CHAPTER XXII.

AFTER THE GREAT SNOWSTORM.

Mandy was, of course, greatly pleased inwardly because Hiram had come

through such a great storm to see her, but, woman-like, she would not

show it.

So she said to Hiram, "Your reason is a very good one, and of course I

am greatly flattered, but there must be something else besides that.

Now, what have you got to tell me?"

"Well, the fact is, Mandy, I've got two things on my mind. One of 'em is

a secret and t'other isn't. I meant to have told you yesterday; but Mr.

Sawyer kept me busy till noon, and the Deacon kept me busy all the

afternoon, and I was too tired to come over last night."

"Well," said Mandy, "tell me the secret first. If the other one has kept

so long it won't spoil if it's kept a little longer."

Hiram had kept his eyes on the stove since taking his seat, and he then

remarked, "I am afraid that cider will spoil unless I get a drink of it

pretty soon."

"Well, I declare," cried Mandy, "if I didn't forget to give it to you,

after sending Mrs. Crowley down stairs for it, when you was out there in

the road."

"That's all right," said Hiram, as he finished the mugful she passed

him, and handed it back to be refilled. "That sort o' limbers a feller's

tongue a bit. Well, the secret is," said Hiram, lowering his voice,

"that when Huldy saw me gettin' ready to go out, sez she, 'Where are you

goin'?' 'Over to Mr. Pettengill's,' sez I. Then sez she, 'Will you wait

a minute till I write a note?' 'Certainly,' sez I. And when she brought

me the note, sez she, 'Please give that to Mr. Pettengill and don't let

anybody else see it.' Then sez I to her, 'No, ma'am;' but I sez to

myself, 'Nobody but Mandy.'" And Hiram took from an inside pocket an

envelope, addressed to Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill, and showed it to Mandy.

Then he put it back quickly in his pocket.

"Well, what of that?" asked Mandy. "That's no great secret."

"Well, not in itself," said Hiram; "but I am willing to bet a year's

salary agin a big red apple that those two people have made up and are

engaged reg'lar fashion."

"You don't say so," cried Mandy, "what makes you think so?"

"Well, a number of things," said Hiram. "I overheard the Deacon say to

Huldy, 'It will be pretty lonesome for us one of these days,' and then

you see Mrs. Mason, she is just as good as pie to me all the time, and

that shows something has pleased her more than common; and then you see

Huldy has that sort of look about her that girls have when their

market's made, and they feel so happy that they can't help showing it.

You see, Mandy, I'm no chicken. I've had lots of experience."

What Mandy might have said in reply to this remark will never be known,

for at this juncture Ezekiel entered the room and passed through on his

way to the wood-shed.

"Now's my time," said Hiram, and he arose and followed him out.

Ezekiel was piling up some wood which he was to take to Alice's room,

when Hiram came up beside him and slyly passed him the note. Then Hiram

looked out of the wood-shed window at the storm, which had lost none of

its fury, while Ezekiel read the note.

"Are you going home soon?" asked Ezekiel.

"Well, I guess I'll try it again," said Hiram, "as soon as I get warm

and kinder limbered up."

"I guess I'll go back with you," said Ezekiel. "We will take Swiss with

us; two men and a dog ought to be enough for a little snowstorm like

this."

"You won't find it a little one," said Hiram, "when you get out in the

road, but I guess the three on us can pull through."

Ezekiel went upstairs with the wood and Hiram resumed his seat before

the kitchen fire.

"What did I tell you?" said Hiram to Mandy. "'Zeke's going back with me.

She has writ him to come over and see her. Now you see if you don't lose

your apple."

"I didn't bet," said Mandy; "but what was that other thing you were

going to tell me that was no secret?"

"Oh, that's about another couple," said Hiram. "Tilly James is engaged."

"Well, it's about time," said Mandy. "Which one of them?"

"Samuel Hill," replied Hiram, "and she managed it fust rate. You know

the boys have been flocking round her for more than a year. Old Ben

James, her pa, told me he'd got to put in a new hitchin' post. You see,

there has been Robert Wood and 'Manuel Howe and Arthur Scates and Cobb's

twins and Ben Bates and Sam Hill, but Samuel was the cutest one of the

lot."

"Why, what did he do that was bright?" asked Mandy.

"Well," replied Hiram, "you see, Tilly sot down and writ invites to all

the boys that had been sparkin' 'round her to come to see her the same

night. She gave these invites to her brother Bill to deliver. Well, Sam

Hill met him, found out what he was about, and kinder surmised what it

all meant. Wall, the night came 'round and Sam Hill was the only one

that turned up at the time app'inted. After talkin' about the weather,

last year's crops, and spring plantin', Sam just braced up and proposed,

and Tilly accepted him on the spot."

"Where were the other fellers?" asked Mandy. "I always surmised that she

thought more of Ben Bates than she did of Sam Hill."

"Well, it didn't come out till a couple of days afterwards," said Hiram.

"You see, the shortest way to old James's place is to go over the mill

race, and all of the fellers but Sam Hill went that way, and the joke of

it was that they all fell over into the river and got a duckin'."

"Well," said Mandy, "they must have been drinking. Tilly is well rid of

the whole lot of them. Why, I've walked over that log time and time

again."

"Well, they hadn't been drinkin'," said Hiram. "You see it was pretty

dark and they didn't get on to the fact that the log was greased till it

was kinder too late to rectify matters."

"And did Sam Hill do that?" asked Mandy.

"He did," said Hiram; and he burst into a loud laugh, in which Mandy

joined.

The laughing was quickly hushed as the kitchen door opened and Ezekiel

entered, warmly dressed for his fight with the snow and carrying a heavy

cane in his hand.

"Call the dog, Hiram," said Ezekiel, "and we'll start. Mandy, tell Jim

and Bill to come over to Deacon Mason's for me about four o'clock,

unless it looks too bad; if it does they needn't try it till to-morrow

morning."

"All ready," said he to Hiram, who was patting Swiss's head, and off

they started.

Again Mandy went to the window and watched the progress of the

travellers. Mrs. Crowley came into the kitchen and seeing Mandy at the

window quietly turned out a mug of the hot cider and drank it. She then

approached Mandy and said, "What was all the laughin' about? I like a

good joke myself."

Mandy said, "Oh, he was telling me about a girl that invited all her

fellers to come and see her the same evening, and only one of them got

there because he greased the log over the mill race, and all the rest of

them fell into the water."

"It was a mane trick," said Mrs. Crowley. "Now, when all the boys were

after me, for I was a good lookin' girl once, Pat Crowley, he was me

husband, had a fight on hand every night for a fortnight and all on

account of me; and they do say there were never so many heads broken in

the County of Tipperary on account of one girl since the days of St.

Patrick."

Mandy had paid but little attention to Mrs. Crowley's speech. She was

too busy watching the travellers. Mrs. Crowley filled and emptied the

mug once more.

The last potation was too much for her equilibrium, and forgetting the

step that led from the kitchen to the side room, she lost her balance

and fell prone upon the floor. Her loud cries obliged Mandy to turn from

the window, but not until she had seen that the travellers had reached

the fence before Deacon Mason's house, and she knew they were safe for

the present. Mrs. Crowley was lifted to her feet by Mandy. The old woman

declared that she was "kilt intirely," but Mandy soon learned the cause

of the accident, and returning to the kitchen closed the door and

continued her morning duties.

Before Ezekiel left the house he had interrupted Quincy's meditations by

knocking on his door, and when admitted told him that he had had a

letter from Huldy.

"She is kind of lonesome," he said, "and wants me to come over to see

her."

"But it is a terrible storm," said Quincy, looking out of the window.

"Oh," said Ezekiel, "we'll be all right! Hiram is going with me, and we

are going to take Swiss along with us. Now, Mr. Sawyer, I am going to

ask you to do me and Alice a favor. Uncle Ike is upstairs busy reading,

and if you will kinder look out for Alice till I get back I shall be

greatly obliged."

Quincy promised and Ezekiel departed.

Quincy thought the fates had favored him in imposing upon him such a

pleasant task. But where was she, and what could he do to amuse her?

Then he thought, "We can sing together as we did yesterday."

He went down stairs to the parlor, thinking she might be there, but the

room was empty. The fire was low, but the supply of wood was ample, and

in a short time the great room was warm and comfortable. Quincy seated

himself at the piano, played a couple of pieces and then sang a couple;

he did not think while singing the second song that he had possibly

transcended propriety, but when he sang the closing lines of "Alice,

Where Art Thou?" it suddenly dawned upon him, and, full of vexation, he

arose and walked to the window and looked out upon the howling storm.

Suddenly he heard a sweet voice say, "I am here." And then a low laugh

reached his ear.

Turning, he saw Alice standing in the middle of the room, while Mandy's

retreating figure showed who had been her escort. Her brother Ezekiel

had rigged a bell wire from her room to the kitchen, so that she could

call Mandy when she needed her assistance.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Pettengill," said Quincy, advancing towards

her. "The song has always been a favorite of mine, but I never thought

of its personal application until I reached the closing words. I trust

you do not think I was so presuming as to--"

Alice smiled and said, "The song is also a favorite one of mine, Mr.

Sawyer, and you sang it beautifully. No apologies are needed, for the

fact is I was just saying to myself, 'Mr. Sawyer, where are you?' for

'Zekiel told me that he was going to speak to you and ask you to help me

drive away those lonesome feelings that always come to me on a day like

this. I cannot see the storm, but I can hear it and feel it."

As Quincy advanced towards her he saw she held several sheets of paper

in her hand.

"I am at your service," said he. "I am only afraid that your

requirements will exceed my ability."

"Very prettily spoken," said Alice, as Quincy led her to a seat by the

fire, and took one himself. "I am going to confess to you," said she,

"one of my criminal acts. I am going to ask you to sit as judge and mete

out what you consider a suitable punishment for my offence."

"What crime have you committed?" asked Quincy gravely.

Alice laughed, shook the papers she held in her hand, and said, "I have

written poetry."

"The crime is a great one," said Quincy. "But if the poetry be good it

may serve to mitigate your sentence. Are those the evidences of your

crime you hold in your hand, Miss Pettingill?"

"Yes," she answered, as she passed a written sheet to him; "I wrote them

before my eyes failed me. Perhaps you will find it hard to read them.

Which one is that?" she asked.

"It is headed, 'On the Banks of the Tallahassee,'" replied Quincy.

"Oh!" cried Alice, "I didn't write that song myself. A gentleman friend,

who is now dead, was the author of it. But he couldn't write a chorus

and he asked me to do it for him. The idea of the chorus is moonlight on

the river."

"Shall I read it?" asked Quincy.

"Only the chorus part, if you please," replied Alice, "and be as lenient

as you can, good Mr. Judge, for that was my first offence."

Quincy, in a smooth, even voice, read the following words:

The moon's bright rays,

In a silver maze,

Fall on the rushing river;

Each ray of light

Like an arrow white

Drawn from a crystal quiver.

They romp and play,

In a wond'rous way,

On tree and shrub and flower;

And fill the night

With a radiant light,

That falls like a silver shower.

"You do not say anything," said Alice, as Quincy finished reading and

remained silent.

He replied, "You have conferred judicial functions upon me and a judge

does not give his opinion until the evidence is all in."

"Ah! I see," said Alice. "My knowledge of metrical composition," she

continued, "is very limited. What I know of it I learned from an old

copy of Fowler's Grammar that I bought at Burnham's on School Street

soon after I went to Boston. I have always called what you just read a

poem. Is it one?" she asked, looking up with a smile.

"I think it is," replied Quincy, "and," he added inadvertently, "a very

pretty one, too."

"Oh! Mr. Judge," laughing outright "you have given aid and comfort to

the prisoner before the evidence was all in."

And Quincy was forced to laugh heartily at the acuteness she had shown

in forcing his opinion from him prematurely."

"Now, this one," said Alice, "I call a song. I know which one it is by

the size and thickness of the paper." And she handed him a foolscap

sheet.

Quincy took it and glanced over it a moment or two before he spoke,

Alice leaning forward and listening intently for the first sound of his

voice. Then Quincy uttered those ever pleasing words, "Sweet, Sweet

Home," and delivered, with great expression, the words of the song.

"You read it splendidly," cried Alice, with evident delight. "Would it

be presuming on your kindness if I asked you to read the refrain and

chorus once more, Mr. Sawyer?"

"I shall enjoy reading it again myself," remarked Quincy, as he

proceeded to comply with Alice's pleasantly worded request.

REFRAIN:

There is no place like home, they say,

No matter where it be;

The lordly mansion of the rich,

The hut of poverty.

The little cot, the tenement,

The white-winged ship at sea;

The heart will always seek its home,

Wherever it may be.

CHORUS:

Sweet, sweet home!

To that sweet place where youth was passed our thoughts will turn;

Sweet, sweet home!

Will send the blood to flaming face, and hearts will burn.

Sweet, sweet home!

It binds us to our native land where'er we roam,

No land so fair, no sky so blue,

As those we find when back we come to sweet, sweet home!

"Of course you know that lovely song, 'Juanita'?" said Alice.

"Certainly," said Quincy, and he sang the first line of the chorus.

Alice's voice joined in with his, and they finished the chorus together.

A thrill went through Quincy as he sang the last line, and he was

conscious that his voice quivered when he came to the words, "Be my own

fair bride."

"You sing with great expression," said Alice, "If you like these new

words that I have written to that old melody we can sing them together.

I have called it Loved Days. I think this is the one," she said, as she

passed him several small sheets pinned together.

"It is," said Quincy, as he took the paper and read it slowly.

As before, he said nothing when he had finished.

"Mr. Judge," said Alice, "would it be improper, from a judicial point of

view, for me to ask you which lines in the song you have just read

please you the most? But perhaps," said she, looking up at him, "none of

them are worthy of repetition."

"If you will consider for a moment," replied Quincy, "that I am off the

bench and am just sitting here quietly with you, I will say,

confidentially, that I am particularly well pleased with this;" and he

read a portion of the first stanza:

On Great Heaven's beauties,

Gaze the eyes I loved to see,

Done earth's weary duties,

Now, eternity.

"And," continued Quincy, "I think these lines from the second stanza are

fully equal to those I have just read."

But my soul, still living,

Speaks its words of comfort sweet,

Grandest promise giving

That again we'll meet.

"I should think," continued Quincy, "that those words were particularly

well suited to be sung at a funeral. I shall have to ask my friend

Bradley to have his quartette learn them, so as to be ready when I need

them."

"Oh! Mr. Sawyer," cried Alice, with a strong tone of reproof in her

voice, "how can you speak so lightly of death?"

"Pardon me," replied Quincy, "if I have unintentionally wounded your

feelings, but after all life is only precious to those who have

something to live for."

"But you certainly," said Alice, "can see something in life worth living

for."

"Yes," assented Quincy, "I can see it, but I am not satisfied in my own

mind that I shall ever be able to possess it."

"Oh, you must work and wait and hope!" cried Alice.

"I shall be happy to," he said, "if you will be kind and say an

encouraging word to me, so that I may not grow weary of the battle of

life."

"I should be pleased to help you all I can," she said sweetly.

"I shall need your help," Quincy remarked gravely, and then with a quick

change in tone he said playfully, "I think it is about time for the

judge to get back upon the bench."

"This," said Alice, as she passed him a manuscript enclosed in a cover,

"is my capital offence. If I escape punishment for my other

misdemeanors, I know I shall not when you have read this." And she

handed him the paper.

Quincy opened it and read, The Lord of the Sea, a Cantata.

CHARACTERS.

Canute, the Great, King of England and Denmark.

A Courtier.

An Irish Harper.

Queen Emma, the "Flower of Normandy."

Courtiers, Monks, and Gleemen.

PLACE.

Part I.--The palace of the king.

Part II.--The seashore at Southampton.

Time--About A.D. 1030.

As he proceeded with the reading he became greatly interested in it. He

had a fine voice and had taken a prize for oratory at Harvard.

When he finished he turned to Alice and said, "And you wrote that?"

"Certainly," said she. "Can you forgive me?"

Quincy said seriously, "Miss Pettengill, that is a fine poem; it is

grand when read, but it would be grander still if set to music. I can

imagine," Quincy continued, "how those choruses would sound if sung by

the Handel and Haydn Society, backed up by a full orchestra and the big

organ." And he sang, to an extemporized melody of his own, the words:

God bless the king of the English,

The Lord of the land,

The Lord of the sea!

"I can imagine," said he, as he rose and stood before Alice, "King

Canute as a heavy-voiced basso. How he would bring out these words!

Great sea! the land on which I stand, is mine;

Its rocky shores before thy blows quail not.

Thou, too, O! sea, are part of my domain,

And, like the land, must bow to my command.

I'll sit me here! rise not, nor dare to touch,

With thy wet lips, the ermine of my robe!

"And," cried he, for the moment overcome by his enthusiasm, "how would

this sound sung in unison by five hundred well-trained voices?

For God alone is mighty,

The Lord of the sea,

The Lord of the land!

For He holds the waves of the ocean

In the hollow of His hand,

And the strength of the mightiest king

Is no more than a grain of sand.

For God alone is mighty,

The Lord of the sea,

The Lord of the land!"

As Quincy resumed his seat, Alice clapped her hands to show her

approbation of his oratorical effort. Then they both sat in silence for

a few minutes, each evidently absorbed in thought.

Suddenly Alice spoke:

"And now, Mr. Sawyer, will you let me ask you a serious question? If I

continue writing pieces like these, can I hope to earn enough from it to

support myself?"

Quincy thought for a moment, and then said, "I am afraid not. If you

would allow me to take them to Boston the next time I go I will try and

find out their market value, but editors usually say that poetry is a

drug, and they have ten times as much offered them as they can find room

for. On the other hand, stories, especially short ones, are eagerly

sought and good prices paid for them. Did you ever think of writing a

story, Miss Pettengill?"

"Oh, yes!" said Alice, "I have several blocked out, I call it, in my own

mind, but it is such a task for me to write that I dare not undertake

them. If I could afford to pay an amanuensis it would be different."

Quincy comprehended the situation in a moment. "I like to write, Miss

Pettengill," said he, "and time hangs heavily upon my hands. We are

likely to have a long spell of winter weather, during which I shall be

confined to the house as well as yourself. Take pity on me and give my

idle hands something to do."

"Oh, it would be too much to ask," said Alice.

"But you have not asked," answered Quincy. "I have offered you my

services without your asking."

"But when could we begin?" asked Alice, hesitatingly.

"At once," replied Quincy. "I brought with me from Boston a half ream of

legal paper and a dozen good pencils. I can write faster and much better

with a pencil than I can with a pen, and as all legal papers have to be

copied, I have got into the habit of using pencils for everything."

It took Quincy but a few minutes to go to his room and secure his paper

and pencils. He drew a table close to Alice's chair and sat down beside

her.

"What is the name of the story?" asked he.

Alice replied, "I have called it in my mind, 'How He Lost Both Name and

Fortune.'"

CHAPTER XXIII.

A VISIT TO MRS. PUTNAM.

It must not be supposed that Alice's story was written out by Quincy in

one or even two days. The oldest inhabitants will tell you that the

great snowstorm lasted three days and three nights, and it was not till

the fourth day thereafter that the roads were broken out, so that safe

travel between Eastborough Centre and Mason's Corner became possible.

The day after the storm the sad intelligence came to Quincy and Alice

that old Mr. Putnam had passed quietly away on the last day of the

storm. Quincy attended the funeral, and he could not help acknowledging

to himself that Lindy Putnam never looked more beautiful than in her

dress of plain black. The only ornament upon her was a pair of beautiful

diamond earrings, but she always wore them, and consequently they were

not obtrusive.

Quincy bore an urgent request from Mrs. Putnam that Alice should come to

see her. As the story was finished and copied on the seventh day after

the storm, Quincy had the old-fashioned sleigh brought out and lined

with robes. Taking the horse Old Bill, that sleigh bells or snow slides

could not startle from his equanimity, Alice was driven to Mrs.

Putnam's, and in a few minutes was clasped to Mrs. Putnam's bosom, the

old lady crying and laughing by turns.

Quincy thought it best, to leave them alone, and descending the stairs

he entered the parlor, the door being halfway open. He started back as

he saw a form dressed in black, seated by the window.

"Come in, Mr. Sawyer," said Lindy. "I knew you were here. I saw you

when you drove up with Miss Pettengill. What a beautiful girl she is,

and what a pity that she is blind. I hope with all my heart that she

will recover her sight."

"She would be pleased to hear you say that," remarked Quincy.

"We were never intimate," said Lindy. "You can tell her from me, you are

quite the gallant chevalier, Mr. Sawyer, and what you say to her will

sound sweeter than if it came from other lips. Are you going to marry

her, Mr. Sawyer?"

"I do not think that our acquaintance is of such long standing that you

are warranted in asking me so personal a question," replied Quincy.

"Perhaps not," said Lindy, "but as I happened to know, though not from

your telling, that she is to be my mother's heiress, I had a little

curiosity to learn whether you had already proposed or were going--"

"Miss Putnam," said Quincy sternly, "do not complete your sentence. Do

not make me think worse of you than I already do. I beg your pardon for

intruding upon you. I certainly should not have done so had I

anticipated such an interview."

Lindy burst into a flood of tears. Her grief seemed uncontrollable.

Quincy closed the parlor door, thinking that if her cries and sobs were

heard upstairs it would require a double explanation, which it might be

hard for him to give.

He stood and looked at the weeping girl. She had evidently known all

along who her mother's heiress was. She had been fooling him, but for

what reason? Was she in love with him? No, he did not think so; if she

had been she would have confided in him rather than have sought to force

him to confide in her. What could be the motive for her action? Quincy

was nonplussed. He had had considerable experience with society girls,

but they either relied upon languid grace or light repartee. They never

used tears either for offence or defence.

A surprise was in store for Quincy. Lindy rose from her chair and came

towards him, her eyes red with weeping.

"Why do you hate me so, Mr. Sawyer?" she asked. "Why will you not be a

friend to me, when I need one so much? What first turned you against

me?"

Quincy replied, "I will tell you, Miss Putnam. They told me you were

ashamed of your father and mother because they were old-fashioned

country people and did not dress as well or talk as good English as you

did."

"Who told you so?" asked Lindy.

"It was common talk in the village," he replied.

"I should think you had suffered enough from village gossip, Mr. Sawyer,

not to believe that all that is said is true."

Quincy winced and colored. It was a keen thrust and went home.

"Where there is so much smoke there must be some fire," he answered,

rather lamely, as he thought, even to himself.

"Mr. Sawyer, when I asked you to tell me a little secret you had in your

possession, you refused. I wanted a friend, but I also wanted a proven

friend. No doubt I took the wrong way to win your friendship, but I am

going to tell you something, Mr. Sawyer, if you will listen to me, that

will at least secure your pity for one who is rich in wealth but poor in

that she has no friends to whom she can confide her troubles."

Quincy saw that he was in for it, and like a gentleman, determined to

make the best of it, so he said, "Miss Putnam, I will listen to your

story, and if, after hearing it, I can honorably aid you I will do so

with pleasure."

Lindy took his hand, which he had half extended, and said, "Come, sit

down, Mr. Sawyer. It is a long story, and I am nervous and tired," and

she looked down at her black dress.

They sat upon the sofa, he at one end, she at the other.

"Mr. Sawyer," she began abruptly, "I am not a natural-born child of Mr.

and Mrs. Putnam. I was adopted by them when but two years of age. I do

not know who my father and mother were. I am sure Mrs. Putnam knows, but

she will not tell me."

"It could do no harm now that you are a woman grown," said Quincy.

"At first they both loved me," Lindy continued, "but a year after I came

here to live their son was born, and from that time on all was changed.

Mr. Putnam was never unkind to me but once, but Mrs. Putnam seemed to

take delight in blaming me, and tormenting me, and nagging me, until it

is a wonder that my disposition is as good as it is, and you know it is

not very good," said she to Quincy with a little smile. She resumed her

story: "I loved the little boy, Jones I always called him, and as we

grew up together he learned to love me and took my part, although he was

three years younger than myself. This fact made Mrs. Putnam hate me more

than ever. He stayed at home until he was twenty-two, then he went to

his father and mother and told them that he loved me and wished to marry

me. Both Mr. and Mrs. Putnam flew into a great rage at this. The idea of

a brother marrying his sister! They said it was a crime and a sacrilege,

and the vengeance of God would surely fall upon us both. Jones told them

he had written to a lawyer in Boston, and he had replied that there was

no law prohibiting such a marriage. 'But the law of God shines before

you like a flaming sword,' said Mrs. Putnam; and Mr. Putnam agreed with

her, for she had all his property in her possession." Quincy smiled.

"They packed Jones off to the city at once," said Lindy, "and his

mother gave him five thousand dollars to go into business with. Jones

began speculating, and he was successful from first to last. In three

months he paid back the five thousand dollars his mother had given him,

and he never took a dollar from them after that day. At twenty-six he

was worth one hundred thousand dollars. When I went to Boston I always

saw him, and he at last told me he could stand it no longer. Be wanted

me to marry him and go to Europe with him. I told him I must have a week

to think it over. If I decided to go I would be in Boston on a certain

day. I would bring my trunk and would stop at a certain hotel and send

word for him to come to me. I used all possible secrecy in getting my

clothes ready, and packed them away, as I thought, unnoticed, in my

trunk, which was in the attic. Mrs. Putnam must have suspected that I

intended to leave home, and she knew that I would not go unless to meet

her son. The day before I planned going to Boston, or rather the night

before, she entered my room while I was asleep, took every particle of

my clothing, with the exception of one house dress and a pair of

slippers, and locked me in. They kept me there for a week, and I wished

that I had died there, for when they came to me it was to tell me that

Jones was dead, and I was the cause of it. I who loved him so!" And the

girl's eyes filled with tears.

"What was the cause of his death?" asked Quincy.

"He was young, healthy, and careless," answered Lindy. "He took a bad

cold and it developed into lung fever. Even then he claimed it was

nothing and would not see a doctor. One morning he did not come to the

office, his clerk went to his room, but when the doctor was called it

was too late. It was very sad that he should die so, believing that I

had refused to go with him, when I would have given my life for him. He

loved me till death. He left me all his money, but in his will he

expressed the wish that I would never accept a dollar from his parents.

So now you see why Mrs. Putnam does not make me her heiress. You think I

hate Miss Pettengill because she is going to give it to her, but truly I

do not, Mr. Sawyer. What I said when you came in I really meant, and I

hope you will be happy, Mr. Sawyer, even as I hoped to be years ago."

Quincy had been greatly interested in Lindy's story, and that feeling of

sympathy for the unhappy and suffering that always shows itself in a

true gentleman rose strongly in his breast.

"Miss Putnam," said he, "I have wronged you both in thought and action,

but I never suspected what you have told me. Will you forgive me and

allow me to be your friend? I will try to atone in the future for my

misdoings in the past."

He extended his hand, and Lindy laid hers in his.

"I care not for the past," said she. "I will forget that. I have also to

ask for forgiveness. I, too, have said and done many things which I

would not have said or done, but for womanly spite and vanity. You see

my excuse is not so good as yours," said she, as she smiled through her

tears.

"In what way can I serve you?" asked Quincy. "Why do you not go to

Boston and live? I could introduce you to many pleasant families."

"What!" cried Lindy. "Me, a waif and a stray! You are too kind-hearted,

Mr. Sawyer. I shall not leave the woman every one but you thinks to be

my mother. When she is dead I shall leave Eastborough never to return.

My sole object in life from that day will be to find some trace of my

parents or relatives. Now it may happen that through Mrs. Putnam or Miss

Pettengill you may get some clew that will help me in my search. It is

for this that I wish a friend, and I have a presentiment that some day

you will be able to help me."

Quincy assured her that if it lay in his power any time to be of

assistance to her, she could count upon him.

"By the way, Miss Putnam," said he, "how did your investment with Foss &

Follansbee turn out? I heard a rumor that the stock fell, and you lost

considerable money."

Lindy flushed painfully. "It did drop, Mr. Sawyer, but it rallied again,

as you call it, and when they sold out for me I made nearly five

thousand dollars; but," and she looked pleadingly up into Quincy's face,

"you have forgiven me for that as well as for my other wrong doings."

"For everything up to date," said Quincy, laughing.

At that instant a loud pounding was heard on the floor above.

"Mrs. Putnam is knocking for you," said Lindy. "Miss Pettengill must be

ready to go home. Good-by, Mr. Sawyer, and do not forget your unhappy

friend."

"I promise to remember her and her quest," said Quincy.

He gave the little hand extended to him, a slight pressure and ran up

the stairs. As he did so he heard the parlor door close behind him.

As they were driving home, Alice several times took what appeared to be

a letter from her muff and held it up as though trying to read it.

Quincy glanced towards her.

"Mr. Sawyer, can you keep a secret?" asked Alice.

"I have a big one on my mind now," replied Quincy, "that I would like to

confide to some one."

"Why don't you?" asked Alice.

"As soon as I can find a person whom I think can fully sympathize with

me I shall do so, but for the present I must bear my burden in silence,"

said he.

"I hope you Will not have to wait long before finding that sympathetic

friend," remarked Alice.

"I hope so, too," he replied. "But I have not answered your question,

Miss Pettengill. If I can serve you by storing a secret with you, it

shall be safe with me."

"Will you promise not to speak of it, not even to me?" she asked.

"If you wish it I will promise," he answered.

"Then please read to me what is written on that envelope."

Quincy looked at the envelope. "It is written in an old-fashioned,

cramped hand," he said, "and the writing is 'confided to Miss Alice

Pettengill, and to be destroyed without being read by her within

twenty-four hours after my death. Hepsibeth Putnam.'"

"Thank you," said Alice simply, and she replaced the envelope in her

muff.

Like a flash of lightning the thought came to Quincy that the letter to

be destroyed had some connection with the strange story so recently told

him by Lindy. He must take some action in the matter before it was too

late. Turning to Alice he said, "Miss Pettengill, if I make a strange

request of you, which you can easily grant, will you do it, and not ask

me for any explanation until after you have complied?"

"You have worded your inquiry so carefully, Mr. Sawyer, that I am a

little afraid you, you being a lawyer, but as you have so graciously

consented to keep a secret with me, I will trust you and will promise to

comply with your request."

"All I ask is," said Quincy, "that before you destroy that letter, you

will let me read to you once more what is written upon the envelope."

"Why, certainly," said Alice, "how could I refuse so harmless a request

as that?"

"I am greatly obliged for your kindness," said Quincy to her; but he

thought to himself, "I will find out what is in that envelope, if there

is any honorable way of doing so."

Hiram came over to see Mandy that evening, and Mrs. Crowley, who was in

the best of spirits, sang several old-time Irish songs to them, Hiram

and Mandy joining in the choruses. They were roasting big red apples on

the top of the stove and chestnuts in the oven. Quincy, attracted by the

singing, came downstairs to the kitchen, and was invited to join in the

simple feast. He then asked Mrs. Crowley to sing for him, which she did,

and he repaid her by singing, "The Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls" so

sweetly that tears coursed down the old woman's cheeks, and she said,

"My poor boy Tom, that was killed in the charge at Balaklava, used to

sing just like that."

Then the poor woman began weeping so violently that Mandy coaxed her off

to bed and left the room with her.

When Hiram and Quincy were alone together, the latter said: "Any news,

Hiram?"

"Not much," replied Hiram. "The snow is too deep, and it's too darned

cold for the boys to travel 'round and do much gossipin' this weather. A

notice is pasted up on Hill's grocery that it'll be sold by auction next

Tuesday at three o'clock in the afternoon. And I got on to one bit of

news. Strout and his friends are goin' to give Huldy Mason a surprise

party. They have invited me and Mandy simply because they want you to

hear all about it. But they don't propose to invite you, nor 'Zeke, nor

his sister."

"Has Strout got anybody to back him up on buying the grocery store?"

asked Quincy.

"Yes," said Hiram, "he has got two thousand dollars pledged, and I hear

he wants five hundred dollars more. He don't think the whole thing will

run over twenty-five hundred dollars."

"How much is to be paid in cash?" Quincy inquired.

"Five hundred dollars," said Hiram; "and that's what troubles Strout.

His friends will endorse his notes and take a mortgage on the store, for

they know it's a good payin' business. They expect to get their money

back with good interest, but it comes kinder hard on them to plunk down

five hundred dollars in cold cash."

[Illustration: "QUINCY READING ALICE'S LETTER TO HER." (ACT III.)]

At that moment Mandy returned, and after asking her for a spoon and a

plate upon which to take a roast apple and some chestnuts upstairs,

Quincy left the young couple together. As he sat before the fire

enjoying his lunch, he resolved that he would buy that grocery store,

cost what it might, and that 'Zeke Pettengill, Alice, and himself would

go to that surprise party.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE NEW DOCTOR.

Quincy improved the first opportunity offered for safe travelling to

make a visit to the city. He had several matters to attend to. First, he

had not sent his letter to his friend, requesting him to make inquiries

as to Obadiah Strout's war record, for the great snowstorm had come the

day after he had written it. Second, he was going to take Alice's story

to show to a literary friend, and see if he could secure its

publication. And this was not all; Alice had told him, after he had

finished copying the story she had dictated to him, that she had written

several other short stories during the past two years.

In response to his urgent request, she allowed him to read her treasured

manuscripts. The first was a passionate love story in which a young

Spanish officer, stationed on the island of Cuba, and a beautiful young

Cuban girl were the principals. It was entitled "Her Native Land," and

was replete with startling situations and effective tableaus. Quincy was

delighted with it, and told Alice if dramatized it would make a fine

acting play. This was, of course, very pleasing to the young author.

Quincy was her amanuensis, her audience, and her critic, and she knew

that in his eyes she was already a success.

She also gave him to read a series of eight stories, in a line usually

esteemed quite foreign to feminine instincts. Alice had conceived the

idea of a young man, physically weak and suffering from nervous

debility, being left an immense fortune at the age of twenty-one. His

money was well invested, and in company with a faithful attendant he

travelled for fifteen years, covering every nook and corner of the

habitable globe. At thirty-six he returned home much improved in health,

but still having a marked aversion to engaging in any business pursuit.

A mysterious case and its solution having been related to him, he

resolved to devote his income, now amounting to a million dollars

yearly, to amateur detective work. His great-desire was to ferret out

and solve mysteries, murders, suicides, robberies, and disappearances

that baffled the police and eluded their vigilant inquiry.

The titles that Alice had chosen for her stories were as mysterious, in

their way, as the stories themselves. Arranged in the order of their

writing, they were: Was it Signed? The Man Without a Tongue; He Thought

He Was Dead; The Eight of Spades; The Exit of Mrs. Delmonnay; How I

Caught the Fire-Bugs; The Hot Hand; and The Mystery of Unreachable

Island.

When Quincy reached the city, his first visit was to his father's

office, but he found him absent. He was told that he was conducting a

case in the Equity Session of the Supreme Court, and would not return to

the office that day.

Instead of leaving his letter at his friend's office, he went directly

to the Adjutant-General's office at the State House. Here he found that

an acquaintance of his was employed as a clerk. He was of foreign birth,

but had served gallantly through the war and had left an arm upon the

battlefield. He made his request for a copy of the war record of Obadiah

Strout, of the --th Mass. Volunteers. Then a thought came suddenly to

him and he requested one also of the record of Hiram Maxwell of the same

regiment.

Leaving the State House on the Hancock Avenue side, he walked down that

narrow but convenient thoroughfare, and was standing at its entrance to

the sidewalk on Beacon Street, debating which publisher he would call on

first, when a cheery voice said, "Hello, Sawyer." When he looked up he

saw an old Latin School and college chum, named Leopold Ernst. Ernst was

a Jew, but he had been one of the smartest and most popular of the boys

in school and of the men at Harvard.

"What are you up to?" asked Ernst.

"Living on my small fortune and my father's bounty," said Quincy. "Not a

very creditable record, I know, but my health has not been very good,

and I have been resting for a couple of months in the country."

"Not much going on in the country at this time of the year I fancy,"

remarked Ernst.

"That's where you are wrong," said Quincy. "There has been the devil to

pay ever since I landed in the town, and I've got mixed up in so many

complications that I don't expect to get back to town before next

Christmas. But what are you doing, Ernst?"

"Oh, I am in for literature; not the kind that consists in going round

with a notebook and prying into people's business, with a hope one day

of becoming an editor, and working twenty hours out of the twenty-four

each day. Not a bit of it, I am reader for ----;" and he mentioned the

name of a large publishing house. "I have my own hours and a comfortable

salary. I sit like Solomon upon the efforts of callow authors and the

productions of ripened genius. Sometimes I discover a diamond in the

rough, and introduce a new star to the literary firmament; and at other

times I cut up some egotistical old writer, who thinks anything he turns

out will be sure to please the public."

"How fortunate that I have met you?" said Quincy. "I have in this little

carpet bag the first effusions of one of those callow authors of whom

you spoke. She is poor, beautiful, and blind."

"Don't try to trade on my sympathies, old boy," said Ernst. "No person

who is poor has any right to become an author. It takes too long in

these days to make a hit, and the poor author is bound to die before

the hit comes. The 'beautiful' gag don't work with me at all. The best

authors are homelier than sin and it's a pity that their pictures are

ever published. As regards the 'blind' part, that may be an advantage,

for dictating relieves one of the drudgery of writing one's self, and

gives one a chance for a fuller play of one's fancies than if tied to a

piece of wood, a scratchy pen, and a bottle of thick ink."

"Then you won't look at them," said Quincy.

"I didn't say so," replied Ernst. "Of course, I can't look at them in a

business way, unless they are duly submitted to my house, but I have

been reading a very badly written, but mightily interesting manuscript,

for the past two days and a half, and I want a change of work or

diversion, to brush up my wits. Now, old fellow," said he, taking Quincy

by the arm, "if you will come up to the club with me, and have a good

dinner with some Chianti, and a glass or two of champagne, and a pousse

cafe to finish up with, then we will go up to my rooms on Chestnut

Street--I have a whole top floor to myself--we will light up our cigars,

and you may read to me till to-morrow morning and I won't murmur. But,

mind you, if the stories are mighty poor I may go to sleep, and if I do

that, you might as well go to bed too, for when I once go to sleep I

never wake up till I get good and ready."

Quincy had intended after seeing a publisher to leave the manuscripts

for examination, then to take tea with his mother and sisters, and go

back to Eastborough on the five minutes past six express. But he was

prone to yield to fate, which is simply circumstances, and he accepted

his old college chum's invitation with alacrity. He could get the

opinion of an expert speedily, and that fact carried the day with him.

When they were comfortably ensconced in their easy-chairs on the top

floor, and the cigars lighted, Quincy commenced reading. Leopold had

previously shown him his suite, which consisted of a parlor, or rather a

sitting-room, a library, which included principally the works of

standard authors and reference books, his sleeping apartment, and a

bathroom.

There was a large bed lounge in the sitting-room, and Quincy determined

to read every story in his carpet bag, if it took him all night. He

commenced with the series of detective or mystery stories. He had read

them over before and was able to bring out their strong points

oratorically, for, as it has been said before, he was a fine speaker.

Quincy eyed Ernst over the corner of the manuscript he was reading, but

the latter understood his business. Occasionally he was betrayed into a

nod of approval and several times shook his head in a negative way, but

he uttered no word of commendation or disapproval.

After several of the stories had been read, Ernst called a halt, and

going to a cupboard brought out some crackers, cake, and a decanter of

wine, with glasses, which he put upon a table, and placed within

comfortable reach of both reader and listener. Then he said, "Go ahead,"

munched a cracker, sipped his wine, and then lighted a fresh cigar.

When the series was finished, Leopold said, "Now we will have some tea.

I do a good deal of my reading at home, and I don't like to go out again

after I have crawled up four flights of stairs, so my landlady sends me

up a light supper at just about this hour. There is the maid now," as a

light knock was heard on the door.

Leopold opened it, and the domestic brought in a tray with a pot of tea

and the ingredients of a light repast, which she placed upon another

table near a window.

"There is always enough for two," said Leopold. "Reading is mighty

tiresome work, and listening is too, and a cup of good strong tea will

brighten us both up immensely. You can come back for the tray in

fifteen minutes, Jennie," said Ernest.

The supper was finished, the tray removed, and the critic sat in

judgment once more upon the words that fell from the reader's lips.

Leopold's face lighted up during the reading of "Her Native Land." He

started to speak, and the word "That's--" escaped him, but he recovered

himself and said no more, though he listened intently.

Quincy took a glass of wine and a cracker before starting upon the story

which had been dictated to him. Leopold gave no sign of falling asleep,

but patted his hands lightly together at certain points in the story,

whether contemplatively or approvingly Quincy could not determine. As he

read the closing lines of the last manuscript the cuckoo clock struck

twelve, midnight.

"You are a mighty good reader, Quincy," said Leopold, "and barring

fifteen minutes for refreshments, you have been at it ten hours. Now you

want my opinion of those stories, and what's more, you want my advice as

to the best place to put them to secure their approval and early

publication. Now I am going to smoke a cigar quietly and think the whole

thing over, and at half past twelve I will give you my opinion in

writing. I am going into my library for half an hour to write down what

I have to say. You take a nap on the lounge there, and you will be

refreshed when I come back after having made mince meat of your poor,

beautiful, blind _protege_."

Leopold disappeared into the library, and Quincy stretching himself on

the lounge, rested, but did not sleep. Before he had realized that ten

minutes had passed, Leopold stood beside him with a letter sheet in his

hand, and said, "Now, Quincy, read this to me, and I will see if I have

got it down straight."

Quincy's hand trembled nervously as he seated himself in his old

position and turning the sheet so that the light would fall upon it, he

read the following:

Opinion of Leopold Ernst, Literary Critic, of certain manuscripts

submitted for examination by Quincy A. Sawyer, with some advice gratis.

1. Series of eight stories. Mighty clever general idea; good stories

well written. Same style maintained throughout; good plots. Our house

could not handle them--not of our line. Send to ----. (Here followed the

name of a New York publisher.) I will write Cooper, one of their

readers. He is a friend of mine, and will secure quick decision, which,

I prophesy, will be favorable.

2. "Her Native Land" is a fine story. I can get it into a weekly

literary paper that our house publishes. I know Jameson, the reader,

will take it, especially if you would give him the right to dramatize

it. He is hand and glove with all the theatre managers and has had

several successes.

3. That story about the Duke, I want for our magazine. It is capital,

and has enough meat in it to make a full-blown novel. All it wants is

oysters, soup, fish, entrees, and a dessert prefixed to and joined on to

the solid roast and game which the story as now written itself supplies.

In Witness Whereof, I have hereunto set my hand, this 24th day of

February, 186--.

LEOPOLD ERNST, Literary Critic.

Quincy remained all night with Leopold, sleeping on the bed lounge in

the sitting-room. He was up at six o'clock the next morning, but found

that his friend was also an early riser, for on entering the library he

saw the latter seated at his desk regarding the pile of manuscript which

Quincy had read to him.

Leopold looked up with a peculiar expression on his face.

"What's the matter," asked Quincy, "changing your mind?"

"No," said Leopold, "I never do that, it would spoil my value as a

reader if I did. My decisions are as fixed as the laws of the Medes and

Persians, and are regarded by literary aspirants as being quite as

severe as the statutes of Draco; but the fact is, Quincy, you and your

_protege_--you see I consider you equally culpable--have neglected to

put any real name or pseudonym to these interesting stories. Of course I

can affix the name of the most popular author that the world has ever

known,--Mr. Anonymous,--but you two probably have some pet name that you

wish immortalized."

"By George!" cried Quincy, "we did forget that. I will talk it over with

her, and send you the _nom de plume_ by mail.

"Very well," said Leopold, rising. "And now let us go and have some

breakfast."

"My dear fellow, you must excuse me. I have not seen my parents this

trip, and I ought to go up to the house and take breakfast with the

family."

"All right," said Leopold, "rush that pseudonym right along, so I can

send the manuscripts to Cooper. And don't forget to drop in and see me

next time you come to the city."

On his way to Beacon Street Quincy suddenly stopped and regarded a sign

that read, Paul Culver, M.D., physician and surgeon. He knew Culver, but

hadn't seen him for eight years. They were in the Latin School together

under _pater_ Gardner. He rang the bell and was shown into Dr. Culver's

office, and in a few minutes his old schoolmate entered. Paul Culver was

a tall, broad-chested, heavily-built young man, with frank blue eyes,

and hair of the color that is sometimes irreverently called, or rather

the wearers of it are called, towheads.

They had a pleasant talk over old school days and college experiences,

which were not identical, for Paul had graduated from Yale College at

his father's desire, instead of from Harvard. Then Quincy broached what

was upper-most in his mind and which had been the real reason for his

call. He stated briefly the facts concerning Alice's case, and asked

Paul's advice.

Dr. Culver salt for a few moments apparently in deep study.

"My advice," said he, "is to see Tillotson. He has an office in the

Hotel Pelham, up by the Public Library, you know."

"Is he a 'regular'?" asked Quincy.

"Well," said Culver, "I don't think he is. For a fact I know he is not

an M.D., but I fancy that the diploma that be holds from the Almighty is

worth more to suffering humanity than a good many issued by the

colleges."

"You are a pretty broad-minded allopath," said Quincy, "to give such a

sweeping recommendation to a quack."

"I didn't say he was a quack," replied Culver. "He is a natural-born

healer, and he uses only nature's remedies in his practice. Go and see

him, Quincy, and judge for yourself."

"But," said Quincy, "I had hoped that you--"

"But I couldn't," broke in Paul. "I am an emergency doctor. If baby has

the croup, or Jimmy has the measles, or father has the lung fever, they

call me in, and I get them well as soon as possible. But if

mother-in-law has some obscure complaint I am too busy to give the time

to study it up, and they wouldn't pay me for it if I did. Medicine, like

a great many other things, is going into the hands of the specialists

eventually, and Tillotson is one of the first of the new school."

At that moment a maid announced that some one wished to see Dr. Culver,

and Quincy took a hurried leave.

He found his father, mother, and sisters at home, and breakfast was

quickly served after his arrival. They all said he was looking much

better, and all asked him when he was coming home. He gave an evasive

answer, saying that there were lots of good times coming down in

Eastborough and he didn't wish to miss them. He told his father he was

improving his time reading and writing, and would give a good account of

himself when he did return.

He had to wait an hour before he could secure an interview with Dr.

Tillotson. The latter had a spare day in each week, that day being

Thursday, which he devoted to cases that he was obliged to visit

personally. Quincy arranged with him to visit Eastborough on the

following Thursday, and by calling a carriage managed to catch the

half-past eleven train for that town, and reached his boarding place a

little before two o'clock. He had arranged with the driver to wait for a

letter that he wished to have mailed to Boston that same afternoon.

He went in by the back door, and as he passed through the kitchen, Mandy

made a sign, and he went to her.

"Hiram waited till one o'clock," said she, "but he had to go home, and

he wanted me to tell you that the surprise party is coming off next

Monday night, and they are going to get there at seven o'clock, so as to

have plenty of time for lots of fun, and Hiram suspects," and her voice

fell to a whisper, "that Strout is going to try and work the Deacon for

that five hundred in cash to put up for the grocery store next Tuesday.

That's all," said she.

"Where is Miss Pettengill?" Quincy inquired.

"She's in the parlor," said Mandy. "She has been playing the piano and

singing beautifully, but I guess she has got tired."

Quincy went directly to the parlor and found Alice seated before the

open fire, her right hand covering her eyes.

She, looked up as Quincy entered the room and said, "I am so glad you've

got back, Mr. Sawyer. I have been very lonesome since you have been

away."

Alice did not see the happy smile that spread over Quincy's face, and he

covered up his pleasure by saying, "How did you know it was I?"

"Oh," said Alice, "my hearing is very acute. I know the step of every

person in the house. Swiss has been with me all the morning, but he

asked a few minutes ago to be excused, so he could get his dinner."

Quincy laughed, and then, said, "Miss Pettengill, we forgot a very

important matter in connection with your stories; we omitted to put on

the name of the author." He told her of his meeting with Ernst, and what

had taken place, and Alice was delighted. Quincy did not refer to the

coming visit of Dr. Tillotson, for he did not mean to speak of it until

the day appointed arrived. "Now, Miss Pettengill, I have some letters to

write to send back by the hotel carriage, so that they can be mailed

this afternoon. While I am doing this you can decide upon your

pseudonym, and I will put it in the letter that I am going to write to

Ernst."

Quincy went up to his room and sat down at his writing table. The first

letter was to his bankers, and enclosed a check for five hundred

dollars, with a request to send the amount in bills by Adams Express to

Eastborough Centre, to reach there not later than noon of the next

Tuesday, and to be held until called for. The second letter was to a

prominent confectioner and caterer in Boston, ordering enough ice cream,

sherbet, frozen pudding, and assorted cake for a party of fifty persons,

and fifty grab-bag presents; all to reach Eastborough Centre in good

order on Monday night on the five minutes past six express from Boston.

The third letter was to Ernst. It was short and to the point. "The

pseudonym is--." And he left a blank space for the name. Then he signed

his own. He glanced over his writing table and saw the three poems that

Alice had given him to read. He added a postscript to his letter to

Ernst. It read as follows:

"I enclose three poems written by the same person who

wrote the stories. Tell me what you think of them, and if

you can place them anywhere do so, and this shall be your

warrant therefor. Q.A.S."

When his mail was in readiness he went downstairs to the parlor, taking

a pen and bottle of ink with him, and saying to himself, "That pseudonym

shall not be written in pencil."

"I am in a state of hopeless indecision," remarked Alice. "I can think

of Christian names that please me, and surnames that please me, but when

I put them together they don't please me at all."

"Then we will leave it to fate," said Quincy. He tore a sheet of paper

into six pieces and passed three, with a book and pencil, to Alice. "Now

you write," said he, "three Christian names that please you, and I will

write three surnames that please me; then we will put the pieces in my

hat, and you will select two and what you select shall be the name."

"That's a capital idea," said Alice, "it is harder to select a name than

it was to write the story."

The slips were written, placed in the hat, shaken up, and Alice selected

two, which she held up for Quincy to read.

"This is not fair," said Quincy. "I never thought. Both of the slips are

mine. We must try again."

"No," said Alice, "it is 'Kismet.' What are the names?" she asked.

"Bruce Douglas, or Douglas Bruce, as you prefer," said Quincy.

"I like Bruce Douglas best," replied Alice.

"I am so glad," said Quincy, "that's the name I should have selected

myself."

"Then I will bear your name in future," said Alice, and Quincy thought

to himself that he wished she had said those words in response to a

question that was in his mind, but which he had decided it was not yet

time to ask her. He was too much of a gentleman to refer in a joking

manner to the words which Alice had spoken and which had been uttered

with no thought or idea that they bore a double meaning.

Quincy wrote the selected name in the blank space in Leopold's letter,

sealed it and took his mail out to the carriage driver, who was seated

in the kitchen enjoying a piece of mince pie and a mug of cider which

Mandy had given him.

As Quincy entered the kitchen he heard Mandy say, "How is 'Bias

nowadays?"

"Oh, dad's all right," said the young man; "he is going to run Wallace

Stackpole again for tax collector against Obadiah Strout."

"Is your name Smith?" asked Quincy, advancing with the letters in his

hand.

"Yes," replied the young man, "my name is Abbott Smith. My dad's name is

'Bias; he is pretty well known 'round these parts."

"I have heard of him," said Quincy, "and I wish to see him and Mr.

Stackpole together. Can you come over for me next Wednesday morning and

bring Mr. Stackpole with you? I can talk to him going back, and I want

you to drive us over to your father's place. Don't say anything about it

except to Mr. Stackpole and your father, but I am going to take a hand

in town politics this year."

The young man laughed and said, "I will be over here by eight o'clock

next Wednesday."

"I wish you would have these letters weighed at the post office, and if

any more stamps are needed please put them on. Take what is left for

your trouble," and Quincy passed Abbott a half dollar.

He heard the retreating carriage wheels as he went upstairs to his room.

He made an entry in his pocket diary, and then ran his eye over several

others that preceded and followed it.

"Let me see," soliloquized he, as he read aloud, "this is Friday;

Saturday, expect war records from Adjutant-General; Monday, hear from

Ernst, surprise party in the evening; Tuesday, get money at express

office; Tuesday afternoon, buy Hill's grocery and give Strout his first

knock-out; Wednesday, see Stackpole and Smith and arrange to knock

Strout out again; Thursday, Dr. Tillotson." He laughed and closed the

book. Then he said, "And the city fellows think it must be dull down

here because there is nothing going on in a country town in the

winter."

CHAPTER XXV.

SOME PLAIN FACTS AND INFERENCES.

The next day was Saturday; the sun did not show itself from behind the

clouds till noon, and Quincy put off his trip to the Eastborough Centre

post office with the hope that the afternoon would be pleasant. His wish

was gratified, and at dinner he said he was going to drive over to

Eastborough Centre, and asked Miss Pettengill if she would not like to

accompany him. Alice hesitated, but Uncle Ike advised her to go, telling

her that she stayed indoors too much and needed outdoor exercise.

Ezekiel agreed with his uncle, and Alice finally gave what seemed to

Quincy to be a somewhat reluctant consent.

He saw that the sleigh was amply supplied with robes, and Mandy, at his

suggestion, heated a large piece of soap-stone, which was wrapped up and

placed in the bottom of the sleigh.

Alice appeared at the door equipped for her journey. Always lovely in

Quincy's eyes, she appeared still more so in her suit of dark blue

cloth. Over her shoulders she wore a fur cape lined with quilted red

satin, and on her head a fur cap, which made a strong contract with her

light hair which crept out in little curls from underneath.

They started off at a smart speed, for Old Bill was not in the shafts

this time. Alice had been familiar with the road to Eastborough before

leaving home, and as Quincy described the various points they passed,

Alice entered into the spirit of the drive with all the interest and

enthusiasm of a child. The sharp winter air brought a rosy bloom to her

cheeks, and as Quincy looked at those wonderful large blue eyes, he

could hardly make himself believe that they could not see him. He was

sure he had never seen a handsomer girl.

As they passed Uncle Ike's little house, Quincy called her attention to

it. Alice said:

"Poor Uncle Ike, I wish I could do more for him, he has done so much for

me. He paid for my lessons in bookkeeping and music, and also for my

board until I had finished my studies and obtained a position. He has

been a father to me since my own dear father died."

Quincy felt some inclination to find out the real reason why Uncle Ike

had left his family, but he repressed it and called attention to some

trees, heavily coated with snow and ice, which looked beautiful in the

sunshine, and he described them so graphically, bringing in allusions to

pearls and diamonds and strings of glistening jewels, that Alice clapped

her hands in delight and said she would take him as her literary

partner, to write in the descriptive passages. Quincy for an instant

felt impelled to take advantage of the situation, but saying to himself,

"The time is not yet," he touched the horse with his whip and for half a

minute was obliged to give it his undivided attention.

"Did you think the horse was running away?" said he to Alice, when he

had brought him down to a trot. "Were you afraid?"

"I am afraid of nothing nowadays," she replied. "I trust my companions

implicitly, knowing that they will tell me if I am in danger and advise

me what to do. I had a debate a long time ago with Uncle Ike about blind

people and deaf people. He said he would rather be stone deaf than

blind. As he argued it, the deaf person could read and write and get

along very comfortably by himself. I argued on the other side. I wish to

hear the voices of my friends when they talk and sing and read, and

then, you know, everybody lends a helping hand to a person who is blind,

but the deaf person must look out for himself."

"Either state is to be regretted, if there is no hope of relief,"

remarked Quincy. He thought he would refer to Dr. Tillotson, but they

were approaching the centre of the town, and he knew he would not have

time to explain his action before he reached the post office, so he

determined to postpone it until they were on the way home.

There were three letters for himself, two for Alice and a lot of papers

and magazines for Uncle Ike. He resumed his seat in the sleigh and they

started on their journey homeward.

"Would you like to go back the same way that we came?" asked Quincy, "or

shall we go by the upper road and come by Deacon Mason's?"

"I should like to stop and see Huldy," said Alice, and Quincy took the

upper road.

Conversation lagged on the homeward trip. Alice held her two letters in

her hand and looked at them several times, apparently trying to

recognize the handwriting. As Quincy glanced at her sidewise, he felt

sure that he saw tears in her eyes, and he decided that it would be an

inappropriate time to announce the subject of the new doctor. In fact,

he was beginning to think, the more his mind dwelt upon the subject,

that he had taken an inexcusable liberty in arranging for Dr. Tillotson

to come down without first speaking to her, or at least to her brother

or uncle. But the deed was done, and he must find some way to have her

see the doctor, and get his opinion about her eyes.

Quincy spent so much time revolving this matter in his mind, that he was

quite astonished when he looked around and found himself at the exact

place where he spoke those words to Huldy Mason that had ended in the

accident. This time he gave careful attention to horse and hill and

curve, and a moment later he drew up the sleigh at Deacon Mason's front

gate.

Mrs. Mason welcomed them at the door and they were shown into the

parlor, where Huldy sat at the piano. The young girls greeted each other

warmly, and Mrs. Mason and Huldy both wished Quincy and Alice to stay to

tea. They declined, saying they had many letters to read before supper

and 'Zekiel would think something had happened to them if they did not

come home.

"I will send Hiram down to let them know," said Mrs. Mason.

"You must really excuse us this time," protested Quincy. "Some other

time perhaps Miss Pettengill will accept your hospitality."

"But when?" asked Mrs. Mason. "We might as well fix a time right now."

"Yes," said Huldy, "and we won't let them go till they promise."

"Well, my plan," said Mrs. Mason, "is this. Have 'Zekiel and Alice and

Mr. Sawyer come over next Monday afternoon about five o'clock, and we

will have tea at six, and we will have some music in the evening. I have

so missed your singing, Mr. Sawyer, since you went away."

"Yes," said Huldy, "I think it is real mean of you, Alice, not to let

him come and see us oftener."

Alice flushed and stammered, "I--I--I do not keep him from coming to see

you. Why, yes, I have too," said she, as a thought flashed through her

mind. "I will tell you the truth, Mrs. Mason. Mr. Sawyer offered to do

some writing for me, and I have kept him very busy."

She stopped and Quincy continued:

"I did do a little writing for her, Mrs. Mason, during the great

snowstorm, and it was as great a pleasure to me, as I hope it was a help

to her, for I had nothing else to do."

"Well," said Mrs. Mason, "you can settle that matter between yer. All

that Huldy and me wants to know is, will all three of you come and take

tea with us next Monday night?"

"I shall be greatly pleased to do so," said Quincy.

"If 'Zekiel will come, I will," said Alice, and Quincy for an instant

felt a slight touch of wounded feeling because Alice had ignored him

entirely in accepting the invitation.

As they drove home, Alice said: "Mrs. Mason managed that nicely, didn't

she? I didn't wish to appear too eager to come, for Huldy might have

suspected."

"What mystery is this?" asked Quincy. "I really don't know what you are

talking about."

"What!" said Alice. "Didn't 'Zekiel tell you about the surprise party

that Mr. Strout was getting up, and that you, 'Zekiel, and I were not to

be invited?"

"Oh! I see," said Quincy. "How stupid I have been! I knew all about it

and that it was to be next Monday, but Mrs. Mason asked us so honestly

to come to tea, and Huldy joined in so heartily, that for the time being

I got things mixed, and besides, to speak frankly, Miss Pettengill, I

was thinking of something else."

"And what was it?" asked Alice.

"Well," said Quincy, determined to break the ice, "I will tell you. I

was wondering why you said you would come to tea if 'Zekiel would come."

"Oh!" said Alice, laughing. "You thought I was very ungenerous to leave

you out of the question entirely."

"Honestly I did think so," remarked Quincy.

"Well, now," said Alice, "I did it from the most generous of motives. I

thought you knew about the surprise party as well as I did. I knew

'Zekiel would go with me and I thought that perhaps you had some other

young lady in view for your companion."

"What?" asked Quincy. "Whom could I have had in view?"

"Shall I tell you whom I think?" asked Alice.

"I wish you would," Quincy replied.

"Well," said Alice, "I thought it might be Lindy Putnam."

Quincy bit his lip and gave the reins a savage jerk, as he turned up the

short road that led to the Pettengill house. "What could make you think

that, Miss Pettengill?"

"Well, I have only one reason to give," Alice replied, "for that

opinion, but the fact is, when we made our call on Mrs. Putnam she

pounded on the floor three times with her crutch before you came

upstairs. Am I justified, Mr. Sawyer?"

"I'm afraid you are," said Quincy. "I should have thought so myself if I

had been in your place."

But when he reached his room he threw his letters on the table, his coat

and hat on the bed, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked

rapidly up and down the room, saying to himself in a savage whisper,

"Confound that Putnam girl; she is a hoodoo."

Quincy was philosophical, and his excited feelings soon quieted down. It

would come out all right in the end. Alice would find that he had not

intended to take Miss Putnam to the surprise party. He could not betray

Lindy's confidence just at that time, even to justify himself. He must

wait until Mrs. Putnam died. It might be years from now before the time

came to destroy that letter, and he could not, until then, disclose to

Alice the secret that Lindy had confided to him. Yes, it would come out

all right in the end, for it might be if Alice thought he was in love

with Lindy that she would give more thought to him. He had read

somewhere that oftentimes the best way to awaken a dormant love was to

appear to fall in love with some one else.

Somewhat reconciled to the situation by his thoughts, he sat down to

read his letters. The first one that he took up was from the

confectioner. It informed him that his order would receive prompt

attention, and the writer thanked him for past favors and solicited a

continuance of the same. The second was from Ernst. It was short and to

the point, and written in his characteristic style. It said:

"Dear Quincy:--Pseudonym received. Bruce Douglas is a name to conjure

with. It smacks of 'Auld Lang Syne.' The Scotch are the only people on

the face of the earth who were never conquered. You will remember, if

you haven't forgotten your ancient history, that the Roman general sent

back word to his emperor that the d----d country wasn't worth conquering.

Enclosures also at hand. The shorter ones are more songs than poems. I

will turn them over to a music publisher, who is a friend of mine. Will

report his decision later.

"I gave the long poem to Francis Lippitt, the well-known composer, and

he is delighted with it and wishes to set it to music. He is great on

grand choruses, Bach fugues, and such like. If he sets it to music he

will have it sung by the Handel and Haydn Society, for he is a great gun

among them just now. The eight stories have reached New York by this

time, and Jameson is reading 'Her Native Land.'

"With best regards to Mr. Bruce Douglas and yourself.

LEOPOLD ERNST.

The third letter was from the Adjutant-General's office, and Quincy

smiled as he finished the first sheet, folded it up and replaced it in

the envelope. As he read the second the smile left his face. "Who would

have thought it?" he said to himself. "Well, after all, heroes are made

out of strange material. He is the man for my money and I'll back him

up, and beat that braggart."

On the following Sunday, after dinner, Quincy had a chat with Uncle Ike.

He took the opportunity of asking the old gentleman if he was fully

satisfied with the progress towards recovery that his niece was making.

"I don't see that she is making any progress," said Uncle Ike frankly.

"I don't think she can see a bit better than she could when she came

home. In fact, I don't think she can see as well. She had a pair of

glasses made of black rubber, with a pinhole in the centre of them, that

she could read a little with, but I notice now that she never puts them

on."

"Well," remarked Quincy, "perhaps I have taken an unwarrantable liberty,

Uncle Ike; but when I was last in Boston I heard of a new doctor who has

made some wonderful cures, and I have engaged him to come down here next

week and see your niece. Of course, if you object I will write to him

not to come, and no harm will be done."

Quincy did not think it necessary to state that he had paid the doctor

his fee of one hundred dollars in advance.

"Well," said Uncle Ike, "I certainly sha'n't object, if the doctor can

do her any good. But I should like to know something about the course of

treatment, the nature of it, I mean, before she gives up her present

doctor."

"That's just what I mean," said Quincy. "I want you to be so kind as to

take this whole matter off my hands, just as though I had made the

arrangement at your suggestion. I am going down for the doctor next

Thursday noon. Won't you ride down with me and meet Dr. Tillotson? You

can talk to him on the way home, and then you can manage the whole

matter yourself, and do as you think best about changing doctors."

"You have been very kind to my niece, Mr. Sawyer, since you have been

here," said Uncle Ike, "and very helpful to her. I attribute your

interest in her case to your kindness of heart and a generosity which is

seldom found in the sons of millionaires. But take my advice, Mr.

Sawyer, and let your feelings stop there."

"I do not quite understand you," replied Quincy, though from a sudden

sinking of his heart he felt that he did.

"Then I will speak plainer," said Uncle Ike. "Don't fall in love with my

niece, Mr. Sawyer. She is a good girl, a sweet girl, and some might call

her a beautiful one, but she has her limitations. She is not fitted to

sit in a Beacon Street parlor; and your parents and sisters would not be

pleased to have you place her there. Excuse an old man, Mr. Sawyer, but

you know wisdom cometh with age, although its full value is not usually

appreciated by the young."

Quincy, for the first time in his life, was entirely at a loss for a

reply. He burned to declare his love then and there; but how could he do

so in the face of such a plain statement of facts? He did the best thing

possible under the circumstances; he quietly ignored Uncle Ike's advice,

and thanking him for his kindness in consenting to meet the new doctor

he bade him good afternoon and went to his room.

After Quincy had gone Uncle Ike rubbed his hands together gleefully and

shook with laughter.

"The sly rogue!" he said to himself. "Wanted Uncle Ike to help him out."

Then he laughed again. "If he don't love her he will take my advice, but

if he does, what I told him will drive him on like spurs in the side of

a horse. He is a good fellow, a great deal better than his father and

the rest of his family, for he isn't stuck up. I like him, but my Alice

is good enough for him even if he were a good deal better than he is.

How it would tickle me to hear my niece calling the Hon. Nathaniel

Sawyer papa!" And Uncle Ike laughed until his sides shook.

Monday promised to be a dull day. 'Zekiel told Quincy at breakfast,

after the others had left the table, that Alice had spoken to him about

Mrs. Mason's invitation to tea, and, of course, he was going. Quincy

said that he had accepted the invitation and would be pleased to

accompany him and his sister.

After breakfast he heard Alice singing in the parlor, and joining her

there told her that he had received a letter from Mr. Ernst, which he

would like to read to her. Alice was delighted with the letter, and they

both laughed heartily over it, Quincy humorously apologizing for the

swear word by saying that being historical it could not be profane.

Alice had in her hand the two letters that she had received on Saturday.

"Have you answered your letters?" he asked.

"No, I have not even heard them read," she replied. "Uncle Ike has grown

tired all at once and won't read to me nor write for me. I don't

understand him at all. I sent for him yesterday afternoon, after you

came down, and told him what I wanted him to do. He sent back word that

he was too busy and I must get somebody else, but who can I get? Mandy

and 'Zekiel are both too much occupied with their own duties to help

me."

"If I can be of any service to you, Miss Pettengill, you know--"

"Oh, I don't think I should dare to let you read these letters,"

interrupted Alice, laughing. "No doubt they are from two of my lady

friends, and I have always heard that men consider letters that women

write to each other very silly and childish."

"Perhaps I have not told you," said Quincy, "that I have two sisters and

am used to that sort of thing. When I was in college hardly a day passed

that I did not get a letter from one or the other of them, and they

brightened up my life immensely."

"What are their names and how old are they?" asked Alice.

"The elder," replied Quincy, "is nineteen and her name is Florence

Estelle."

"What a sweet name!" said Alice.

"The younger is between fifteen and sixteen, and is named Maude

Gertrude."

"Is she as dignified as her name?" asked Alice.

"Far from it," remarked Quincy. "She would be a tomboy if she had an

opportunity. Mother and father call them Florence and Maude, for they

both abhor nicknames, but among ourselves they are known as Flossie, or

Stell, and Gertie."

"What was your nickname?" asked Alice.

"Well," said Quincy, "they used to call me Quinn, but that had a

Hibernian sound to it, and Maude nicknamed me Ad, which she said was

short for adder. She told me she called me that because I was so deaf

that I never heard her when she asked me to take her anywhere."

"Well, Mr. Sawyer, if you will promise not to laugh out loud, I will be

pleased to have you read these letters to me. You can smile all you wish

to, for of course I can't see you."

"I agree," said Quincy; and he advanced towards her, took the two

letters and drew a chair up beside her.

"My dear May," read Quincy. He stopped suddenly, and turning to Alice

said, "Is this letter for you?"

"Before we go any further," said Alice, "I must explain my various names

and nicknames. I was named Mary Alice, the Mary being my mother's name,

while the Alice was a favorite of my father's. Mother always called me

Mary and father always called me Alice! and brother 'Zekiel and Uncle

Ike seem to like the name Alice best. When I went to Commercial College

to study they asked me my name and I said naturally Mary A. Pettengill.

Then the girls began to call me May, and the boys, or young men I

suppose you call them, nicknamed me Miss Atlas, on account of my

initials. Now that I have given you a chart of my names to go by, the

reading will no doubt be plain sailing in future."

Quincy laughed and said, "I should call it a M.A.P. instead of a chart."

"Fie! Mr. Sawyer, to make such a joke upon my poor name. No doubt you

have thought of one that would please you better than any I have

mentioned."

Quincy thought he had, but he wisely refrained from saying so. He could

not help thinking, however, that Miss Atlas was a very appropriate name

for a girl who was all the world to him. It is evident that Uncle Ike's

words of advice the previous afternoon had not taken very deep root in

Quincy's heart.

He resumed his reading:

"My dear May:--How are you getting along in that dismal country town,

and how are your poor eyes? I know you can't write to me, but I want you

to know that I have not forgotten you. Every time I see my sister,

Stella, she waves your photograph before my eyes. You know you promised

me one before you were sick. Just send it to me, and it will be just as

nice as a good, long letter. As somebody else will probably read this to

you, in order to keep them from committing a robbery I send you only one

kiss.

From your loving,

EMMA FARNUM."

"Are you smiling, Mr. Sawyer?" asked Alice.

"Not at all," he answered. "I am looking grieved because Miss Farnum has

such a poor opinion of me."

Alice laughed merrily. "Emma is a very bright, pretty girl," said Alice.

"She boarded at the same house that I did. Her sister Stella is married

to a Mr. Dwight. I will answer her letter as she suggests by sending her

the promised photograph. On the bureau in my room, Mr. Sawyer, you will

find an envelope containing six photographs. I had them taken about a

month before I was sick. Underneath you will find some heavy envelopes

that the photographer gave me to mail them in."

Quincy went upstairs three steps at a time. He found the package, and

impelled by an inexplicable curiosity he counted the pictures and found

there were seven. "She said six," he thought to himself. "I am positive

she said there were only six." He took one of the pictures and put it in

one of the mailing envelopes. He took another picture, and after giving

it a long, loving look he placed it in the inside pocket of his coat,

and with a guilty flush upon his face he fled from the room.

Just as he reached the open parlor door a second thought, which is said

to be the best, came to him, and he was about turning to go upstairs and

replace the picture when Alice's acute ear heard him and she asked, "Did

you find them?"

Quincy, seeing that retreat was now impossible, said, "Yes," and resumed

his seat beside her.

"Did you find six?" said Alice.

"There are five upstairs in the envelope and one here ready to address,"

replied Quincy.

"Her address," continued Alice, "is Miss Emma Farnum, care Cotton & Co.,

Real Estate Brokers, Tremont Row."

Quincy went to the table, wrote the address as directed, and tied the

envelope with the string attached.

"I am afraid the other letter cannot be so easily answered," said Alice.

"Look at the signature, please, and see if it is not from Bessie White."

"It is signed Bessie," said Quincy.

"I thought so," exclaimed Alice. "She works for the same firm that I

did."

Quincy read the following:

"My Dear May:--I know that you will be glad to learn what is going on at

the great dry goods house of Borden, Waitt, & Fisher. Business is good,

and we girls are all tired out when night comes and have to go to a

party or the theatre to get rested. Mr. Ringgold, the head bookkeeper,

is disconsolate over your absence, and asks done or more of us every

morning if we have heard from Miss Pettengill. Then, every afternoon, he

says, 'Did I ask you this morning how Miss Pettengill was getting

along?' Of course it is this devotion to the interest of the firm that

leads him to ask these questions."

Alice flushed slightly, and turning to Quincy said, "Are you smiling,

Mr. Sawyer? There is nothing in it, I assure you; Bessie is a great

joker and torments the other girls unmercifully."

"I am glad there is nothing in it," said Quincy. "If I were a woman I

would be afraid to marry a bookkeeper. My household cash would have to

balance to a cent, and at the end of the year he would insist on

housekeeping showing a profit."

Alice regained her composure and Quincy continued his reading:

"What do you think! Rita Sanguily has left, and they say she is going to

marry a Dr. Culver, who lives up on Beacon Hill somewhere."

Quincy started a little as he read this, but made no comment.

"I was out to see Stella Dwight the other day, and she showed me a

picture of you. Can you spare one to your old friend,

BESSIE WHITE.

"P.S.--I don't expect an answer, but I shall expect the picture. I

shall write you whenever I get any news, and send you a dozen kisses and

two big hugs. B.W."

"She is more liberal than Miss Farnum," remarked Quincy. "She is not

afraid that I will commit robbery."

"No," rejoined Alice, "but I cannot share with you. Bessie White is the

dearest friend I have in the world."

"Miss White is fortunate," said Quincy, "but who is Rita Sanguily, if I

am not presuming in asking the question?"

"She is a Portuguese girl," answered Alice, "with black eyes and

beautiful black hair. She is very handsome and can talk Portuguese,

French, and Spanish. She held a certain line of custom on this account.

Do you know her?"

"No," replied Quincy, "but I think I know Dr. Culver."

"What kind of a looking man is he?" asked Alice.

"Oh! he is tall and heavily built, with large bright blue eyes and tawny

hair," said Quincy.

"I like such marked contrasts in husband and wife," remarked Alice.

"So do I," said Quincy, looking at himself in a looking glass which hung

opposite, and then at Alice; "but how about Miss White's picture?"

"Can I trouble you to get one?" said Alice.

"No trouble at all," replied Quincy; but he went up the stairs this time

one step at a time. He was deliberating whether he should return that

picture that was in his coat pocket or keep it until the original should

be his own. He entered the room, took another picture and another

envelope and came slowly downstairs. His crime at first had been

unpremeditated, but his persistence was deliberate felony.

"Now there are four left," said Alice, as Quincy entered the room.

"Just four," he replied. "I counted them to make sure." He sat at the

table and wrote. "Will this do?" he asked: "Miss Bessie White, care of

Borden, Waitt, & Fisher, Boston, Mass.?"

"Oh, thank you so much," said Alice.

At this moment Mandy appeared at the door and announced dinner, and

Quincy had the pleasure of leading Alice to her accustomed seat at the

table.

"I took the liberty while upstairs," said Quincy, "to glance at a book

that was on your bureau entitled, 'The Love of a Lifetime,' Have you

read it?"

"No," replied Alice. "I commenced it the night before I was taken sick."

"I shall be pleased to read it aloud to you," said Quincy.

"I should enjoy listening to it very much," she replied.

So after dinner they returned to the parlor and Quincy read aloud until

the descending sun again sent its rays through the parlor windows to

fall upon Alice's face and hair, and Quincy thought to himself how happy

he should be if the fair girl who sat beside him ever became the love of

his lifetime.

Alice finally said she was tired and must have a rest. Quincy called

Mandy and she went to her room. A few moments later Quincy was in his

own room and after locking his door sat down to inspect his plunder.

Alice did not rest, however; something was on her mind. She found her

way to the bureau and took up the pictures.

"Only four," she said to herself, after counting them. "Let me see," she

continued, "the photographer gave me thirteen,--a baker's dozen he

called it. Now to whom have I given them? 'Zekiel, one; Uncle Ike, two;

Mrs. Putnam, three; Stella Dwight, four; Bessie White, five; Emma

Farnum, six; Mr. Ringgold, seven; Mr. Fisher, eight. That would leave

five and I have only four. Now to whom did I give that other picture?"

And the guilty thief sat on the other side of the partition and exulted

in his crime. There came a loud rap at his door, and Quincy started up

so suddenly that he dropped the picture and it fell to the floor. He

caught it up quickly and placed it in his pocket. As he unlocked the

door and opened it he heard loud rapping on the door of Miss

Pettengill's room.

Looking into the entry he saw 'Zekiel, who cried out, "Say, you folks,

have you forgotten that you have been invited out to tea this evening,

and that we are going to give a surprise party to Mr. Strout and his

friends? I am all dressed and the sleigh is ready."

Without waiting for a reply he dashed downstairs.

While Quincy was donning his sober suit of black, with a Prince Albert

coat and white tie, Alice had put on an equally sober costume of fawn

colored silk, with collar and cuffs of dainty lace, with little dashes

of pink ribbon, by way of contrast in color.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE SURPRISE PARTY.

After Alice had taken her place on the back seat in the double sleigh,

Quincy started to take his place on the front seat, beside 'Zekiel, but

the latter motioned him to sit beside Alice, and Quincy did so without

needing any urging.

As 'Zekiel took up the reins, Quincy leaned forward and touched him on

the shoulder.

"I've just thought," said he, "that I've made a big blunder and I can't

see how I can repair it."

"What's the matter?" asked 'Zekiel; and Alice turned an inquiring face

towards Quincy.

"The fact is," Quincy continued, "I ordered some ice cream and cake sent

down from the city for the show to-night, but I forgot, I am ashamed to

say, to make arrangements to have it sent up to Deacon Mason's. It will

be directed to him, but the station agent won't be likely to send it up

before to-morrow."

"What time is it?" asked 'Zekiel.

Quincy looked at his watch and replied, "It is just half-past four."

"Why do we go so early?" inquired Alice, "they will not have tea till

six."

"Oh," said 'Zekiel, "I intended to give you a sleigh ride first anyway.

Now with this pair of trotters I am going to take you over to

Eastborough Centre and have you back at Deacon Mason's barn door in just

one hour and with appetites that it will take two suppers to satisfy."

With this 'Zekiel whipped up his horses and they dashed off towards the

town. A short distance beyond Uncle Ike's chicken coop they met Abner

Stiles driving home from the Centre. He nodded to 'Zekiel, but Quincy

did not notice him, being engaged in conversation with Alice at the

time. They reached the station, and Quincy gave orders to have the

material sent up, so that it would arrive at about half-past nine.

'Zekiel more than kept his promise, for they reached Deacon Mason's barn

at exactly twenty-nine minutes past five. Hiram was on hand to put up

the horses, and told Quincy in a whisper that some of the boys thought

it was mighty mean not to invite the Pettengill folks and their boarder.

The sharp air had whetted the appetites of the travellers during their

six-mile ride, and they did full justice to the nicely-cooked food that

the Deacon's wife placed before them. Supper was over at quarter before

seven, and in half an hour the dishes were washed and put away and the

quartette of young folks adjourned to the parlor.

Quincy took his seat at the piano and began playing a popular air.

"Oh, let us sing something," cried Huldy. "You know I have been taking

lessons from Professor Strout, and he says I have improved greatly. If

he says it you know it must be so; and, did you know Alice, that 'Zekiel

has a fine baritone voice?"

"We used to sing a good deal together," said Alice, "but I was no judge

of voices then."

"Well, 'Zeke don't know a note of music," continued Huldy, "but he has a

quick ear and he seems to know naturally just how to use his voice."

"Oh, nonsense," said 'Zekiel, "I don't know how to sing, I only hum a

little. Sing us something, Mr. Sawyer," said he.

Quincy sang a song very popular at the time, entitled "The Jockey Hat

and Feather." All four joined in the chorus, and at the close the room

rang with laughter. Quincy then struck up another popular air, "Pop Goes

the Weasel," and this was sung by the four with great gusto. Then he

looked over the music on the top of the piano, which was a Bourne &

Leavitt square, and found a copy of the cantata entitled, "The

Haymakers," and for half an hour the solos and choruses rang through the

house and out upon the evening air.

Mrs. Mason looked in the door and said, "I wouldn't sing any more now,

it is nearly eight o'clock."

And thus admonished they began talking of Tilly James's engagement to

Sam Hill and the sale of the grocery store, which was to come off the

next day.

"I wonder who will buy it?" asked Huldy.

"Well, I hear Strout has got some backers," said 'Zekiel, "but I don't

see what good it will be to him unless he is appointed postmaster. They

say he has written to Washington and applied for the position."

Quincy pricked up his ears at this. He had almost forgotten this chance

to put another spoke in Mr. Strout's wheel. He made a mental memorandum

to send telegrams to two Massachusetts congressmen with whom he was well

acquainted to hold up Strout's appointment at all hazards until they

heard from him again.

A little after seven o'clock the advance guard of the surprise party

arrived at Hill's grocery, which was the appointed rendezvous. Abner

Stiles drew Strout to one side and said, "I saw the Pettengill folks and

that city feller in 'Zeke's double sleigh going over to the Centre at

about five o'clock."

"So much the better," said Strout.

"Do you know where they've gone?" inquired Stiles.

"No, but I guess I can find out," Strout replied.

He had spied Mandy Skinner among a crowd of girls on the platform. He

called her and she came to him.

"Did Mr. Pettengill and his sister take tea at home to-night?"

"No," said Mandy. "I told them I was going away to-night, and Mr.

Pettengill said they were going away too. And Cobb's twins told me at

dinner time that they wouldn't be home to supper; and as I didn't wish

to eat too much, considering what was coming later, I didn't get no

supper at all. I left Crowley to look out for Uncle Ike, who is always

satisfied if he gets toast and tea."

"Don't you know where they've gone?" inquired Strout.

"Over to the hotel, I guess," said Mandy. "I heard Mr. Sawyer tell Miss

Alice that they had good oysters over there, and she said as how she was

dying to get some raw oysters."

"Things couldn't have worked better," remarked Strout, as he rejoined

Abner, who was smoking a cheap cigar. "The Pettengill crowd has gone

over to the hotel to supper. You ought not to smoke, Abner, if you are

going to kiss the girls to-night," said Strout.

"I guess I sha'n't do much kissin'," replied Abner, "except what I give

my fiddle with the bow, and that fiddle of mine is used to smoke."

Strout looked around and saw that the whole party had assembled. There

were about fifty in all, very nearly equally divided as regarded numbers

into fellows and girls.

"Now I am going ahead," said Strout, "to interview the old lady, before

we jump in on them. The rest of you just follow Abner and wait at the

top of the hill, just round the corner, so that they can't see you from

the house. I have arranged with Hiram to blow his bugle when everything

is ready, and when you hear it you just rush down hill laughing and

screaming and yelling like wild Injuns. Come in the back door, right

into the big kitchen, and when Miss Huldy comes into the room you just

wait till I deliver my speech."

[Illustration: "SAMANTHY GREEN," AS SHE APPEARS IN THE PLAY.]

Strout started off, and the party followed Abner to the appointed

waiting place.

Strout knocked lightly at the kitchen door, and it was opened by Mrs.

Mason.

"Is the Deacon at home?" inquired he, endeavoring to disguise his voice.

"No," said Mrs. Mason, "he has gone to Eastborough Centre on some

business, but told me he would be back about half past nine."

"Is Hiram here?" asked Strout.

"He's out in the kitchen polishing up his bugle," said Mrs. Mason. "But

come in a minute, Mr. Strout, I have got something to fell you."

Strout stepped in and quietly closed the door.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Mason? I hope Huldy isn't sick."

"No," said she, "it's unfortunate it has happened as it has, but it

couldn't be avoided. You see she invited some company to tea, and I

supposed that they would have gone home long 'fore this. You see, Huldy

don't suspect nothing, and she has asked them to spend the evening, and

I don't see how in the world I am going to get rid of them."

"Don't do it," said Strout. "Extend to them an invitation in my name to

remain and enjoy the evening's festivities with us. No doubt Miss Huldy

will be pleased to have them stay."

"I know she will," said Mrs. Mason, "and I'll give them your invite as

soon as you're ready."

"Well, Mrs. Mason," said Strout, "just tell Hiram I am ready to have him

blow that bugle, and when you hear it you can just tell your daughter

and her friends what's up."

Hiram soon joined Strout outside the kitchen door. The latter went out

in the road and looked up the hill to see if his party was all ready.

Abner waved his hand, and Strout rushed back to Hiram and cried, "Give

it to 'em now, Hiram, and do your darnedest!"

Huldy and her friends were engaged in earnest conversation, when a loud

blast burst upon the air, followed by a succession of piercing notes

from Hiram's old cracked bugle.

Huldy jumped to her feet and exclaimed, "What does Hiram want to blow

that horrid old bugle at this time of night for? I will tell ma to stop

him."

She started towards the parlor door, when the whole party heard shouts

of laughter, screams from female voices, and yells from male ones that

would have done credit to a band of wild Comanches.

All stood still and listened. Again the laughter, screams, and yells

were heard. This time they seemed right under the parlor window.

A look of surprise and almost terror passed over Alice's face, and

turning to Quincy unthinkingly she said in a low whisper, "What was

that, Quincy? What does it mean?"

Quincy's heart jumped as his Christian name fell from the girl's lips.

He put his left hand over his heart (her picture was in the pocket just

beneath it) and said as naturally as he could, although with a little

tremor in his voice, "It's all right, Alice, that's Mr. Strout's idea of

a surprise party."

"A surprise party!" cried Huldy, "who for? Me?"

At this moment Mrs. Mason opened the door and entered the room.

"Huldy," said she, "Professor Strout wishes me to tell you that he and

his friends have come to give you a surprise party, and he wished me to

invite you," turning to the others, "as Huldy's friends to remain and

enjoy the festivities of the evening."

Then the poor old lady, who had been under a nervous strain for the past

ten days, and who had come nearer telling untruths than she ever had

before in her life, began to laugh, and then to cry, and finally sank

into a chair, overcome for the moment.

"I wish Abraham was here," said she, "I guess I'm getting a little bit

nervous."

Let us return to the great kitchen, which the members of the surprise

party now had in their possession. A dozen of the men produced lanterns,

which they lighted, and which were soon hung upon the walls of the

kitchen, one of the number having brought a hammer and some nails.

It was a pound party, and two young men fetched in a basket containing

the goodies which had been brought for the supper. Strout had made

arrangements to have the hot coffee made at the grocery store, and it

was to be brought down at half-past nine.

He arranged his party so that all could get a good view of the door

through which Huldy must come. He stepped forward within ten feet of the

door and stood expectantly. Why this delay? Strout looked around at the

party. There were Tilly James and Sam Hill; Cobb's twins, and each

brought a pretty girl; Robert Wood, Benjamin Bates, and Arthur Scates

were equally well supplied; Lindy Putnam, after much solicitation, had

consented to come with Emmanuel Howe, the clergyman's son, and he was in

the seventh heaven of delight; Mandy stood beside Hiram and his bugle,

and Samantha Green had Farmer Tompkins's son George for escort. It was a

real old-fashioned, democratic party. Clergymen's sons, farmers' sons,

girls that worked out, chore boys, farm hands, and an heiress to a

hundred thousand dollars, met on a plane of perfect equality without a

thought of caste, and to these were soon to be added more farmers' sons

and daughters and the only son of a millionaire.

"Just give them a call," said Strout, turning to Hiram, and the latter

gave a blast on his bugle, which sent fingers to the ears of his

listeners. The handle of the door turned and opened and Huldy entered,

her mother leaning upon her arm.

They were greeted by hand clapping and cries of "Good evening" from the

party, and all eyes were fixed upon Strout, who stood as if petrified

and gazed at the three figures that came through the open door and stood

behind Huldy and her mother. Hamlet following the fleeting apparition on

the battlements of the castle at Elsinore, Macbeth viewing Banquo at his

feast, or Richard the Third gazing on the ghostly panorama of the

murdered kings and princes, could not have felt weaker at heart than did

Professor Strout when he saw the new-comers and realized that they were

there by his express invitation.

The members of the surprise party thought Strout had forgotten his

speech, and cries of "Speech!" "Speech!" "Give us the speech!" fell upon

his ear, but no words fell from his lips. It was a cruel blow, but no

crueler than the unfounded stories that he had started and circulated

about the town for the past three months. Those who had thought it was

mean not to invite the Pettengills and Mr. Sawyer enjoyed his

discomfiture and were the loudest in calling for a speech.

The situation became somewhat strained, and Huldy looked up to Quincy

with an expression that seemed to say, How are we going to get out of

this?

Quite a number of the party saw this look and immediately began calling

out, "Mr. Sawyer, give us a speech!" "A speech from Mr. Sawyer!"

Huldy smiled and nodded to Quincy, and then there were loud cries of

"Speech! Speech!" and clapping of hands.

Abner Stiles got up and gave his chair to Professor Strout, who sank

into it, saying as he did so, "I guess it was the heat."

Quincy stepped forward and bowing to Huldy and then to Mrs. Mason,

addressed the party in a low but clearly distinct voice.