"When we got to the main road, I didn't know which way to turn—I mean I couldn't think. She settled the matter by turning to the right, which was very fortunate, but I didn't know I was on the road to Dixie."

"Maude, you're incorrigible," laughed Alice.

"No, I'm a sensation. I was full of them as I dashed on. But she was a well-bred horse and kept in the middle of the road. Then, to my joy, I saw Dixie ahead. As I went by her I yelled—yes, yelled— 'she's running away.'

"Dixie yelled—yes, yelled—'Hold on, I'll catch you.' She did, but we ran more than a mile before she got even with me, grasped my horse's bridle, and pulled her round so quickly that I came near landing in the bushes. And here I am."

"You must not ride her again," said Alice.

"That's just what I am going to do. I'm not going to deprive that horse of my company, when it was all my fault. No more whip, she needs only the voice—and little of that."

"Alice," said Quincy, "Mr. Strout has invited us to dinner. He will be offended unless his invitation is accepted."

"I don't feel equal to meeting that man in his own house. I cannot bear him even at long range. Take Maude."

"I'll go, Quincy. I love these odd characters."

"He's married and has a little boy," said Alice.

"Then my love for the father will be invisible—I'll shower my affection upon his offspring."

Quincy, after introducing his sister to Mr. Strout and his wife, expressed his regret that his wife was so unnerved by the runaway that she was unable to accompany him. Mr. Strout, in turn, expressed his regrets, as did Mrs. Strout, then he added: "Miss Sawyer, we'll have to pay you a commission. The store has been full of folks asking about you, and after I told them all about the runaway and how you were rescued, they had to talk it over, and I sold more than forty cigars and ten plugs of tobacco."

"How did you know how I was rescued?" asked Maude.

"Well, I heard part and imagined the rest. I had to tell 'em something or lose the trade."

Mrs. Strout was a very good cook and the dinner was a success.

Strout leaned far back in his chair and Maude assumed a similar position. Quincy looked at her reprovingly, but she did not change her attitude. To her brother's astonishment, she addressed Mr. Strout.

"I suppose you have travelled a great deal, Mr. Strout."

"Well, yes, I have. Since I got back from the war I've taught music, and as my pupils were too lazy to come to me, I went to them. But speaking of travelling, I was in a runaway once. It had been snowing for about four days without a break and the roads were blocked up. I had to go to Eastborough Centre and I hired a horse I'd never driven before."

"Didn't you have to put snow-shoes on him?" asked Maude.

"Oh, no, because I waited until the roads were broken out."

"That's one on me," acknowledged Maude.

"Well, I nearly tipped over a dozen times, but I got to the Centre where the roads had been cleared. But my sleigh went into a gully and came down on the horse's heels. My, wasn't she off in a jiffy! I held her in the road, the men, and women, and children, and dogs and hens getting out of the way as fast as they could. She was a going lickety-split, and although I wasn't frightened, I decided she'd got to stop.

"I saw a house with an ell, and in the corner the snow was packed up ten feet high. I had an idea. I put all my strength on to one rein, turned her head, and she went into that snow bank out of sight, all but her tail. I got out of the sleigh, sat down on the snow, and laughed till I thought I'd die."

"And the horse?" queried Maude.

"It took half an hour to dig her out. They say horses are intelligent, but I don't think they know any more than hens."

"I thought hens were bright," said Maude. "They say they hide their eggs so we can't poach and boil them."

"Well, you can judge. When we moved into this house all the doors had glass knobs. I took them off, put them in a box and set them out in the barn. I saw a hen setting, but didn't notice her particularly until one day she got off the nest while I was in the barn, and true as I live, that fool hen had been trying to hatch out those knobs."

"They said you have a little boy, Mr. Strout," Maude looked at him inquiringly. "I hope he isn't sick."

"No, he's all right. But we never let him come to the table when we have company, because he talks too much."

"What's his name?"

"That's the funny part of it. My wife has lots of relations, and some wanted him named this, and some wanted him named that. So I went to the library and looked at all the names in the dictionary."

Maude's curiosity was excited. "What did you finally decide upon?"

"Well, we haven't named him yet. We call him No. 3, I being No. 1, and my wife No. 2."

After their guests had departed, Mrs. Strout asked, "Why didn't you tell Miss Sawyer that our boy's name was same as yours?"

"Why didn't I?" snapped her husband. "Because she was so blamed anxious for me to tell her. Them Sawyers are 'ristocrats. They look down on us common people."

Mrs. Strout remonstrated. "I thought he was real nice, and she's a lovely girl. Besides, he set you up in business and made you postmaster."

"And what did he do it for? Just to show the power of money. What did he want of a grocery store except to beat me out of it?"

"But you owned up in your speech at the Town Hall that you'd treated him mean, and that you were his friend."

"That was official. Do you suppose he means all he says? No! No more than I do. When I get enough money, there won't be but one partner in that grocery store, and his name will be O. Strout."



CHAPTER VIII

UNCLE IKE AND OTHERS

At the breakfast table next morning, Maude sat with her head bent over her plate. All were awaiting Olive's advent with the fruit.

"At your devotions, Maude?" asked Alice.

"Yes, I am thanking the Lord that my life was saved by a woman. She can't ask me to marry her."

A trio of "good mornings" greeted the Rev. Mr. Gay as he entered and took his accustomed place at the head of the table. He bowed his head and asked a blessing.

"Why do you ask a blessing, Mr. Gay?"

Mr. Gay looked up, but there was no levity in Maude's eyes.

"It is our duty to thank the Almighty for his goodness in providing for our physical ends."

"But," said Maude, "with the exception of the fruit all our food is prepared by man. We couldn't eat it just as it grows."

"God has given us the necessary intelligence to properly utilize his blessings."

"But some people starve to death," said Maude, forsaking the main argument.

"Unfortunately, yes, owing to man's lack of brotherly feeling, or rather, a hap-hazard method of distributing his blessings. It is not God's will that any of his creatures should lack food or raiment."

"Do you really believe, Mr. Gay, that God takes a personal interest in us? That he sent Mrs. Howe yesterday to save my life?"

"I certainly do, Miss Sawyer."

"I can't understand it," said Maude. "I looked upon it simply as a lucky coincidence. But supposing the horse had turned to the left, and stopped of his own accord when he reached that steep hill. What would that prove?"

Quincy and Alice who had listened to the discussion, looked at the clergyman, who hesitated before answering. At last, a smile lighted up his face and he replied: "It would prove that, in that particular case, you did not need the intervention of Heavenly power."

"I'm not convinced yet," said Maude. "I am coming to hear you preach to-morrow. Do make it plain to me, please."

"With God's help, I will try to," the clergyman answered.

Quincy passed the morning at the grocery, making arrangements for the establishment of the branch stores, Mr. Strout's plans being approved with some material modifications. Strout told his wife that Mr. Sawyer had fixed it so he couldn't get control of the business, but that he would put a flea in his ear some fine day.

"I can't see through it," said Bessie Strout. "Why have your feelings towards Mr. Sawyer changed so? I think he is a perfect gentleman."

"So he is. So am I. But we grew on different bushes." Feeling that he did not wish to confess that jealousy of others' attainments was the real foundation of his hostility, Mr. Strout took his departure. Two hours later Mrs. Strout was delighted at receiving a call from Miss Maude Sawyer and the Governor's wife.

Quincy wished to have a talk with 'Zekiel about Uncle Ike, so he walked over to the old Putnam house. He had asked his wife to accompany him, but she declined.

"That house gives me the shivers," she had said. "I never can forget the ordeal I went through the day that Aunt Heppy died. I gave the house to 'Zekiel because I never could have lived in it. Maude and I are going to call on Mrs. Strout."

Quincy found 'Zekiel in the barn, and broached the matter on his mind at once.

"I'm glad you spoke of it," said 'Zekiel. "I was over to Mandy's yesterday and Uncle Ike wants to come and live with us. Not that he's dissatisfied where he is, for he likes Mandy and the children, and they do everything to make him comfortable—but it's the stairs. He wants to eat with the others; he says he feels like a prisoner cooped up in one room. We have a spare room on the ground floor that old Silas Putnam used to sleep in. I'm only afraid of one thing—'twill be too much care for Huldah. If I could get some one to help her with the work, she'd be glad and willing to look after Uncle Ike." "We must find some way out of it," said Quincy, as they parted.

His next visit was to the home of Arthur Scates. He found the young man in bed and in a very weak condition.

"He's had two o' them bleedin' spells," said his grandmother, "an' las' night I thought sure he was a goner. But I giv him some speerits of ammony and he perked up a little. Yer see, Mr. Sawyer, we're poor, an' it's no use tryin' to cover it up, an' I can't give Arthur the kind of vittles he ought to have. He wants nourishin' things an'"— The old lady's feelings overcame her and she began to cry. "I'm ashamed of myself, but I can't help it. He's my only son's boy, and he's an orphan, an' wuss. I'm sixty years old, but I can do a day's work with any of the young ones, but I can't leave him alone. I should have a conniption fit if I did."

Quincy thought it advisable to allow the old lady to have her say out before replying.

"Mrs. Scates, I think there are brighter days coming for you."

"The Lord knows I have prayed hard enough for 'em." Quincy spoke to Arthur. "I expected to see you in Boston, but I suppose you were in too poor health to come."

"Tell him the whole truth, Arthur," said his grandmother—"his health was too poor an' we hadn't any money."

"Arthur," said Quincy, "I am going to find a home for you in a sanatorium where you will have the treatment you need and the proper food to build you up. One of these days, if you can repay me, well and good. If not, I can afford to give it. Your voice may make your fortune some day. And, now, Mrs. Scates, I've got some work for you. Mrs. 'Zekiel Pettingill—"

"She that was Huldy Mason," broke in Mrs. Scates, "she was just the nicest girl in town."

"Yes," assented Quincy, "she's going to have an addition to her family—"

"You don't say," again interrupted Mrs. Scates. "Well, I've nussed a good many—"

"You misunderstand me," said Quincy quickly. "Her Uncle Ike is coming to live with her, and she needs assistance in her work. You must go and see her at once."

While she was gone, Quincy explained to Arthur the nature of his coming treatment; how he would have to virtually live out of doors daytimes and sleep with windows and doors open at night. "I will see that you have good warm clothes. I will pay for your board and treatment for a year, and give you money for such things as you may need."

"I'll try hard to get well so I can repay you," said Arthur.

"She says she'll take me," cried Mrs. Scates, as she entered the room—"just as soon as I can come, and here's a big basket of apples and peaches, she sent you, and—" the poor woman was quite out of breath. "I met that minister, Mr. Gay, and he said he was coming up to see you, Arthur."

"Did you ever go to Mr. Gay's church?" Quincy asked Mrs. Scates.

"Jus' onct, and that was enough. He'll have to leave here sooner or later."

"What for?"

"Why, he don't believe in no divil—an' ye can't make folks good unless they knows there's a divil."

Quincy recalled the story of the Scotch woman, a stern Presbyterian, who thought if ten thousand were saved at the final judgment that it would be "muckle many," and who, when asked if she expected to be one of the elect, replied "Sartainly." He felt that a theological discussion with Grandma Scates would end in his discomfiture and he wisely refrained.

Quincy reached Mandy Maxwell's just in time for dinner, and, at his request, it was served in Uncle Ike's room.

"This is more cheerful," said he to Quincy. "I once thought that being alone was the height of enjoyment—and I did enjoy myself very selfishly for a good many years. Has Alice told you of our conversation?"

Quincy nodded.

"I've been thinking about it since and I decided my first move would be to live, if I could, with my own flesh and blood. But while they've got a down-stairs room, it will be too much work for Huldah."

"That's provided for," said Quincy. "Mrs. Scates is going to help Huldah."

"What's to become of her grandson—he's consumptive they tell me."

"He's going to a sanatorium to get cured."

"And you are going to pay the bills?"

Quincy nodded again.

"I get a lesson very often. You are using your money to help others, while I've hoarded mine."

Quincy looked at the speaker inquiringly. Alice had given him to understand that her uncle had used his income for himself.

"I know what you're thinking, Mr. Sawyer. I did tell Alice I had an annuity, but I haven't spent one-tenth of what's coming to me. I arranged to have it put in a savings bank, and I've drawn just as little as I could and get along. I bought a fifty thousand dollar annuity at sixty. I got nine per cent, on my money, besides the savings bank interest. As near as I can figure it out I'm worth about two hundred thousand dollars. I've beat the insurance company bad, and I ain't dead yet. I have all this money, but what good has it done anybody?"

"It can do good in the future, Uncle."

"I want to leave something to Mandy's boys—not too much—for I'm afraid they'd squander it, and become do-nothings. What shall I do with it?"

"Do you wish me to suggest a public use for your fortune?"

"That's what I've been telling you about it for. You've a good knack of disposing of your own and other folks' money, and I thought you could help me out."

Quincy did not speak for some time. Finally he said, "Uncle Ike, the Town Hall in Fernborough is but one mile from the centre of the city of Cottonton. That city is peopled, principally, with low-paid cotton mill operatives. Their employers, as a rule, are more intent on dividends than the moral or physical condition of their help. Accidents are common in the mills, many are broken down in health by overwork, and those who become mothers are forced by necessity to resume work in the mills before their strength is restored."

Uncle Ike shut his teeth with a snap. "That's worse than hoarding money as I've done. Mine may, as you say, do good in the future, but theirs is degrading human beings at the present. I wish I could do something for them, especially the mothers. It's a shame they have to suffer."

"You can do something, Uncle Ike. My suggestion is, that you leave the bulk of your fortune to build a hospital in Fernborough, but provide in your will that the mill operatives of Cottonton, or all its poorer inhabitants, if you so wish it, shall be entitled to free treatment therein."

"I'll do it," cried Uncle Ike. "As soon as I get settled at 'Zeke's, I'll send for Squire Rundlett to come and make out my will. You've taken a big load off my mind, Mr. Sawyer."

As Quincy was mounting Obed's Hill slowly, for it was very steep, he thought to himself—"Getting Uncle Ike to do something practical towards helping others was much better than talking theoretical religion to him."

When he reached the Hawkins House, Andrew was getting ready to drive to Cottonton to meet the three o'clock express from Boston.

"There's a friend of ours coming down on that train, Andrew—a young man named Merry." He took out his note book, wrote a few lines, and passed the slip with some money to Andrew.

"You get that—have it covered up so no one can see what it is, and leave it in the barn when you get back."

Quincy told his wife about Arthur Scates and Uncle Ike.

"I'm going to take Uncle Ike to Mr. Gay's church to-morrow," he added, "but I didn't say anything about it to-day. I'm not going to give him time to invent excuses."

Maude did not conceal her pleasure at meeting Harry again. She was a companionable girl, and Mr. Merry was too sensible to think, because a young lady was sociable, that it was any indication that she was falling in love with him.

"Are you going riding this evening, Alice?" Quincy walked to the window. "The sunset is just glorious. There's a purple cloud in the west, the edges of which is bordered with gold. There are rifts in it, through which the sun shows—and now, come quickly, Alice, the sun, a ball of fire, has just sunk below the cloud which seems resting upon it."

When they turned away from the window, Alice said:

"I don't think I will ride any more. Maude must take the horse I had— he is so gentle. What a pity Mr. Merry cannot go with her for a ride."

"He can. I sent Andrew for a saddle for him to use."

"Quincy, you are the most thoughtful man in the world."

In less than half an hour Maude, with Harry riding the mare, were on their way towards the Centre Road. When they returned, an hour later, there had been no runaway, unless Harry's heart had undergone one. Maude's countenance did not, however, indicate that she had participated in any rescue.



CHAPTER IX

A "STORY" SERMON

The influx of mill operatives and mechanics from Cottonton in search of a breathing place after a hard day's work, had led to the building up of the territory north of Pettingill Street and east of Montrose Avenue. This fact had led to the erection of the Rev. Mr. Gay's church in the extreme northern part of the town, but near to both Montrose town and Cottonton city.

"We are all coming to your church this morning, Mr. Gay," said Quincy at breakfast.

"I shall be glad to see you, but you must not expect a city service. The majority, in fact all, of my parishioners are common people, and I use plain language to them."

"I think simplicity in devotional exercises much more effective than an ornate service," said Alice.

"Do you have a choir?" asked Maude.

"We can't afford one, but we have good congregational singing."

"I'm glad of that," said Maude. "I hate these paid choirs with their names and portraits in the Sunday papers."

"I shall take the carryall and go for Uncle Ike. It is a beautiful morning and you will all enjoy the walk," Quincy added.

Uncle Ike, at first, gave a decided negative. "I haven't been inside a church for many a year and it's too late to begin now."

"That's no argument at all," said Quincy. "But my principal reason for wishing you to go is so you can see the people that your hospital is going to benefit one of these days."

"But these preachers use such highfalutin' language, and so many 'firstlies' and 'secondlies' I lose my hold on the text."

"Mr. Gay is a common, everyday sort of man, does not pose when out of his pulpit, and never talks over the heads of his audience."

"How do you know all that?"

"I sit with him at table, and I've studied him. Then he told us not to expect a city sermon for he used simple language, and they have congregational singing."

"Well, I'll go—this once," said Uncle Ike, and Quincy assisted him in making his preparations. On their way to the church they passed two couples—Alice and Mrs. Hawkins, and Maude and Mr. Merry. Mr. Jonas Hawkins could not leave home for he was afraid the cats would carry off his last brood of chickens. Some fifty had been hatched out, but only a dozen had survived the hot weather, heavy rains, and the many diseases prevalent among chickens.

When Mr. Gay arose to give out the first hymn, Maude said to Mr. Merry, "Why, he looks like a different man. His red hair is a beautiful brown."

"It's the light from the coloured glass windows," commented Mr. Merry.

"Then it must be the curtains in Mrs. Hawkins' dining room that colour his hair at home," retorted Maude.

How grandly rose the volume of tone from scores of throats! Even Uncle Ike's quavering voice joined in.

"All hail the power of Jesus' name, Let nations prostrate fall; Bring forth the royal diadem, And crown Him Lord of all."

The organ creaked and wheezed somewhat, but so many fresh, young voices softened its discordant tones.

A short prayer, and Mr. Gay began his sermon, if such it can be called.

"MY BRETHREN: My text, to-day is, 'The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God.' All nations have a God, even if all the people do not believe in him. The majority in each nation does believe in a God. Are those who do not believe all fools? Unhappily, no. There are many highly educated men and women who deny the existence of God. They claim man is a part of Nature, and Nature is all. They forget the poet who wrote

"'Man is but part of a stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul.'

"Remember, God is the Soul. Each of you has a soul, a spark of the Divinity.

"I can best support my argument by a story—a true one.

"I once knew a young man whom we will call Richard. He had a well-to- do father and was sent to college. When he graduated, his father, a pious man, wished him to study for the ministry. He objected, saying his health was poor. He wished to go into the mountains, he lived in the West, and his father consented.

"He drifted into a mining camp and whatever regard he may have had for religion, soon disappeared. He was not a fool, but, in his heart, he said there was no God.

"With another young man, whom we will call Thomas, he formed a partnership, and they went prospecting for gold,—gold that the God whom they would not acknowledge had placed in the earth.

"They were attacked by Indians and Thomas was killed. Richard was obliged to flee for his life. His food was soon exhausted, he had no water, he had no God to whom he could pray for help.

"He came to a hole in the ground, near a foothill. He got upon his knees and looked down—yes, there was water—not much, but enough for his needs—but it was beyond his reach. He leaned over the edge to gaze upon the life-giving fluid that God has given us, and his hat fell into the well. In his hat was his gold-dust—his fortune—so useless to him then. He forgot his thirst for water in his thirst for gold.

"There was a stout branch of a tree near by. He placed it across the top of the hole. He would drop down into the well, and recover his hat, get a drink of water and draw himself up again. The well did not seem more than six feet deep, and with his arms extended he could easily reach the branch and draw himself up to safety. He dropped into the well, found his hat with its precious gold, drank some of the muddy water which, really, was then more precious to him than the metal, and looked up. He extended his arms but they fell short some six feet of reaching the branch. He had under-estimated the depth of the well—it was fifteen instead of six feet.

"He would clamber up the sides, he would cut steps with his knife and make a ladder. The earth was soft, and crumbled beneath his weight. That mode of escape was impossible. He was a prisoner in a hole with only muddy water to sustain life for a short time, and no prospect of escape.

"Night came on. He looked up at the stars. They seemed no farther away than the top of the well.

"When a child he had been taught to say 'Our Father who art in Heaven,' Did he have a Father in Heaven? Was Heaven where those stars were? Was that Father in Heaven the Being that folks called God?

"He fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke the stars were still shining, but no nearer than before.

"In his loneliness, in his despair, he cried, 'Oh, God, help me!' He covered his face with his hands and wept. He had forsaken the belief of a lifetime. He had acknowledged that there was a God!

"There was a rustling sound above him, and a heavy body fell to the bottom of the well. Some wild animal! He was unarmed with the exception of his hunting-knife. That was slight protection against a savage beast, but he would defend himself to the last.

"He listened. The animal, whatever it was, was breathing, but it did not move. Perhaps it was stunned by the fall, but would soon revive. He would kill it. A few firm blows and the beast was dead. It did not breathe. Its body was losing its warmth. He was safe from that danger.

"He slept again. When he awoke the sun was high. Beside him was the dead body of a mountain lion.

"He drank some more of the muddy water. He was so hungry. Was there no means of escape? Must he die there with that dead lion for a companion?

"He had an inspiration. With his knife he cut the lion's hide into strips. He tied these together until he had a rope. He threw it over the branch and drew himself up. The Earth looked so bright and cheerful. He threw himself upon his knees and thanked God for his deliverance. He was an educated 'fool' no longer. He had found God in that pool of muddy water, and God had sent a lion to deliver him.

"How do I know that the story I have told you is true? Richard returned to his father's home. He went back to college and entered the divinity school. He became a clergyman, and he has preached to you, to-day, from the text, 'The Fool hath said in his heart that there is no God!'"



CHAPTER X

THE RAISED CHECK

The Rev. Mr. Gay's parishioners looked at him in astonishment. He had disbelieved in God but had been converted in what seemed a miraculous manner. And yet, perhaps, after all, it was only a coincidence. Alice felt sure that Uncle Ike would be of that opinion.

The pastor, as soon as he had made his sensational declaration, said "Let us pray." His appeal was for those who doubted—that God would open their eyes—but not as his had been—to acknowledge his power and mercy.

Then followed "Old Hundred."

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him all creatures here below."

A benediction, and the service was over.

There were seats for four in the carryall. Maude preferred to walk and Mr. Merry was of the same mind. Mrs. Hawkins sat with Quincy on the front seat, and Alice with Uncle Ike.

"What did you think of the sermon, Uncle Ike?" Alice asked.

"A thrilling personal experience. The fear of death has a peculiar effect on some people—it kills their will power. Did Mr. Gay know that I was to attend his church?"

Alice flushed. "Quincy mentioned it at the breakfast table."

"Was he informed of my opinions on religious matters?"

"They were not mentioned before him."

"Another coincidence"—and Uncle Ike relapsed into silence.

As they were nearing the Maxwell house, Alice asked, "Uncle Ike, are you willing to have Mr. Gay call upon you?"

"I have no objection, if he will let me choose the subjects for conversation," was the reply.

In the evening Maude and Mr. Merry walked to the Willows and back.

"Have you become a matchmaker?" Alice asked her husband.

"What prompts the question?"

"Maude and Mr. Merry have been thrown together very much. You approve of you would prevent their intimacy."

Quincy laughed. "Maude undoubtedly has a heart, but she doesn't know where it is. Mr. Merry is too sensible a fellow to imagine Maude will fall in love with him, or that he could support her if she did."

"Poor logic, Quincy. Such marriages take place often, but unless they are followed with parental blessings,—and financial backing,—seldom prove successful.

"Well, the intimacy will end to-morrow morning. He will return to the city, and, probably, never see her again."

"I've no objection to Mr. Merry. I consider him a very fine young man. I was thinking of Maude's happiness."

Mr. Merry did return to Boston early the next morning, and, to all appearances, Miss Sawyer looked upon his action as a very natural one, and one in which she was not particularly interested. If she had any secret thoughts concerning him they were driven from her mind by the receipt of a telegram just as they sat down to dinner.

"REDFORD, MASS., July 2, 187—. "MAUDE SAWYER, Care of Q. A. Sawyer, "Fernborough, via Cottonton. "Do please come home at once. Something terrible has happened. FLORENCE."

"What can it be? What do you think is the matter? The message is so inexplicit."

Her brother replied, "Florence evidently is living, unless some one used her name in the telegram. If father or mother were sick or dead she certainly would have said so."

"Perhaps not," said Maude. "She might wish to break the news gently, in person."

"I am willing to wager," said Quincy, "that the trouble affects her more than any one else. But you must go, Maude, and Alice and I will go with you, by the first train to-morrow morning."

Quincy had Andrew get the carryall ready and he and Alice went round to say good-bye. He told Arthur Scates he would come or send for him soon, and that his grandmother could go and help Mrs. Pettingill.

Andrew was told to return the saddle to Cottonton, and Quincy decided that they would go to Boston by way of Eastborough Centre, so Mr. Parsons could be informed that they were through with the saddle horses. They found Uncle Ike fully committed to the idea of founding the hospital. He had seen Squire Rundlett, who was drawing up his will. The goodbye seemed more like a farewell in Uncle Ike's case, for he had aged much in the last year and was really very feeble. Alice told him that Mr. Gay had promised to call upon him in a few days.

When they reached Boston, Quincy said:

"Maude, you must take the train at once for Redford and see what the trouble is. I will leave Alice at home and run down to see you this afternoon."

Maude found Florence in her room, her nose red and her eyes filled with tears.

"Now, Florence, what is it all about?"

"Oh, it is horrible," and there was a fresh flood of tears.

"Are you sick? Mother says she is well and so is father."

"It's all about Reggie."

"Capt. Hornaby? Is he dead?"

"Worse. I wish he was. No, I don't mean that. But the disgrace."

Maude was getting impatient. "What has he done? Married somebody else? But he never proposed to you, did he?"

Florence wiped away her tears. "No, not exactly. But we understood each other."

"Well, I can't understand you. Why don't you tell me what he's done?"

"Well, you know that father loaned him some money when he lost his pocketbook in the pond."

Maude sniffed. "I imagined he did—nobody told me so."

"Father gave him a check for five hundred dollars."

"And the Captain's run away and won't pay. Those foreign fellows often do that. What an appropriate name Hornaby Hook is."

"He has paid. He sent father the money and said he was going back to England at once."

"So, ho! I understand now. My sister has been deserted, jilted, snubbed, and her Sawyer pride is hurt. If you'd written me that I'd be in Fernborough now, and so would Quincy and Alice. Florence, it was mean of you to send such a bloodcurdling telegram for so simple a thing."

"But that isn't all," cried Florence. "When the check for five hundred dollars that father gave him came back it had been raised to five thousand, and father has lost all that money. Oh, it is all over, and I shall never see him again."

Another paroxysm of sobs, and a flood of tears. Maude's sisterly sympathy was, at last, aroused.

"Don't take on so, Flossie. Perhaps he didn't do it after all."

"But father is so indignant. Think of his being paid back with his own money."

Maude could not help laughing. "That was rather nervy, I'll admit. But that very fact makes me think he's innocent."

She didn't really think so, but Florence was likely to go into hysterics and something must be done.

"You know his address. You had better write to him and see what he has to say for himself."

"I can't. Father says if I have any further communication with him, directly, or indirectly, he'll disown me."

"Well, wait awhile. Father'll calm down in time. Cheer up, Flossie, dry your eyes, and do put some powder on your nose. It's as red as a beet."

* * * * * * *

A little later in the season, Quincy and Alice started for their summer home at Nantucket, where they spent a pleasant two months, Quincy going up to Boston when needed at the State House. As autumn approached, and the time for the state election drew near, great influence was brought to bear on Quincy to make him rescind his decision, and run for governor a second time, but his mind was fully made up, and in spite of the urgings of the leaders of his own party, as well as those of the public at large, he remained firm in his resolve.

Mr. Evans worked hard for the nomination, but his predilections were well known among the labouring classes, and he failed to receive the necessary votes. Benjamin Ropes, a man respected by all, was elected governor, and in January Quincy retired from public life, and settled down to what he thought would be a period of rest and quiet with his wife in the Mount Vernon Street home.

About the middle of the month, however, a letter came from Aunt Ella.

* * * * * * *

"FERNBOROUGH HALL, "HEATHFIELD, SUSSEX.

"MY DEAR QUINCY AND ALICE: I was going to write nephew and niece, but you both seem nearer and dearer to me than those formal titles express. I see that Quincy is now out of politics, and I know that he needs a change. Your rooms are all ready for you here, and I want you both to come, just as soon as you can. It will be the best for you, too, Alice, as you will escape the very bad winter that Boston always has. I was delighted to hear the news, and I do hope and pray it will be a boy,—then we shall have a Quincy Adams Sawyer, Junior.

"I wish Maude could come with you. I could introduce her to society here, and, I have found—don't think me conceited—that there is nothing that improves an English gentleman so much as having an American wife. If some of your nice young American gentlemen would marry some English girls and transplant them to American soil, I think the English-speaking race would benefit thereby.

"Sir Stuart is well, and so is "Your loving aunt, "ELLA."

* * * * * * *

"The same Aunt Ella as of old," said Quincy, "always full of new ideas and quaint suggestions. It would be a good thing for you to go, I think, Alice, and I should really relish the change myself. What do you say, a steamer sails next week from here; shall we go?"

"Why, Quincy, it is rather sudden, but I should be glad to see Aunt Ella and Linda again, and I really see no reason why we should not go."

"Well, we will call that settled, then. And Maude, do you think she would join us?"

"Not unless you take Mr. Merry with you," replied Alice with a good natured laugh.

Quincy called at the Beacon Street house that afternoon, and had a talk with Maude about going to Europe with them. He read her Aunt Ella's letter, and added,

"You see, she wishes you to come with us."

"Well, I won't go. She wants to marry me off to some Englishman with a title and no funds. If I ever get married, my husband will be an American. No, take Florence, and let her hunt up Captain Hornaby, her recreant lover,—if he was one. She says they 'understood' each other, but it's evident none of us comprehended—I came near saying apprehended—him."

"I will speak to father about it," said Quincy. "Please tell him that I'll call at his office to-morrow morning. Give my love to Florence. I won't trouble her about it until I've seen father."

Alice thought Florence's substitution for Maude, as regarded the trip to England, was advisable, and certainly showed Maude's good- heartedness.

When Quincy saw his father he made no mention of the Hornaby incident in connection with Florence joining them on their trip abroad, but in spite of this the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer was, at first, strongly opposed to the idea of his daughter going away from home. Quincy knew his father too well to argue the matter, and turned the conversation to other subjects.

"I have brought my will, father, and wish you would put it in your safe. I have left everything to Alice to do with as she pleases. I have named you and Dr. Paul Culver as my executors. Have you any objection to serving?"

"You will be more likely to act as my executor than I as yours, but I accept the trust, feeling sure that I shall have no duties to perform."

"There's another matter, father, I wish to speak about. My former private secretary, Mr. Merry, is studying law. When my term expired he, of course, lost his position, for my successor, naturally, wished one of his own friends in the place. If I were a lawyer, I would take him into my office, but—"

"You can't use him in your grocery store," interrupted the Hon. Nathaniel. Quincy took the sarcasm good-naturedly, and laughed. That his father had, to some extent, overcome his displeasure at his son becoming a tradesman, was shown by his next words.

"Our law business is increasing daily, and perhaps I can make an opening for him in the near future. I will bear him in mind."

The Hon. Nathaniel reserved his decision in relation to Florence's trip until he had discussed the matter with his wife, but the next day Maude saw Alice and told her that her father had consented, on one condition, and that was that Quincy would bring her back with him when he returned to America. The Hon. Nathaniel was still suspicious of Aunt Ella, and evidently thought that she wished to get control of his daughter as she had of his son.

Quincy gave his father the required promise. Florence must have time to prepare for such a long journey, so Quincy was obliged to give up the plan of sailing from Boston on a certain date as he had intended. Besides, he wanted, personally, to see how Arthur Scates was getting along at the Sanatorium which was at Lyndon in the Adirondacks, and so he booked passage on the steamer Altonia, to sail from New York in three weeks.



CHAPTER XI

THE WRECK OF THE ALTONIA

"Florence will be ready to start to-morrow," said Alice. This was welcome intelligence to Quincy, who wished several days to spare in New York before sailing.

As soon as his wife and sister were located at a hotel in New York, he made the trip to Lyndon in the Adirondacks to see Arthur Scates. He found him greatly improved, and he told Quincy that he had not felt so well in years. The doctors, too, were more than pleased with his condition, and said that it was only a question of a few months when he would be entirely well again.

When he returned to New York he found that Alice had been to visit Mrs. Ernst in West 41st Street. Madame Archimbault lived with them and still carried on the millinery establishment on Broadway, in which Quincy had accidentally discovered the long-sought Linda Putnam masquerading under the name of Celeste. How that discovery had operated to change the lives of many people came forcibly to Quincy as he sought Leopold Ernst in his down-town office.

Leopold was almost hidden behind piles of manuscripts and newspapers when Quincy entered his room.

"Up to your neck, Leopold?"

As soon as Leopold saw who had addressed him, he jumped up, pushed a pile of manuscripts from his desk to the floor, and grasped Quincy's extended hand in both of his.

"Let me help you pick up your papers," said Quincy.

"No, they're in their proper places. They're rejected. I have accepted two out of fifty or more. The American author sends tons to the literary mill, but it grinds out but a few pounds. But the novices are improving. They will yet lead the world, for we have a new country full of God's wonderful works, and a composite population whose loves and hates reproduce in new scenes all the passions of the Old World. They are the same pictures of human goodness and frailty in new frames—and my business is to judge the workmanship of the frames."

They talked about old times, particularly the success of Alice's first romance.

"Marriage is often fatal to literary activity. Is your wife to write another book?"

"I think not. We expect an addition—not edition—to our family library soon after our return from England."

"That settles it. Literature takes a back seat when Maternity becomes its competitor. It is well. Otherwise, how could we keep up our supply of authors?"

The evening before the sailing of the Altonia, a happy party assembled in a private dining room at Quincy's hotel. Toasts were drunk. Alice and Rosa sang and Florence accompanied and played classic selections upon the piano.

"Bon voyage," cried Leopold, as they separated. "Make notes of something really new, make a book of up-to-date travels, and our house will publish it for you, for I'll recommend it no matter how bad it is. We have to do that often for friends of the firm,—why not for our own?"

A foggy night on the ocean. The barometer ranged low. An upward glance disclosed a black mist—no sign of moon or stars. A bad night on land, when trains of cars crash into others laden with humanity— some dying mercifully without knowing the cause; others cruelly, by slow cremation, with willing hands nearby powerless to help.

A bad night off shore, when freight-laden craft, deceived by beacon lights, are beached upon the treacherous sand or dashed against jagged rocks. The life-savers, with rocket, and gun and line, and breeches-buoys, try in vain, and, as a last resort, grasp the oars of the life-boat and bring to safety one or two of a crew of ten. Sad hearts in homes when the news comes; but it is only one of the scenes in the drama of life.

A bad night at sea—with a great ocean liner, its iron heart pulsating, plunging through the black waves into dense mountains of fog.

Despite the darkness and chill of the winter night, Quincy, Alice, and Florence were on the deck of the Altonia. Alice shuddered and Quincy drew her wrap more closely about her.

"Shall we go down into the cabin?"

"Not yet. There is nothing enjoyable about this Cimmerian gloom, and yet it has its attractions. Florence, what is it that Tom Hood wrote about London fog?"

"I only remember one line, and I'm not sure I can quote that correctly. I think it reads: 'No sun, no moon,' I should add 'no stars, no proper time of day.'"

During the two days since leaving New York, Florence had been a creature of moods: sad, when she brooded over her trouble due, she felt sure, to another's act; light-hearted when she thought of the prospect of again meeting Reginald and having him prove his innocence.

She had been spared newspaper publicity. Not for ten times the sum he had lost would the Hon. Nathaniel have had his daughter's name in the public prints. He was a lawyer, but it was his business to get other people out of trouble, and not to get his own family into it—which shows that great lawyers are not exempt from that very common human frailty, selfishness.

Sounds of applause were borne to their ears. "Let us go in," said Florence, "some one has been singing."

In the main saloon, all was merriment. Each passenger had faith in Capt. Robert Haskins, who had crossed the Atlantic hundreds of times. The Altonia belonged to a lucky line, the luck that follows careful foresight as regards every detail, the luck that brings safety and success from constant vigilance.

In the first cabin were more than two hundred souls—young and old, maids and matrons, young and middle-aged men, and a few beyond the allotted three score years and ten.

Mlle. Carenta, a member of a troupe of grand opera singers, whom many had heard during the company's engagement in New York, arose from the piano amid cries of "bravo," for her superb vocalism. She had sung Gounod's Ave Maria.

"How sweetly she sang," said Alice, as she touched her husband's arm to more fully draw his attention from the beautiful vocalist. "Don't you think so, Quincy?"

"Divine," was the reply. "One can almost fancy the doors of Heaven are open."

The cabin was warm—in reality, hot,—but Alice shuddered as she had when chilled by the mist and cold. She caught quickly at her husband's arm.

"I wish we were safe at Fernborough Hall with Aunt Ella."

"And so do I, my dear, but the walking is poor, and we must put up with our present method of locomotion for a few days longer. Think of the good times we have had and those in store for us."

Alice reassured by the words and the accompanying pressure of Quincy's hand exclaimed: "How delightful it was in the country, and how I enjoyed our visits. I shall always love Mason's Corner as it was called when—"

"I met my fate," her husband added. "My line fell in a pleasant place—"

"Don't call me a fish," said his wife, as she smiled half reprovingly.

"Well, we're on the water; if we were in it, we all might wish to be fish—or rather whales."

The next moment all was confusion. Faces that were white became red— those that were red turned white—even through the colour that art had given to niggardly nature. Fully half the occupants of the saloon were thrown violently to the floor in a promiscuous heap. Others saved themselves from falling by grasping frantically at the nearest object. Many of the lights went out. Some of the women swooned, while men who had deemed themselves brave shook like palsied creatures.

A man half ran, half fell, down the stairway that led into the saloon and stood before the affrighted passengers. No tongue could form a question, but each eager face asked,

"What is it? What has happened?"

His voice came, thin and husky, "We've been struck by another ship in the fog!"

At sea, at night, and that a night of winter chill—and the fog! Such the thought. The fact—ten thousand tons of steel and wood, the product of man's industry, fashioned by his brain, and blood, and bone, crushed and useless, and half a thousand human beings—looking forward to years of happiness—doomed to a terrific struggle with the elements. Strong, courageous, creative man—now a weak, fear- stricken, helpless creature!

"To the boats!" came the cry from above, and it was echoed by hundreds of voices. In those three words were a gleam of hope: they opened a path, but through what and to what would it lead? The other ship, a tramp steamer, which had collided with the Altonia was already sinking, and in a few minutes went down, bow foremost, only a few of the crew having escaped in their own boats.

Quincy had been an athlete in his college days. In time of danger, whether the man be ignorant or educated, one feeling—the instinct of self-preservation—is paramount. Alice and Florence had stood mute, helpless. Quincy put an arm about each and sprang to the narrow doorway. It was blocked by two stout men who fought frantically to gain precedence.

Quincy placed his wife in front of him, and, with the hand thus temporarily freed, he grasped one of the men by the collar and threw him back into the saloon where he was trampled upon by the frenzied passengers.

Regardless of the consequence of his act, Quincy mounted the stairs quickly and gained the deck. The boats were being filled rapidly. He placed his wife and sister in one of them.

Alice cried, "Come, Quincy, there is room here."

"No, Alice, not yet. The women must go first."

"I will not go without you."

"Yes, you will, Alice—and you know why."

The mighty craft was filling rapidly. Captain Haskins feared that like the tramp steamer it would founder before the passengers could get into the boats—their frail hope for safety. For himself, he asked no place. He had the spirit of the soldier who expires beside his dying horse, looking fondly at the animal that has borne him so many times in safety, and now gives up his life with his master's.

"For God's sake, come, Quincy!" cried Alice. "For our sake!" and Florence added her entreaties.

Quincy turned and saw a woman with a child by her side. She had made her way from the steerage. She was being deported, for she suffered from trachoma. She had been refused permission to land and join her husband who had stood outside the "pen" and gazed at her and the child. Quincy placed the woman in the boat beside his wife and put the child in its mother's arms.

"Lower away!" came a shrill cry.

"Oh, Quincy, must we part thus?"

Captain Haskins grasped Quincy by the arm.

"Get into the boat, Mr. Sawyer."

Quincy saw that the boat, filled with women, was already over-loaded.

He turned to the Captain and said: "There is more room here with you."

Nature's ways are mysterious but effective. A brisk breeze broke the fog, and the rays of the noonday sun fell upon a placid sea. The boat containing Alice and Florence was picked up by the Macedonian of a rival line and the rescued made comfortable. For hours the steamer cruised about rescuing hundreds of the Altonia's passengers, but some of the boats were never heard from.

Alice and many others had hoped that the wrecked vessel was still afloat, but the Altonia had disappeared,—was far below in hundreds of fathoms of water.



CHAPTER XII

FERNBOROUGH HALL

Fernborough Hall,—not a hall in the town of Fernborough in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, but a rambling, old-fashioned brick building in the County of Sussex in "Merrie England;" a stately home set in the middle of hundreds of acres of upland, lowland, and woodland. Wings had been added as required, and a tower from which, on a clear day, the English Channel could be seen with the naked eye, while a field-glass brought into view the myriad craft, bound east and west, north and south, on the peaceful missions of trade.

There was no terrace upon which gaudy peacocks strutted back and forth, but in front of the Hall was a small artificial lake in which some transplanted fish led the lives of prisoners. Lady Fernborough begged the Baronet to end their miserable existence, but, to him, innovation was folly and destruction bordered on criminality.

"When I am gone, Ella," he would say, "you may introduce your American ideas, for everything will be yours. When the Fernborough name dies, let the fish die too."

The long search for his lost daughter had made him misanthropic. His knowledge of her sad death had been accompanied, it is true, by the pleasing intelligence that his daughter's child lived, but that grand-daughter, though of his blood and British born, had not been educated according to British ideas. To be sure, she was now a Countess, but she had been transplanted to her native soil, and had not grown there.

It might be asked, if he was so insular in his ideas, why had he taken an American wife, and she a widow? He had been charmed by her vivacity. She lifted him out of the gloom in which he had lived so long. If she had been tame and prosaic, she would have worn the weeds of widowhood again in a short time. She made him comfortable; she surrounded him with the brightest people she could find; he was not allowed to mope indoors, and Sir Stuart Fernborough and his sprightly American wife attended all the important social functions of the County, and many in London, and at the houses of their friends. And now a great joy was to come to Lady Fernborough. She expected visitors from the United States, and what she considered needful preparations kept her in a flutter of excitement.

"How soon do you expect them?" asked Sir Stuart at breakfast.

"To-morrow, or next day. They sailed on the tenth; to-morrow is the seventeenth, but they may rest for a day in Liverpool—"

"Or stay a day or two in London," suggested Sir Stuart.

"I hope not, for my guests will be impatient to see a real live American ex-governor. Quincy's political advancement has been very rapid."

"America is a rapid country, my dear," was Sir Stuart's comment.

When Lady Fernborough reached her boudoir, she seated herself at her writing desk and wrote rapidly for nearly an hour.

"I don't wish too many guests," she soliloquized as she sealed the last invitation. "Now, I must write to Linda."

"My dear Linda,

"I have a great surprise for you. You must forgive me for keeping a secret. I do it so seldom, I wished the experience. I am like the penniless suitor who proposed to an heiress, who, he knew, would reject him, just to see how it would make him feel to lose a fortune. I think I saw that in Punch, but it fits my case exactly. They will be here, sure, day after to-morrow. I mean Quincy and Alice, and, I hope, Maude. Come and bring all the children. I suppose Algernon is in London helping to make laws for unruly Britishers, but we will make merry and defy the constables. Despite my marital patronymic, and my armorial bearings, I am still, your loving aunt Ella."

Alice was not to tell the sad news to Lady Fernborough. The telegraph outstrips the ocean liner, and a newspaper, with tidings of the great calamity, was in Aunt Ella's hands long before the arrival of the broken-hearted wife and disconsolate sister. The invitations were countermanded, and days of sorrow followed instead of the anticipated time of joyfulness.

Alice and Florence told the story of the tragedy over and over again to sympathizing listeners.

"That was just like Quincy to give his place to that poor woman and her child," said Aunt Ella. "Like Bayard he was without fear and he died without reproach."

Alice would not abandon hope. She racked her brain for possibilities and probabilities. Perhaps there had been another boat in which her husband and the Captain escaped. They might have been discovered and rescued by some vessel bound to America, or, perhaps, some faraway foreign country. He would let them know as soon as he reached land.

Aunt Ella, though naturally optimistic, did not, in her own heart, share Alice's hopeful anticipations. Perhaps Florence's somewhat extravagant account of the collision and the events which followed it led her to form the opinion that her nephew's escape from death was impossible.

Hope takes good root, but it is a flower that, too often, has no blossom. A month passed—two—three—four—five—six—and then despair filled the young wife's heart. She could bear up no longer, and Dr. Parshefield made frequent visits.

Aunt Ella pressed the fatherless infant to her breast.

"What shall you name him, Alice?"

"There can be but one name for him. God sent us two little girls, but took them back again. We both wished for a son, and Heaven has sent one, but has taken the father from us."

"And you will name him—"

"Quincy Adams Sawyer, Junior," was the answer. "It is his birthright."

"But," said Aunt Ella, "they never add Junior to a boy's name unless his father is living."

Alice sat up in bed, and her eyes flashed as she said,

"My heart has renewed its hope with this young life. I believe my husband still lives, and, until I have conclusive proofs of his death, our son's name will be Quincy Adams Sawyer, Junior."



CHAPTER XIII

"HORNABY HOOK"

Time, it is said, will dull the deepest sorrow. There are some who put out of sight everything to remind them of the lost one, while others treasure every memento, and never tire of recalling the virtues of the departed.

In Alice's case the presence of her little boy was a constant reminder of her husband. In Aunt Ella she found a willing listener, and talking of her past happy married life aided greatly in restoring her nerve power and improving her general health.

She said one day, "Aunt Ella, don't you think it better to face your troubles bravely than to fly away from them?"

"I certainly do. You are following the right course, Alice; the same as I did when Robert died. Your parting with Quincy was sad, inexpressibly so, but imagine my feelings to awake and find my husband dead in the bed beside me. Did I try to forget him? You remember his rooms in the Mount Vernon Street house. They became my Mecca—the place to which I went when I had a 'blue fit,' or was depressed in any way. God has sent you a child to keep your husband's memory fresh. I repeat, Alice, you are doing the right thing."

"I do it," said Alice, "for two reasons. One is that it makes me happy. The other is, that believing that my husband still lives, I wish to bring up his son so that he will be proud of him."

Florence, after awhile, made a confidante of Aunt Ella and told her about Captain Hornaby. She confessed her interest in him and said that notwithstanding his crime she loved him, but that her father would never forgive him.

"What part of England did he come from?" asked Aunt Ella.

"He said from Hornaby—that the place was named after his family. Their home was called Hornaby Hook, because, as he said, it was built upon a promontory in the form of a hook."

"What is his father's name?"

"Sir Wilfred, and Reginald is the fourth son."

"No chance of his ever getting the title," remarked Aunt Ella.

"I wonder where Hornaby Hook is," said Florence.

"That's easily found out. Linda has Burke's Peerage and I'll write to her to-day."

Lady Fernborough more than kept her promise, for in her letter she told the Countess Florence's unhappy love story besides asking for information about the Hornaby family.

Linda's reply was a revelation.

"MY DEAR AUNT ELLA,

"I was very sorry to hear that Quincy's sister has been so unfortunate in her love affair, and astonished to find that Captain Hornaby is the cause of it. You will be surprised to learn that Algernon is well acquainted with Sir Wilfred who is an old-fashioned English gentleman and the soul of honour. He has met the Captain and thought him a fine young fellow. Hornaby Hook is on the Sussex coast about ten miles from us. Come and see us and bring Florence with you. Perhaps there is an explanation of the affair which the Captain can give. He should not be condemned without a hearing. Give my love to Alice and tell her I'm coming to see that baby very soon. With love, ever yours, LINDA."

Aunt Ella was now in her element. There was a mystery to be explained and she held the key. She told Florence where Hornaby Hook was, and that the Hornaby family was a fine one, and that Sir Wilfred was held in the highest respect by everybody, but did not mention Linda's suggestion of a visit, and a possible explanation. She knew Florence would not accompany her if there was any possibility of her meeting the Captain. It would appear as though she was running after him, and no American girl, especially a Sawyer, would do that.

Sir Stuart was greatly interested in young Quincy, and Mrs. Villiers, the housekeeper, thought him the handsomest and best baby she had ever seen. Thus the way was paved for the first step in Aunt Ella's plot.

"Alice, do you think you would be very lonesome if I went away for a week?"

"Why no, Aunt Ella. Why should I be? I have the baby, and Sir Stuart and Mrs. Villiers are both goodness itself to me."

"Florence is not looking very well. Don't you think a week at the seashore would do her good?"

"I wish she could go, poor girl. When I think of her, I say to myself that I have no right to be unhappy. If Quincy is dead, he died nobly, to save others. But the shame connected with Captain Hornaby is what Florence feels so deeply."

That same day Aunt Ella wrote to Linda that she was coming with Florence, and that Algernon and she must arrange in some way to bring about that "explanation."

Algernon, Earl of Sussex, and the Countess Linda lived at Ellersleigh in the County of Sussex, not many miles from historic Hastings. To Aunt Ella and Florence they extended a warm and heartfelt welcome, and Florence, used as she was to the luxuries of life, could not but marvel at the beauty and even splendour that surrounded the Countess— once an American country girl named Linda Putnam.

"I have sent out cards for a dinner party next Thursday," said Linda to Aunt Ella. "There will be an opportunity for that 'explanation,' but you must assume the responsibility if there should be a tragic ending."

"We must hope for the best," replied Aunt Ella. "I will gather up the fragments after the explosion."

From the expression on Florence's face, when Sir Wilfred Hornaby and Captain Reginald Hornaby were announced as guests, the explosion seemed imminent.

In her mind, she had looked forward to such a meeting with a sensation of delight. Now that it had come her pride was up in arms. She had been tricked into coming. The Countess and Aunt Ella had arranged this meeting. Perhaps he had been told that she would be present. Well, if they did meet, he would have to do the talking. She had no explanation to make. If he had one, he must introduce the subject.

At the dinner Florence sat next to Sir Wilfred, but the Captain was far removed on the other side of the long table. Sir Wilfred was politely attentive. Did he know of his son's crime? Evidently not— but, if he did, he had condoned the offence. But how could he if he was the man of honour that the Countess had pictured him in her letter to Aunt Ella? No, the son had deceived his father as he had her father. Did she really love him? Had she forgiven him? If he had proposed when Florence was in that state of uncertainty, his rejection would have been swift and positive.

When the dinner was over, the Captain, apparently unconscious of guilt, approached Florence. He offered his arm.

"Will you come with me, Miss Sawyer? I have a very important question to ask you."

Should she go? He was going to ask her a question. She had many to ask him. This unpleasant uncertainty must end—now, was the accepted time.

She took his arm, and he made his way to the conservatory—that haven of confidences, where so many lovers have been made happy, or unhappy.

"Why have you not answered my letters?" he said.

"I never received them." Her voice was cold, and she removed her hand from his arm.

"I sent them in your father's care."

"That is probably the reason why I did not get them."

"Why should he refuse to give them to you? I borrowed money from him but I repaid him before I left America."

He thought she was not acquainted with his perfidy. She would undeceive him.

"Did you tell him the truth when you borrowed it?"

His face flushed. How could she know? But she did. He would be honest with her.

"No, I did not."

"I knew it. My sister Maude recovered your coat, but there was no money or bills of exchange in your pocket book—only a few visiting cards bearing the name of Col. Arthur Spencer."

The young man bowed his head. He was guilty. She would leave him without another word. She turned to go. He caught her hand, which she, indignantly, withdrew from his grasp.

"I will explain, Miss Sawyer." Was he going to tell the truth, or invent another story?

"Arthur Spencer was the Colonel of the first regiment with which I was connected. I do not belong to it now. He is a poor man, and an inveterate gambler. I had not seen him for two years, when we met in New York just before I went to Boston. You are tired, Miss Sawyer."

He pointed to a seat beneath some palms, and led her, unresistingly, to it.

"He asked me to dinner with him, and I went. Then he suggested a game of cards while we smoked and I foolishly consented. The stakes, at first, were small, and he won rapidly. He increased his bets and I was forced, against my will, to meet them. When we stopped playing, he had not only won all my money, but had my 'I O U' for three hundred dollars. I had to borrow money from him to pay my hotel bill and fare to Boston."

Florence nodded. She could not speak.

"I had letters of introduction to Boston families—among them, your own. When that accident happened—" she looked up at him inquiringly—



"No, don't think that of me—it was not intentional on my part—I was without money—the Colonel must be paid—my allowance was not due for ten days—I invented the story that I told your father."

"It was a lie!" Florence choked as she uttered the accusing words.

"Yes, it was a lie, and one for which I have sincerely repented, I told my father, and he forgave me, but said, as the coat was gone, to let the matter drop, that nothing would be gained by confessing to your father as he had been paid, and had met with no loss."

Florence sprang to her feet. "No loss!" she cried. "How can you say that? You have acknowledged that you are a gambler and a liar—why not finish the story and confess your crime?"

"Crime, Florence! What do you mean?"

Her lips curled

"You do not know what I mean?"

"No, as God hears me, I do not. You accuse me—of what?"

She felt that the crux was reached. "Did you not know when the check for five hundred dollars came back to my father's bank that it had been raised to five thousand dollars?"

The Captain reeled, and came near falling. He clutched at the palm tree which sustained him until he regained his footing.

"My God! And you have thought me the thief!"

"What else could I think?"

"I can't understand.... I met Col. Spencer in Boston—those birds of prey always follow their victims, and gave him the check, receiving two hundred dollars in return. He must have—and yet I cannot believe he would do such a thing. He is in London now. To-morrow I will go and find him."

"But if he denies it—how can you prove him guilty?"

"Unless he frees my name from such a charge—I will challenge him— and kill him!"

Florence could no longer act as accuser. Her heart plead for the young Englishman who had confessed his error, but who so strenuously denied his participation in a crime. "Miss Sawyer, will you mercifully suspend judgment until my return from London?"

She did not reply in words, but gave him her hand.

When they rejoined the company both Linda and Aunt Ella noticed Florence's heightened colour and the brightness of her eyes.

"He must have explained," said Linda, "when an occasion offered."

"I hope so," was Aunt Ella's reply, and she felicitated herself upon the success of their joint plot.



CHAPTER XIV

AN AMERICAN HEIRESS

For some time after rejoining the company, Florence was so busy with her thoughts that she paid little attention to what was going on about her. She was aroused from her abstraction by a sharp voice:

"Don't you think Captain Hornaby is a very handsome young man?" Florence looked and found that her questioner was Lady Elfrida Hastings, the only sister of the Earl. When that lady had visited them at Nahant, she had considered her the embodiment of all the female virtues. She recalled her statuesque repose, and her aristocratic manner which had so pleased her father. She also remembered the morning when she was discovered by Maude practising the Lady Elfrida's poses, and her sister's inquiry as to whether she had a chill and wanted the quinine pills.

Feeling the necessity of saying something, she replied: "I haven't noticed him particularly."

The Lady Elfrida, perfect gentlewoman that she was, said severely, for her, "Your failure to do so, certainly was not due to lack of opportunity."

So, her long absence in his company had been noticed. She was at a loss for a reply, when to her great relief the Earl approached and asked if she would play a certain piece which he had admired very much when in America.

"What was its name?"

"I can't remember," said the Earl. "It ran something like this," and he hummed a few measures.

"Oh," cried Florence, "Old Folks at Home." The scene through which she had gone with the Captain had awakened deep emotions, and her voice was in the temperamental condition to give a sadly-weird effect to the lines of the chorus. When she sang

"Oh, my heart is sad and weary"

the Lady Elfrida turned to Mrs. Ellice, the Rector's wife, and remarked, "There was a rumour that Captain Hornaby was greatly interested in Miss Sawyer, but from something she told me to-night I do not think it will be a match."

"Why, what did she say?" asked Mrs. Ellice with natural feminine curiosity as regards love affairs.

"I hardly feel warranted in repeating it," said the Lady Elfrida, "as it was given to me in confidence."

Later in the evening the Lady Elfrida sought Captain Hornaby. "My dear Captain, don't you think Miss Sawyer sings divinely?"

The Captain, with his mind on Col. Spencer and the tenfold check, replied, rather brusquely, "I'm not a great lover of negro melodies."

The Lady Elfrida felt sure that Captain Hornaby was still an "eligible," but she reflected that he was a fourth son and dependent upon the bounty of his father and elder brother, and that her dowry must come from her brother who, in her opinion, had a very extravagant wife—but none of those American girls had any idea of economy.

The next morning, Captain Hornaby went to London in search of Colonel Spencer. He visited his clubs, and, because it was necessary, many of the gambling places, but his quest was fruitless. As a last resort he went to the War Office and learned that the Colonel had sailed the day before to join his regiment in India.

The Captain reported the failure of his mission to Florence.

"I have been talking the matter over with Aunt Ella. She advises me to send a cable message to father asking what bank the check was deposited in and by whom."

"He may have cashed it at your father's bank," said the Captain.

"Then Aunt Ella says my father can see the bank officers and make sure that the Colonel got the money."

"I will go back to London to-morrow and send the message in your name."

"The story deepens," said the Captain, when he returned with the reply from the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer. It read,

"State National. Deposited five hundred. Revere House. Interviewed my bank."

"What does it mean?" asked Florence. "So many words are omitted. I can't make sense of it."

"It means," said the Captain, "that Col. Spencer is innocent. He was staying at the Revere House when I paid him his three hundred dollars. He must have cashed your father's check at the hotel, they paying him five hundred dollars only, and they, I mean the hotel proprietors, deposited it in their bank, the State National."

"But what do the last three words mean?"

"They mean that some one in your father's bank raised the check and he has seen the bank officers about it."

"I'm so glad," cried Florence. "You must come and explain it all to Aunt Ella."

She was greatly pleased to learn that Captain Hornaby was innocent of any complicity in the embezzlement, and said to Florence: "You will get a letter from your father telling you who the real criminal is," and turning to the Captain, continued, "We go back to Fernborough Hall to-morrow, Captain Hornaby, but when that letter comes we will send for you."

"I can bear the suspense now that Colonel Spencer and myself are free from any charge of criminality, but I greatly regret, Miss Sawyer, that your father has met with such a heavy loss."

"Don't worry, yet, Captain," said Aunt Ella. "Florence's father won't be out any money if there's any legal way of making the bank bear the loss."

When Aunt Ella and Florence returned to Fernborough Hall they told Alice the wonderful story.

"I am so glad for your sake, Florence, and the Captain's too. I think Aunt Ella's suggestion about sending the cablegram to your father was an excellent one."

The story was told, also, to Sir Stuart. He was gratified to learn that two officers of Her Majesty's army had been freed from the charge of embezzlement, but deplored the fact that gambling was so prevalent among them.

"I am an Englishman born and bred," said he, "but I think the law of primogeniture is, as a general rule, a bad one. Driving, as it does, the younger sons into the army, the navy, the church, and the law may be beneficial, for the branches of our national defence and the professions must be recruited from a stratum of intelligent men; the lack of money may be a spur to ambition in many instances, but it often leads to devious practices, and—" he saw that he had three interested listeners—"the whole system is contrary to your countrymen's idea that all men are created free and equal. While I cannot accept that doctrine in toto, I do believe that the bestowal of titles and fortune upon the eldest son is attended with grave evils, not only among our nobility, but in our royal successions. The Almighty does not follow such a law in endowing his children, and it is contrary to Nature's dictum 'the survival of the fittest.'"

Sir Stuart had expressed such opinions during his term in Parliament. The path of the political pioneer is strewn with temporary defeats, but all reforms, based upon truth, are ultimately successful, or life would be a stagnant pool instead of a river of progress.

A letter from Maude contained a solution of the mystery.

"DEAR AUNT ELLA AND SISTER FLO:—What a rumpus there has been about that raised check. Father was as dumb as an oyster about the affair until he had it all settled, then he told ma and me.

"How you two feminines must have suffered—one from hopeless love— and the other from helpless sympathy. But it is all over now, and the probity of two, presumably, gallant officers is vindicated, while the paying teller of father's bank is behind the bars with a certain prospect of years of manual labour for bed and board. Why will men be so foolish? Easily answered. The love of gold, not made in an honest way, but by speculating with other folks' money. Mr. Barr, the aforesaid teller, is a nice young fellow with a wife and two children, but his life is wrecked. Of course she will get a divorce and try to find a better man. We are all well, including Mr. Merry. He intended to take the place in father's office that Quincy spoke about, but Harry—there, I've written it, so will let it go—had a better position offered him by Mr. Curtis Carter, one of Quincy's old friends, and he's doing splendidly Mr. Carter told me.

"I am heartbroken about Quincy. I trust Alice's hopes may be realized and most of the time I share them.

"How's that nephew of mine? Send him over and we'll bring him up a Yankee boy. He's no Englishman.

"We are all well, and everybody sends love to everybody. MAUDE.

"P. S. Father didn't lose anything on the check. The bank paid the money back to him."

* * * * * * *

Aunt Ella kept her promise to the Captain and the part of Maude's letter which concerned the check was read to him. He improved his opportunity by asking Florence to be his wife.

"My father was greatly pleased with you and will welcome you as a daughter."

"Whether my father will welcome you as a son is the question," said Florence. "My father is a very wealthy man. I know the conventionalities and requirements of English life, and although my love for you is not dependent upon your having or not having a fortune, I cannot become a burden to you, or dependent upon your family, as I might become if my father refused his consent."

"You American girls are intensely practical."

"Are not Englishmen equally so when they pay court to American heiresses? I don't mean you, of course."

"My father and brothers will allow me twenty-five hundred pounds a year, about twelve thousand dollars of your money."

"Could we live, as we have both lived, on that income, Reginald?"

"To be honest, Florence, I don't think we could have a town house, a place in the country, and entertain much."

"Certainly not, Reginald. If my father gives his consent, I will be your wife whenever you say. If he refuses, we must wait."

The next mail brought a short letter for Florence from her sister.

"DEAR FLO:—I didn't want to put what I'm going to write now in my other letter. I suppose Reggie will propose now. Don't you accept him until Father is told. You love money and style, and the first enables you to indulge in the second.

"I don't blame Reggie for borrowing if he was hard up, but knew he could pay. But most men are deceitful creatures, anyway. Don't let Aunt Ella write to father. He was always sore about her influence over Quincy, and he mustn't think Aunt Ella made this match. If the Countess would write him, puffing up Reggie's ancestors, and his blue blood and ancestral home, and a hint (I hope it is so) that the Hornaby's are a very wealthy family and related (distantly of course) to royalty, Pater may say 'yes,' and give you his blessing. I do, if that will help any. Your loving sister,

"MAUDE."

* * * * * * *

Florence had to make confidantes of Aunt Ella and Alice. She repeated her conversation with Reginald and allowed them to read Maude's letter.

"Maude has a level head," was Aunt Ella's comment. "I'll go and have a talk with Linda. If she will write your father in the Captain's behalf, I think things will come out all right."

Linda was not only willing to assure the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer that Capt. Hornaby belonged to an old and honourable family, but also that he did not seek his daughter's hand because her father was a wealthy man, for the Hornaby estate was a large one, and the rentals sufficient to allow the Captain an adequate income, although there were other brothers to share the patrimony.

The Hon. Nathaniel deliberated before answering. Florence had always been a dutiful daughter and the fact that she would not become engaged without his consent was an acknowledgment of his parental influence which was vastly pleasing to his vanity. He had been tricked into accepting Alice as his son's wife, and he knew that Maude, when she made up her mind to marry would be guided little, if any, by his advice. Filial love and respect deserved their reward.

He wrote the Countess giving his consent to the marriage, and, what was most important, declared his intention of allowing Mrs. Captain Hornaby an income of fifteen thousand dollars annually, and a liberal provision at his death. He was very sorry, but pressing legal duties would prevent his attendance at the wedding if it took place in England.

The Countess insisted upon the wedding taking place at Ellersleigh. She had obtained the, otherwise, obdurate father's consent, and demanded compensation for her services.

So many weddings have been described that novelty in that line is impossible. Sufficient to say that the Countess fulfilled expectations and more, and the event was the year's sensation in Sussex, the echoes of which reached imperial London, and far off democratic America.

The Lady Elfrida Hastings was present at the wedding. She congratulated the Captain and his bride, but took occasion to say to the latter,—

"My dear, don't sing those sentimental American songs any more. That night you looked so triste I was afraid the present delightful affair would never become a reality."

Florence did not confess that, on the evening in question, she had misgivings herself.



CHAPTER XV

AN ELOPEMENT

The Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer sat in his library reading a ponderous legal document. It was full of knotty points requiring deep thinking, and the Hon. Nathaniel was breathing deeply and thinking deeply when the door was opened quietly and a young girl looked in. She stood for a moment regarding the reader.

"Father, are you very busy?"

The man finished reading the page before noticing the speaker.

"I am always busy, Maude, except when asleep, and I sometimes think my subliminal consciousness is active then."

Maude's inclination was to say "Oh, my!" but she repressed the ejaculation.

"I can give you a few minutes, Maude, if the subject is an important one. Come in."

Maude entered, seated herself, folded her hands in her lap and regarded her father as a disobedient pupil would a teacher.

"Father—"

The Hon. Nathaniel was listening attentively.

"Father—"

"Repetition is effective if not indulged in to excess. I often use it in my arguments before juries."

Maude flushed. She was particularly sensitive to sarcasm, but could stand any amount of good-natured raillery.

"Father, I'm going to be married."

The Hon. Nathaniel readjusted his glasses and regarded the speaker.

"It must be a clandestine attachment. I am not aware of meeting any gentleman who declared any desire to make you his wife. At whose house have you met your intended? I have no reason to suspect your Aunt Ella owing to her absence in Europe."

"I've never been to anybody's house. I've walked with him on the Common and in the Public Garden."

"Ah, two parks frequented by the elite of the city."

Maude resented his last remark. "Just as good people as I am go there."

"Do you mean that you are no better than those who go there?"

His voice was stern. Maude saw that she had made a mistake. "Some of them," she said in a low voice.

"Who is the favoured gentleman? Have I the honour of his acquaintance?"

"Why, yes, you've met him. It's Harry, I mean Mr. Merry."

"The young man who was Quincy's private secretary. Quincy wished me to take him into my office, but he never appeared in person."

"He's with Mr. Curtis Carter on Tremont Street. Mr. Carter was one of Quincy's most intimate friends."

"And Mr. Merry preferred going to one of Quincy's friends, than to me, and criminal cases rather than civil procedure. Mr. Carter revels in murder trials. But why has this young man failed to consult me on a matter so greatly affecting your future? Why have you assumed the initiative? This is not leap year."

Maude was ready to cry, but she choked down her rising temper.

"I think he's afraid to."

"What has he done that he should fear me?"

Maude made another mistake. "He never borrowed any money of you."

The Hon. Nathaniel disliked any reference to that raised check. "If he marries you, perhaps he will find it difficult to support you without borrowing money—but I shall not loan him any."

"He says he can support me as well as I wish, and I am going to marry him."

This was flat-footed defiance, and the Hon. Nathaniel grew red in the face at being thus bearded in his den.

"Maude, I am astonished. I command you not to meet this young man again unless in my presence or that of your mother. When I meet him, I shall have something to say to him."

He resumed the reading of the document, and Maude, knowing that it was useless to say more, left the room.

The next day at noon, Maude told her mother she was going to make some purchases on Winter Street. As no objection was made, Maude felt sure that her father had not mentioned their conversation to her mother. She met Harry and they walked down the "Long Path" on the Common, made famous by the genial "Autocrat," not only of one breakfast table, but of thousands of others.

"He will never consent," said Maude.

"I thought so."

"He was real mean to me—as sarcastic as he could be."

"Rich fathers are usually indignant when their daughters wish to marry poor men. He can have no other objection to me."

"Have you any money saved up, Harry?"

"Yes, I've got two thousand dollars in the bank to furnish our flat with."

"We shall have to go to a justice of the peace, for father will not let me be married at home. Oh, if Aunt Ella were here."

"Where is she?"

"In England. She's the wife of a baronet, and he is rich and so is Aunt Ella."

"Maude, let's elope and go to England for our honeymoon."

* * * * * * *

Aunt Ella and Alice had been to Ketchley to make some purchases for young Quincy's wardrobe. As they entered the house a maid said that a young lady and gentleman were waiting to see them.

"Both of us?" queried Aunt Ella.

The maid replied: "They said they wished to see Lady Fernborough and Mrs. Quincy Adams Sawyer."

"I will see if baby is all right and join you in a few minutes," said Alice.

Aunt Ella passed her hat and wrap to the maid, and entered the drawing room.

"Maude Sawyer, what cloud did you drop from? Where did you come from? Excuse me," said Aunt Ella as she espied Maude's companion, who had kept in the background.

"This is my husband, Mr. Harry Merry. We're just from London. We've been doing the town. What a big noisy place."

Alice came in and the introduction was repeated.

"Well, Maude," said Aunt Ella, "we're delighted to see you and your husband, but your arrival was so unexpected that you must pardon my evidences of surprise."

"They're very excusable," said Maude. "I can hardly realize, myself, that we are here. You and Alice are wondering what brought us, and you are entitled to an explanation. We just eloped because father would not give his consent."

The presence of Mr. Merry made the situation an awkward one, but Aunt Ella was a woman with opinions and was not afraid to express them. So she said:

"I suppose your father will disinherit you. I hope that will not mar your future happiness."

"I don't think it will. Harry has a good position, we've got some money in the bank, and we're going to have a nice little flat in Cambridge or Roxbury. I want to see my little nephew, Quincy's boy, and then we are going right back to London."