

The next morning Quincy arose early and was at Curtis Carter's office as soon as it was opened. Alice had signed an order for the delivery of the package to him and he presented it to Mr. Carter's clerk, to whom he was well known. The ponderous doors of the big safe were thrown open and the precious document was produced. When the clerk passed the package to him and took Alice's order therefor, Quincy noticed that a five-dollar bill was pinned to the envelope; a card was also attached to the bill, upon which was written: "This money belongs to Mr. Quincy Sawyer; he dropped it the last time he was in the office."

Quincy would not trust the package to his hand-bag, but placed it in an inside pocket of his coat, which he tightly buttoned. After leaving the lawyer's office he dropped into Grodjinski's, and purchased a box of fine cigars. He had the clerk tack one of his cards on the top of the box. On this he wrote:

"MY DEAR CURTIS:—Keep the ashes for me; they make good tooth powder. QUINCY."

The box was then done up and addressed to Curtis Carter, Esq., the clerk promising to have it delivered at once.

Quincy had found a letter at his aunt's from Mr. Strout, asking him to buy a line of fancy groceries and confectionery for Christmas trade, and it was noon before he had attended to the matter to his complete satisfaction. A hasty lunch and he was once more on his way to New York, and during the trip his hand sought the inside pocket of his coat a score of times, that he might feel assured that the precious document was still there.

Arriving, Quincy proceeded at once to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Sir Stuart was eagerly awaiting his arrival, and his first question was, "Have you the papers?"

Quincy took the package from his pocket and placed it on the table before him, remarking as he did so, "It must not be opened until to-morrow morning, and then by the young lady herself."

The old man pushed the package away from him and turned a stern face toward Quincy. "I yield obedience," said he, "to your wife's command, but if one man or two stood now between me and my darling's child, I would have their lives, if they tried to keep her from my arms for one instant even."

After a little reflection he apologized for his vehement language, and sought his room to think, and hope, and wait—but not to sleep.

The next morning, a little before nine o'clock, a carriage containing two gentlemen stopped before a modest brick dwelling in West Forty-first Street. A servant admitted them and showed them into the little parlor. The room was empty. Quincy pointed to a sofa at the farther end of the room, and Sir Stuart took a seat thereon. Quincy stepped into the entry and greeted Celeste, who was just descending the stairs.

"Sir Stuart Fernborough is in your parlor," said he; "he may be, and I hope to Heaven he is, your grandfather, but you must control your feelings until you know the truth. Come and sit by me, near the window, and read what is written in this package, so loud that he can hear every word." As he said this he placed the package, which might or might not prove her honorable heritage, in her hands.

They entered the room and took seats near the window. Celeste opened the package with trembling fingers. As she did so that little telltale piece of cloth, bearing the name "Linda Fernborough," once more fell upon the floor. Quincy picked it up, and held it during the reading of the letter, for a letter it proved to be.

It had no envelope, but was folded in the old-fashioned way, so as to leave a blank space on the back of the last sheet for the address. The address was, "Mr. Silas Putnam, Hanover, New Hampshire."

Celeste began to read in a clear voice: "Dear brother Silas."

"Is there no date?" asked Quincy.

"Oh, yes," replied Celeste, "March 18, 183—."

"Thirty years ago," said Quincy.

Celeste read on:

"DEAR BROTHER SILAS:—You will, no doubt, be surprised to find I am in this town when I usually go to Gloucester or Boston, but the truth is I had a strange adventure during my last fishing trip on the Polly Sanders, and I thought I would come into port as close to you as I could. About ten days ago I had a good catch on the Banks and sailed for home, bound for Boston. A heavy fog came up, and we lay to for more than twenty-four hours. During the night, heard cries, and my mate, Jim Brown, stuck to it that some ship must have run ashore; and he was right, for when the fog lifted we saw the masts of a three-master sticking out of water, close on shore, and about a mile from where we lay. We up sail and ran down as close as we dared to see if there was anybody living on the wreck. We couldn't see anybody, but I sent out Jim Brown with a boat to make a thorough search. In about an hour he came back, bringing a half-drowned woman and just the nicest, chubbiest, little black-eyed girl baby that you ever saw in your life. Jim said the woman was lashed to a spar, and when he first saw her, there was a man in the water swimming and trying to push the spar towards the land, but before he reached him the man sunk and he didn't get another sight of him."

"Oh, my poor father!" cried Celeste. The letter dropped from her hands and the tears rushed into her eyes.

"Shall I finish reading it?" asked Quincy, picking up the letter.

Celeste nodded, and he read on:

"I gave the woman some brandy and she came to long enough to tell me who she was. She said her name was Linda Chester or Chessman, I couldn't tell just which. Her husband's name was Charles, and he was an artist. He had a brother in Boston named Robert, and they were on their way to that city. The wrecked ship was the Canadian Belle, bound from Liverpool to Boston. I didn't tell her her husband was drowned. I gave her some more brandy and she came to again and said her husband left a lot of pictures in London with Roper & Son, on Ludgate Hill. I asked her where she came from and she said from Heathfield, in Sussex. She said no more and we couldn't bring her to again. She died in about an hour and we buried her at sea. I noticed that her nightdress had a name stamped on it different from what she gave me, and so I cut it out and send it in this letter. Now, I've heard you and Heppy say that if you could find a nice little girl baby that you would adopt her and bring her up. I sold out my cargo at Portland, and so I've put in here, and I'll stay till you and Heppy have time to drive down here and make up your minds whether you'll take this handsome little baby off my hands. Come right along, quick, for I must be off to the Banks again soon. From your brother,

OBED PUTNAM, Captain of the Polly Sanders. "Portsmouth Harbor, N.H.

"P.S. The baby was a year old the eighth of last January. Its name is Linda Fernborough Chessman."

The tears had welled up again in the young girl's eyes, when Quincy read of the death of her mother and her burial at sea. His own hand trembled perceptibly when he realized that the young woman before him, though not his cousin, was yet connected by indisputable ties of relationship to his own aunt, Mrs. Ella Chessman. Following his usual habit of reticence he kept silence, thinking that it would be inappropriate to detract in any way from the happy reunion of grandfather and granddaughter.

Sir Stuart had scarcely moved during the reading of the letter. He had sat with his right hand covering his eyes, but yet evidently listening attentively to each word as it fell from the reader's lips. As Quincy folded up the letter and passed it back to Linda, Sir Stuart arose and came forward to the front part of the room. Quincy took Linda's hand and led her towards Mr. Fernborough. Then he said, "Sir Stuart, I think this letter proves conclusively that this young lady's real name is Linda Fernborough Chessman. I knew personally Mr. Silas Putnam, mentioned in the letter, and scores of others can bear testimony that she has lived nearly all her life with this Silas Putnam, and has been known to all as his adopted daughter. There is no doubt but that the Linda Fernborough who was buried at sea was her mother. If you are satisfied that Mrs. Charles Chessman was your daughter, it follows that this young lady must be your granddaughter."

"There is no doubt of it in my mind," said Sir Stuart, taking both of Linda's hands in his. "I live at Fernborough Hall, which is located in Heathfield, in the county of Sussex. But, my dear, I did not know until to-day that my poor daughter had a child, and it will take me just a little time to get accustomed to the fact. Old men's brains do not act as quickly as my young friend's here." As he said this he looked towards Quincy. "But I am sure that we both of us owe to him a debt of gratitude that it will be difficult for us ever to repay."

The old gentleman drew Linda towards him and folded her tenderly in his arms. "Come, rest here, my dear one," said he; "your doubts and hopes, your troubles and trials, and your wanderings are over." He kissed her on the forehead, and Linda put her arms about his neck and laid her head upon his breast.

"You are the only one united to me by near ties of blood in the world," Sir Stuart continued, and he laid his hand on Linda's head and turned her face towards him. "You have your mother's eyes," he said. "We will go back to England, and Fernborough Hall will have a mistress once more. You are English born, and have a right to sit in that seat which might have been your mother's but for the pride and prejudice which thirty years ago ruled both your grandmother and myself."

Leaving them to talk over future plans, Quincy went back to the hotel and wrote two letters. The first was addressed to Lord Algernon Hastings in London. The other was a brief note to Aunt Ella, informing her that a party of four would start for Boston on the morning train and that she might expect them about four o'clock in the afternoon.

It lacked but five minutes of that hour when a carriage, containing the party from New York, stopped before the Mt. Vernon Street house. It suited Quincy's purpose that his companions should first meet his wife, although the fact that she was his wife was as yet unknown to them.

The meeting between Alice and Linda was friendly, but not effusive. They had been ordinary acquaintances in the old days at Eastborough, but now a mutual satisfaction and pleasure drew them more closely together.

"I have come," said Linda, "to thank you, Miss Pettengill, for your kindness and justice to me. Few women would have disregarded the solemn oath that Mrs. Putnam forced you to take, but by doing so you have given me a lawful name and a life of happiness for the future. May every blessing that Heaven can send to you be yours."

"All the credit should not be given to me," replied Alice. "The morning after Mrs. Putnam's death I was undecided in my mind which course to follow, whether to destroy the paper or to keep it. It was a few words from my Uncle Isaac that enabled me to decide the matter. He told me that a promise made to the dead should not be carried out if it interfered with the just rights of the living. So I decided to keep the paper, but how? It was then that Mr. Sawyer came to the rescue and pointed out to me the line of action, which I am truly happy to learn has ended so pleasantly."

"Grandpa and I have both thanked Mr. Sawyer so much," said Linda, "that he will not listen to us any more, but I will write to Uncle Ike, for I used to call him by that name, and show him that I am not ungrateful. I have lost all my politeness, I am so happy," continued Linda; "I believe you have met grandpa."

Sir Stuart came forward, and, in courtly but concise language, expressed his sincere appreciation of the kind service that Miss Pettengill had rendered his granddaughter.

Then Linda introduced Mdme. Archimbault as one who had been a true friend and almost a mother to her in the hours of her deepest sorrow and distress.

"Now, my friends," said Quincy, "I have a little surprise for you myself. I believe it my duty to state the situation frankly to you. My father is a very wealthy man—a millionaire. He is proud of his wealth and still more proud of the honored names of Quincy and Adams, which he conferred upon me. Like all such fathers and mothers, my parents have undoubtedly had bright dreams as to the future of their only son. One of their dreams has, no doubt, been my marriage to some young lady of honored name and great wealth. In such a matter, however, my own mind must decide. I have acted without their knowledge, as I resolved to deprive them of the pleasure of my wife's acquaintance until Christmas day."

Stepping up to Alice, Quincy took her hand and led her forward, facing their guests. "I take great pleasure, my friends, in introducing to you my wife, Mrs. Quincy Adams Sawyer."

There came an exclamation of pleased surprise from Linda, followed by congratulations from all, and while these were being extended, Aunt Ella entered the room. She advanced to meet Sir Stuart, who had been present at Alice's reception. Quincy introduced Mdme. Archimbault, and then Aunt Ella turned towards Linda. "This is the young lady, I believe," said she, "who has just found a long-lost relative, or rather, has been found by him. You must be very happy, my dear, and it makes me very happy to know that my nephew and niece, who are so dear to me, have been instrumental in bringing this pleasure to you. But have you been able to learn your mother's name? Quincy did not mention that in his letter."

"Yes," said Quincy, stepping forward, "the letter contained that information, but I thought I would rather tell you about it than write it. My dear aunt, allow me to introduce to you Miss Linda Fernborough Chessman."

"What!" cried Aunt Ella, starting back in astonishment.

"Listen to me, Aunt Ella;" and taking her hand in his he drew her towards him. "Your husband had a brother, Charles Chessman; he was an artist and lived in England; while there he married; he wrote your husband some thirty years ago that he was going to return to America, but Uncle Robert, you told me, never heard from him again after receiving the letter."

"Yes, yes!" assented Aunt Ella; "I have the letter. But what is the mystery, Quincy? You know I can bear anything but suspense."

"There is no mystery, auntie, now; it is all cleared up. Uncle Robert's brother Charles married Linda Fernborough, Sir Stuart's daughter. The vessel in which father, mother, and child sailed for America was wrecked. Father and mother were lost, but the child was rescued. This is the child. Aunt Ella, Linda Chessman is your niece, but unfortunately I am unable to call her cousin."

Aunt Ella embraced Linda and talked to her as a mother might talk to her daughter. Her delight at finding this relative of the husband whom she had loved so well and mourned so sincerely, showed itself in face, and voice, and action. Her hospitality knew no bounds. Linda must stay with her a month at least, so must Sir Stuart and Mdme. Archimbault. It was the holiday season, and they must all feast and be merry over this happy, unexpected return.

It was a joyous party that gathered in the dining-room at Aunt Ella's house that evening. She said that such an occasion could not be fitly celebrated with plain cold water, so a battle of choke old port was served to Sir Stuart, and toasts to Mrs. Sawyer and Miss Chessman were drunk from glasses filled with foaming champagne.

Then all adjourned to Aunt Ella's room and Uncle Robert's prime cigars were offered to Sir Stuart and Quincy. But Aunt Ella had too much to say to think of her cigarette. For an hour conversation was general; everybody took part in it. The events of the past year, which were of so great interest to all present, were gone over, and when conversation lagged it was because everybody knew everything that everybody else knew.

Quincy spent that night at his father's house. The next morning his mother told him that the author had selected Christmas day on which to be received by them at dinner, and that she was making unusual preparations for that event.

"I wish I could invite a few friends to meet her that day," said Quincy.

"You may invite as many as you choose, Quincy, if you will promise to be here yourself. You have been away from home so much the past year I hardly anticipate the pleasure of your company on that day."

"Have no fear, mother," Quincy said. "I wish very much to meet the author that father and you are so greatly pleased with. Of course Aunt Ella is coming?"

"Certainly," answered his mother. "I understand that the author has been stopping with her since the reception."

"I shall invite five friends," said Quincy, "and you may depend upon me."

To his mother's surprise he gave her a slight embrace, a light kiss upon her cheek, and was gone.

The sun showed its cheerful face on Christmas morning. The snow that fell a fortnight previous had been washed away by continued heavy rains. A cold wind, biting, but healthful, quickened the pulse and brought roses to the cheeks of holiday pedestrians.

The programme for the meals on Christmas day had been arranged by Mrs. Sawyer as follows: Breakfast at nine, dinner at one, and a light supper at six. It had always been the rule in the Sawyer family to exchange Christmas gifts at the breakfast hour. Quincy was present, and his father, mother, and sisters thanked him for the valuable presents that bore his card. Father, mother, and sisters, on their part, had not forgotten Quincy, and the reunited family had the most enjoyable time that they had experienced for a year.

As Quincy rose to leave the table, he said to his mother, "I have another gift for father and you, but it has not yet arrived. I am going to see about it this morning."

"You will be sure to come to dinner, Quincy," fell from his mother's lips.

"I promise you, mother," he replied. "I would not miss it for anything."

A little after noontime, the Chessman carriage arrived at the Beacon Street mansion of the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer, and a moment later Mrs. Ella Chessman and the young author, Bruce Douglas, were ushered into the spacious and elegant parlor. They were received by Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer and their daughter Florence.

Twenty minutes later a carriage arrived before the same mansion. Its occupants were Sir Stuart Fernborough, his granddaughter, and Mdme. Archimbault. A few minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Leopold Ernst appeared, having walked the short distance from their rooms on Chestnut Street. The new arrivals were presented to Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer by Mrs. Chessman, and a pleasant ante-prandial conversation was soon under way.

From behind the curtains of a second-story window of the mansion, a young miss had watched the arrival and departure of the carriages. As the second one drove away she exclaimed, "Oh! what a lark! Those last folks came in Aunt Ella's carriage, too. I bet Quincy and auntie have put up some sort of a game on pa and ma. I won't go down stairs till Quincy comes, for I want to give my new sister a hug and a squeeze and a kiss, and I sha'n't dare to do it till Quincy has introduced her to pa and ma."

At that moment the young man, faultlessly attired, came down stairs from the third story, and Maude sprang out from her doorway on the second floor and said in a whisper, "How long have you been home, Quincy?"

"I came in about half-past eleven," he replied.

"Oh, you rogue," cried Maude. "I have been watching out the window for an hour. I see it all now, you don't mean to give pa and ma a chance to say boo until after dinner. Let me go down first, Quincy."

Maude went down stairs and was duly presented to the assembled guests as the youngest scion of the house of Sawyer.

At exactly five minutes of one Quincy entered the parlor through the rear door. Aunt Ella and Alice were seated side by side between the two front windows. As Quincy advanced he exchanged the compliments of the season with the guests. Finally the Hon. Nathaniel and his son Quincy stood facing Aunt Ella and Alice.

"Quincy," said his father, in slow, measured tones, "it gives me great pleasure to present you to the, celebrated young author, Bruce Douglas."

Quincy bent low, and Alice inclined her head in acknowledgment. He reached forward, clasped her hand in his and took his place by her side. "Father, mother, and sisters," he cried, and there was a proud tone in his clear, ringing voice, "there is still another presentation to be made—that Christmas gift of which I spoke this morning at breakfast. You see I hold this lady by the hand, which proves that we are friends and not strangers. To her friends in the town of Eastborough, where she was born, the daughter of an honest farmer, who made a frugal living and no more, she was known by the name of Mary Alice Pettengill. To the story and book-reading public of the United States, she is known as Bruce Douglas, but to me she is known by the sacred name of wife. I present to you as a Christmas gift, a daughter and a sister."

There was a moment of suspense, and all eyes were fixed upon the parents so dramatically apprised of their son's marriage. The Hon. Nathaniel cleared his throat, and advancing slowly, took Alice's hand in his and said, "It gives me great pleasure to welcome as a daughter one so highly favored by nature with intellectual powers and such marked endowments for a famous literary career. I am confident that the reputation of our family will gain rather than lose by such an alliance."

"He thinks her books are going to sell," remarked Leopold to his wife.

Mrs. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer took Alice's hand in hers and kissed her upon the cheek. "You will always be welcome, my daughter, at our home. I know we shall learn to love you in time."

It was Florence's turn now. Like her mother, she took her new sister's hand and gave her a society kiss on the cheek. Then she spoke: "As mother said, I know I shall learn to love you, sister, in time."

A slight form dashed through the front parlor door, and throwing her arms about Alice's neck, gave her a hearty kiss upon the lips. "My sweet sister, Alice, I love you now, and I always shall love you, and I think my brother Quincy is just the luckiest man in the world to get such a nice wife."

Then abashed at her own vehemance, she got behind Aunt Ella, who said to herself, "Maude has got some heart."

Dinner was announced. The Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer offered his arm to Mrs. Quincy Adams Sawyer, and they led the holiday procession. Sir Stuart Fernborough, M.P., escorted Mrs. Sarah Quincy Sawyer; next came Mr. Leopold Ernst and Miss Linda Fernborough Chessman, followed by Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer and Mrs. Leopold Ernst; behind them walked, arm in arm, Mrs. Ella Quincy Chessman and Mdme. Rose Archimbault; while bringing up the rear came the Misses Florence Estelle and Maude Gertrude Sawyer. Maude had politely offered her arm to Florence, but the latter had firmly declined to accept it. In this order they entered the gorgeous dining-room and took their places at a table bearing evidences of the greatest wealth, if not the greatest refinement, to partake of their Christmas dinner.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

FERNBOROUGH.

Five years passed away, years of not unmixed happiness for any of those with whom this story has made us acquainted. Quincy and Alice had undergone a severe trial in the loss of two of the three little ones that had been born to them; the remaining child was a fair little boy, another Quincy, and upon him the bereaved parents lavished all the wealth of their tenderness and affection.

In his political life, however, Quincy had found only smooth and pleasant sailing, and thanks to his bright and energetic nature, and not a little, perhaps, to his father's name and influence, he had risen rapidly from place to place and honor to honor. One of his earliest political moves had been the introduction of a bill into the House for the separation of Mason's Corner and Eastborough into individual communities.

Soon after the incorporation of the former town under its new name of Fernborough, Abbot Smith, at Quincy's suggestion, had started the Fernborough Improvement Association, and now after these few years, the result of its labors was plainly and agreeably apparent. The ruins of Uncle Ike's chicken coop had been removed, and grass covered its former site. Shade trees had been planted along all the principal streets, for the new town had streets instead of roads. The three-mile road to Eastborough Centre had been christened Mason Street, and the square before Strout & Maxwell's store had been named Mason Square. Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house had become a hotel, and was known as the Hawkins House. The square before the church was called Howe's Square, in honor of the aged minister. The old Montrose road was now dignified by the appellation of Montrose Avenue. The upper road to Eastborough Centre that led by the old Putnam house was named Pettengill Street, although Ezekiel protested that it was a "mighty poor name for a street, even if it did answer all right for a man." The great square facing Montrose Avenue, upon which the Town Hall and the Chessman Free Public Library had been built, was called Putnam Square. On three sides of it, wide streets had been laid out, on which many pretty houses had been erected. These three streets had been named Quincy Street, Adams Street, and Sawyer Street.

It was the morning of the fifteenth of June, a gala day in the history of the town. The fifth anniversary of the laying of the corner stone of the Town Hall and the library was to be commemorated by a grand banquet given in the Town Hall, and was to be graced by many distinguished guests, among them the Hon. Quincy Adams Sawyer and wife, and Mrs. Ella Chessman. After the banquet, which was to take place in the evening, there was to be an open-air concert given, followed by a grand display of fireworks. During the feast, the citizens were to be admitted to the galleries, so that they could see the guests and listen to the speeches.

About ten o'clock the visiting party started off to view the sights of the town. Under the leadership of the town officers they turned their steps first towards the new library. On entering this handsome building, they observed hung over the balcony, facing them, a large oil painting of a beautiful dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, dressed in satin and velvet and ermine, and having a coronet upon her head. Underneath was a tablet bearing an inscription.

"An admirable portrait," said Quincy to his wife. "Can you read the tablet, dear? I fear I shall really have to see Dr. Tillotson about my eyes."

Alice smiled at the allusion, and directing her gaze upon it, read without the slightest hesitation: "Linda Putnam, once a resident of this town, now Countess of Sussex, and donor of this library building, which is named in honor of her father, Charles Chessman, only brother of Robert Chessman."

During the evening festivities the Town Hall was brilliantly lighted, and every seat in the galleries and coigns of vantage were occupied. The guests at the banquet numbered fully sixty. A Boston caterer, with a corps of trained waiters, had charge of the dinner. During its progress the Cottonton Brass Band performed at intervals. They were stationed in Putnam Square, and the music was not an oppressive and disturbing element, as it often is at close range on such occasions.

When coffee was served, Toastmaster Obadiah Strout, Esq., arose, and the eyes of banqueters and sightseers were turned toward him.

"This is a glorious day in the history of our town," the toastmaster began, "The pleasant duty has fallen to me of proposing the toasts to which we shall drink, and of introducing our honored guests one by one. I know that words of advice and encouragement will come from them. But before I perform the duties that have been allotted to me, it is my privilege to make a short address. Instead of doing so, I shall tell you a little story, and it will be a different kind of a story from what I have been in the habit of telling."

This remark caused an audible titter to arise from some of the auditors in the galleries, and Abner Stiles, who was sitting behind Mrs. Hawkins, leaned over and said to her, "I guess he's goin' to tell a true story."

The toastmaster continued: "More than six years ago a young man from the city arrived in this town. It was given out that he came down here for his health, but he wasn't so sick but that he could begin to take an active part in town affairs as soon as he got here. They say confession is good for the soul, and I'm goin' to confess that I didn't take to this young man. I thought he was a city swell, who had come down here to show off, and in company with several friends, who looked at his visit down here about the same as I did, we did all we could for a couple of months to try and drive him out of town. Now I am comin' to the point that I want to make. If we had let him alone the chances are that he wouldn't have stayed here more than a month any way. Now, s'posen he had gone home at the end of the month; in that case he never would have met the lady who sits by his side to-night, and who by her marriage has added new lustre to her native town. If he had not remained, she never would have written those stories which are known the world over, and I tell you, fellow-citizens, that in writing Blennerhassett, An American Countess, The Majesty of the Law, and The Street Boy, she has done more to make this town famous than all the men who were ever born in it."

The speaker paused and drank a glass of water, while cheers and applause came from all parts of the gallery. Abner Stiles apparently forgot his surroundings, and, thinking probably that it was a political rally, called out, "Three cheers for Alice Pettengill"! which were given with a will, much to his delight, and the surprise of the banqueters.

The toastmaster resumed: "If he had gone away disgusted with the town and its people, he never would have found out who Linda Putnam really was, and she, consequently, would never have been what she is to-day, a peeress of England and the great benefactress of this town, a lady who will always have our deepest affection and most sincere gratitude."

Again the orator paused, and the audience arose to its feet. Applause, cheers, and the waving of handkerchiefs attested that the speaker's words had voiced the popular feeling. Once more Abner Stiles's voice rose above the din, and three cheers for "Lindy Putnam, Countess of Sussex," were given with such a will that the band outside caught the enthusiasm and played "God Save the Queen," which most of the audience supposed was "America."

"In conclusion," said the orator, "I have one more point to make, and that is a purely personal one. Some writer has said the end justifies the means, and another writer puts it this way, 'Do evil that good may come.' In these two sayin's lies all the justification for many sayin's and doin's that can be found; and if I were a conceited man or one inclined to praise my own actions, I should say that the good fortune of many of our distinguished guests this evening, and the handsome financial backin' that this town has received, are due principally to my personal exertions."

Here the speaker paused again and wiped his forehead, which was bedewed with perspiration.

"Good Lord!" said Mrs. Hawkins to Olive Green, who sat next to her, "to hear that man talk anybuddy would think that nobuddy else in the town ever did anything."

"To conclude," said the speaker, "I don't wish, feller citizens, to have you understand that I am defendin' my actions. They were mean in spirit and mean in the way in which they were done, but the one against whom they were directed returned good for evil, and heaped coals of fire on my head. At a time when events made me think he was my greatest enemy, he became my greatest friend. It is to his assistance, advice, and influence that I owe the present honorable position that I hold in this town, and here to-night, in his presence, and in the presence of you all, I have made this confession to show that I am truly repentant for the past. At the same time, I cannot help rejoicing in the good fortune that those misdeeds were the means of securin' for us all."

As the speaker sat down, overcome with emotion, he was greeted with applause, which was redoubled when Mr. Sawyer arose in his seat. But when Quincy leaned forward and extended his hand to Strout, which the latter took, the excitement rose to fever heat, and cheers for Quincy Adams Sawyer and Obadiah Strout resounded throughout the hall and fell upon the evening air. This time the band played "The Star Spangled Banner."

Again the toastmaster arose and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, the first toast that I am going to propose to-night is a double one, because, for obvious reasons, it must include not only the State, but its chief representative, who is with us here to-night. Ladies and gentlemen, let us drink to the Old Bay State, and may each loyal heart say within itself, 'God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts!'" The guests touched their lips to their glasses. "And now," continued the toastmaster, "to his Excellency QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER, Governor of the Commonwealth, whom I have the honor of introducing to you."

The Governor arose amid wild applause and loud acclamations, while the band played "Hail to the Chief!"

THE END.



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N.Y. TIMES SATURDAY REVIEW. JUNE 14, 1902.

"From the moment when Agatha Renier makes her appearance 'swaying like a scarlet vine' to the bridle of old Mrs. Copeland's maddened horses and stopping their headlong progress, the reader has a right to expect marvelous developments. And in this he is not disappointed

NASHVILLE AMERICAN MAY 22.

"Here is a tale of modern life to make you hold your breath over one episode and wonder what is coming next. It is an American novel full of interest and brightness, and so full of action that the incidents fairly step on each other's heels."

SEVEN BEAUTIFUL ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLORS.

Handsomely Bound, Price $1.50. At all Booksellers.

C.M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO., BOSTON, MASS.



MARJIE OF THE LOWER RANCH

BY FRANCES PARKER

This is a ranch story by a real ranch girl. She has woven into her breezy Western romance vivid pictures of ranch life from the viewpoint of a girl who has lived on the great Montana ranches since childhood. Miss Parker's writing has the Western dash that might be expected of a girl who would not ride a broncho that she herself had not broken to saddle.

Illustrations by Victor A. Searles

Attractively bound in cloth, 1.50

C.M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. BOSTON



Telling an Hitherto Unrevcaled Romance In One of New York's Oldest and Most Exclusive Families

$TITO$

BY

WILLIAM HENRY CARSON, author "Hester Blair"

UNANIMOUS PRAISE FROM THE PRESS

"A story of strong power, depicting the human emotions."—CHICAGO JOURNAL, March 23.

"There is no more attractive figure in current fiction than that which Mr. Carson has conceived."—NEW YORK WORLD, March 14.

"Told with delicacy of feeling and thorough knowledge of the Italian temperament."—PUBLIC OPINION, April 2.

"The reading public will take it up with increasing and consuming interest—will love Tito."—CHICAGO RECORD-HERALD, March 28.

"It contains abundant action, numerous startling scenes and no end of mysteries. There is a fascination about Tito that compels sympathy and interest."—BOSTON TRANSCRIPT, April 8.

"The author has placed the simple Florence youth far above the characters of recent fiction—it is a masterpiece of dramatic fiction."—NEW YORK AMERICAN AND JOURNAL, March 28.

"Mr. Carson has handled his material in a masterly manner and given fiction a strong book."—INDIANAPOLIS SENTINEL, April 5.

Illustrations by C.H. STEPHENS and A.B. SHUTE

Bound in Red Art Crash

Price, 1.50

C.M. Clark Publishing Co., Boston



The Critics are Enthusiastic

OVER

$ON SATAN'S MOUNT$

By DWIGHT TILTON, author of "MISS PETTICOATS"

$Read What They Say:$

$HOW TO KNOW THE BOOKS, April, 1903$. "This story has a prophetic side, reminiscent of 'Looking Backward,' but its clever satirizations and veiled illusions to living personages give it more of actuality than that widely read social study."

$NEW YORK AMERICAN, Saturday, April 11, 1903$. "So strongly written and presents a national peril so boldly treated as to insure immediate attention and provoke comment which will make this book of more than passing value."

$THE NEW ORLEANS SUNDAY STATES, Sunday, April 5, 1903$. "It probes the secrets of capitalism and labor, of politics and journalism with a surety and a conviction almost discomposing."

$THE OUTLOOK, March 21, 1903$. "Wall Street and Washington are the theatres of action, and in the characters many will think they recognize composite pictures of prominent men. The story is fanciful, but not without power and not without a lesson."

Illustrated. Bound in Red Art, Crash Price, $1.50

C.M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. BOSTON



For $1.50

IN STAMPS, MONEY ORDER OR EXPRESS ORDER, WE WILL SEND YOU, POSTAGE PREPAID, A SET OF

$9 BEAUTIFUL POSTERS$ AND YOUR CHOICE OF THE FOLLOWING POPULAR CLOTH BOUND AND ILLUSTRATED $1.50 NOVELS.

MARJIE of the LOWER RANCH, By Frances Parker.

LOVE STORIES from REAL LIFE, By Mildred Champagne.

MISS PETTICOATS, By Dwight Tilton.

QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER, By Charles Felton Pidgin.

MY LADY LAUGHTER, By Dwight Tilton.

ON SATAN'S MOUNT, By Dwight Tilton.

TITO, By William Henry Carson.

HESTER BLAIR, By William Henry Carson

HOPE HATHAWAY, By Frances Parker.

These posters are reproductions of original oil sketches done exclusively for us by well-known artists.

They vary in size from 12x18 inches to 18x26 inches, and are most attractively printed in four colors.

Address C.M. CLARK PUBLISHING COMPANY, BOSTON.

THE END