"Mister Moderator, I'm agin acceptin' this donation. If we take it, we

shall only jump out er the fryin-pan inter the fire; instead of buyin' a

few books and payin' the librari'n a dollar a week, we shall hev to hev

a jan'ter for the new buildin', and pay fer insurance, and we shell hev

ter hev a librari'n ev'ry day in ther week, and by'm by the ungodly will

want ter hev it open on a Sunday, so thet they kin hev a place to loaf

in; and I'm agin the whole bizness teetotally. I've sed my say; neow,

you kin go ahead, and do jest as you please."

This was Mr. Butterfield's usual wind-up to his arguments; but on this

occasion it seemed to fail of its effect.

The Moderator said, "Was Mr. Butterfield's motion seconded?" There was

no response. "Then the matter before the meeting is the question of

appropriating money for the support of the town library."

"Mister Moderator," said Mr. Smith, "I move that the donation from Mr.

Quincy Adams Sawyer be accepted, and that the library be named 'The

Sawyer Free Public Library of the Town of Eastborough.'"

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

Strout was on his feet again.

"Mister Moderator," said he, "I move to amend the motion by havin' it

read that we decline, that the town declines the donation without

thanks."

A loud laugh arose from the assemblage.

Abner Stiles had evidently misinterpreted Mr. Strout's motion, for he

called out, "Mister Moderator," and when he got the floor, "I move to

amend so that the motion would read, this library shall be called the

Strout Free Library of the Town of Eastborough."

This was greeted with shouts of laughter, and Strout grasped Abner by

his coat collar and pulled him violently back upon the settee.

"Shut up, you fool," cried he between his teeth to Abner; "do you want

to make a laughin' stock of me?"

"I kinder thought I wuz a-helpin' yer," said Abner, as he ran his

fingers down under his chin and pulled away his shirt collar, which had

been drawn back so forcibly that it interfered with his breathing.

"The question now," said the Moderator, "is on the adoption of Mr.

Smith's motion. Those in favor will please stand up and be counted."

When the tellers had attended to their duty the Moderator said, "Those

opposed will now rise and be counted."

The vote was soon announced. In favor of accepting the donation, three

hundred and one; opposed, fifty-eight.

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

A dozen matters of minor importance were quickly disposed of, and but

one remained upon the warrant, with the exception of the election of

town officers. Little squads of the members were now gathered together

talking over the most important question of the meeting, which was the

election of town officers for the ensuing year. The last item on the

warrant read: "Will the town appropriate money to buy a new hearse?"

Mr. Butterfield had evidently been holding himself in reserve, for he

was on his feet in an instant, and he secured the eye of the Moderator

and the floor.

"Mister Moderator," began Mr. Butterfield, "I desire to raise my voice

agin this biznez of unnecessary and unexampled extravagance. What do we

want of a new hearse? Those who are dead and in the cemetery don't find

any fault with the one we've got, and those who are livin' have no

present use for it, and why should they complain? I know what this

means. This is only an enterin' wedge. If this 'ere bill passes and we

git a new hearse, then it'll be said thet ther horses don't look as well

as the hearse, and then if ther hearse gits out in ther storm, we shell

hev ter pay money to git it polished up agin, and we who are livin' will

hev to work harder and harder for the benefit of those who are jest as

well satisfied with the old hearse as they would be with a new one. I

move, Mister Moderator, that instid of buyin' a new hearse, thet ther

old one be lengthened six inches, which ken be done at a slight

expense."

Mr. Tobias Smith now took the floor.

"I am glad that my friend has not opposed this measure entirely, but has

provided for my proper exit from this world when my time comes. I must

confess that it has troubled me a great deal when I have thought about

that hearse. I was born down in the State of Maine, where the boys and

the trees grow up together. I stand six feet two in my stockings and six

feet three with my boots on, and I haven't looked forward with any

pleasure to being carried to my last resting place in a hearse that was

only six feet long. I second Mr. Butterfield's motion, but move to amend

it by extending the length to seven feet."

The vote was taken, and Mr. Butterfield's motion was carried by a vote

of three hundred and forty to twenty-two. Mr. Butterfield sank back in

his seat with an expression on his face that seemed to say, "I've done

the town some service to-day."

The Moderator then rose and said, "Fellow-citizens, all the business

matters upon the warrant have now been disposed of. We will now proceed

to the election of town officers for the ensuing year."

Mr. Stackpole rose and called out, "Mister Moderator, it is now nearly

twelve o'clock, and some of us had to leave home quite early this

morning in order to be in time at the meeting. I move that we adjourn

till one o'clock, at which time balloting for town officers usually

commences."

Forty voices cried out, "Second the motion," and although Strout,

Stiles, and several others jumped to their feet and endeavored to secure

the Moderator's eye, the motion was adopted by an overwhelming vote, and

the greater portion of the members made their way out of the hall and

directed their steps towards the Eagle Hotel, as if the whole matter had

been prearranged. Here, Mr. Parsons, the proprietor, had set out a most

tempting lunch in the large dining-room, and those who were able to give

the password were admitted to the room, and feasted to their heart's

content.

Abner Stiles, impelled by curiosity, had followed the party, and had

noticed that each one said something to the proprietor before he was

admitted to the dining-room. Going up to Parsons, he said, "What's goin'

on in there?"

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

"When thet last feller went in," said Abner, "I saw that the table was

all set, and I kinder 'magined they must be havin' a dinner. I'd kinder

like some myself."

"Well, I'm sorry," said Mr. Parsons, "but I cannot accommodate any more

than have already applied. You can get a lunch over to the railroad

station, you know, if you want one."

"I know," answered Abner, "but I kinder 'magine they're talkin' over

'lection matters in there, and I'd rather like ter know what's goin'

on."

"Well, I guess you'll find out when they get back to the Town Hall,"

remarked Mr. Parsons; and he stepped forward to greet three or four

other citizens, who leaned over and whispered in his ear.

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

dining-room.

"Well, that beats all," said Abner, as he went out on the platform in

front of the hotel. "They jest whispered somethin' to him and he let 'em

right in. I kinder think somethin's goin' on and thet Strout ain't up to

it. Guess I'll go back and tell him," which he proceeded to do.

He found Strout and some sixty or seventy of the citizens still

remaining in the Town Hall, the majority of whom were eating the

luncheons that they had brought with them from home. Taking Strout

aside, Abner confided to him the intelligence of which he had become

possessed.

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

"No, I don't," said Strout, "but I bet a dollar that it's some of that

city chap's doin's. Is he 'round about town this mornin'?"

"No," said Abner, "he went to Bosting on the same train with Miss Lindy

Putnam, for I fetched her down, and I saw him git inter the same car

with her as I wuz drivin' off."

One o'clock soon arrived, and the large party that had regaled

themselves with the appetizing viands and non-alcoholic beverages

supplied by mine host of the Eagle Hotel came back to the Town Hall in

the best of spirits. The majority of them were smoking good cigars,

which had been handed to them by the proprietor, as they passed from the

dining-room.

When asked if there was anything to pay, Mr. Parsons shook his head and

remarked sententiously, "This is not the only present that the town has

received to-day," which was a delicate way of insinuating the name of

the donor of the feast without actually mentioning it.

The election of a dozen minor officers calls for no special attention,

except to record the fact that Abner Stiles, who had cautiously taken a

position several settees removed from Strout, arose as the nominations

were made for each office, and in every case nominated Mr. Obadiah

Strout for the position, and it is needless to add that Mr. Obadiah

Strout had at least one vote for each office in the gift of the town.

The nomination of a collector of taxes for the town was finally reached.

Abner Stiles was first on his feet, and being recognized by the

Moderator, nominated "Mr. Obadiah Strout, who had performed the duties

of the office so efficiently during the past year."

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

nominated Mr. Wallace Stackpole.

"In presenting this nomination, Mister Moderator, I do it out of justice

to an old soldier who served the country faithfully, and who lost the

election a year ago on account of an untrue statement that was widely

circulated and which could not be refuted in time to affect the question

of his election. I hold in my hand three documents. The first one is a

certified copy of the war record of Wallace Stackpole, who entered one

of our regiments of Volunteers as a private, served throughout the war,

and was honorably discharged with the rank of captain. This record shows

that during his four years of service he was three times wounded; in one

instance so badly that for weeks his life hung by a thread, and it was

only by the most careful treatment that amputation of his right arm was

avoided. I hold here also the war record of the present incumbent of the

office. From it I learn that he entered the army as a private and was

discharged at the end of two years still holding the rank of private,

and sent home as an invalid. He is not to blame for this, but inspecting

his record I find that within a month after he joined the army he was

detailed for service in the hospital, and during the two years of his

connection with the army he was never engaged in a single battle, not

even in a skirmish."

Cries rose from certain parts of the hall in opposition to the speaker,

and Deacon Mason remarked that while it was perfectly proper to compare

the war records of the two candidates for the position, it must be borne

in mind that because a man was a soldier, or, rather, because he did a

little more fighting than the other one, was no reason that he would

make a better tax collector.

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

brightened.

"I am glad to see the Deacon's bound to have fair play," said he to an

old farmer who sat next to him.

"Waal, I guess you're more liable to git it than you are disposed to

give it," drawled the old farmer, who evidently was not an adherent of

the present incumbent of the office.

Mr. Tobias Smith continued his remarks:

"I acknowledge the correctness of the remarks just made by our honored

Moderator, and desire to say that I hold in my hand a third document,

which is a statement of the taxes due and collected during the past

twenty years by the different persons who have held the office of tax

collector. I find during nineteen years of that time that the lowest

percentage of taxes left unpaid at the end of the year was five per

cent; the highest percentage during these nineteen years, and that

occurred during the war, was fourteen per cent; but I find that during

the past year only seventy-eight per cent of the taxes due have been

collected, leaving twenty-two per cent still due the town, and the

non-receipt of this money will seriously hamper the selectmen during the

coming year, unless we choose a man who can give his entire time to the

business and collect the money that is due. This statement is certified

to by the town treasurer, and I do not suppose that the present

incumbent will presume to question its accuracy."

Strout evidently thought that a further discussion of the matter might

work to his still greater disadvantage, for he leaned over and spoke to

one of his adherents, who rose and said:

"Mister Moderator, this discussion has taken a personal nature, in which

I am not disposed to indulge. I don't think that anything will be gained

by such accusations and comparisons. It strikes me that the last speaker

is trying to give tit for tat because his candidate lost at the last

election; but I am one of those who believe that criminations and

recriminations avail nothing, and I move that we proceed to vote at

once."

"Second the motion!" screamed Abner Stiles from the settee on which he

had assumed a standing posture.

The vote was taken. Those in favor of Obadiah Strout being called upon

to stand up first, they numbered exactly one hundred and one. Then those

in favor of Wallace Stackpole were called upon to rise, and they

numbered two hundred and eighty-four; several citizens having put in an

appearance at one o'clock who had not attended the morning session.

The next matter was the election of the Board of Selectmen; and the old

board was elected by acclamation without a division. The meeting then

adjourned without day.

The five minutes past six train, express from Boston, arrived on time,

and at twenty minutes of eight, Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer entered the

private dining-room in the Eagle Hotel. There he found gathered Mr.

Tobias Smith, Mr. Wallace Stackpole, Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill, Mr.

Sylvester Chisholm, and the Board of Selectmen, making the party of

eight which Quincy had mentioned. It was eleven o'clock before the

dinner party broke up, and during that time Quincy had heard from one or

another of the party a full account of the doings at the town meeting.

It is needless to say that he was satisfied with the results, but he

said nothing to indicate that fact in the presence of the Board of

Selectmen. They were the first to leave, and then there was an

opportunity for mutual congratulations by the remaining members of the

party. To these four should be added Mr. Parsons, the proprietor, upon

whose face rested a broad smile when he presented his bill for the day's

expenses, and the sum was paid by Quincy.

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

bade him good evening.

"I am delighted to hear it," said Quincy, "and I regret very much that

my business in the city prevented my being here to enjoy it."

On the way home with Ezekiel they went over the events of the day again

together, and Ezekiel told him many little points, that for obvious

reasons had been omitted at the dinner party.

Quincy was driven directly to Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house, for he had

explained his programme to Ezekiel. He turned up his coat collar and

pulled his hat down over his eyes, as he was admitted; and, although

Mrs. Hawkins's eyes were naturally sharp, she did not recognize the late

comer, who proceeded upstairs to his room, which Mrs. Hawkins informed

him was right opposite the head of the stairs, and there was a light

burning in the room and a good warm fire, and if he needed anything, if

he would just call to her inside of the next ten minutes, she would get

it for him.

Quincy said nothing, but went into his room and shut the door, and there

we will leave him.

As Strout and Abner drove back to Mason's Corner, after the adjournment

of the town meeting, nothing was said for the first mile of the trip.

Then Abner turned to him and remarked, "You ought ter be well satisfied

with to-day's perceedin's."

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

"Waal, I think the events proved," said Abner, "that you wuz the most

pop'lar man in ther town."

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

"Why," said Abner, "you wuz nominated for every office in the gift o'

ther town, and that's more'n any other feller could say."

"If you don't shut up," said Strout, "I'll nominate you for town idyut,

and there won't be any use of any one runnin' agin yer!"

Abner took his reproof meekly. He always did when Strout spoke to him.

No more was said until they reached home. Strout entered the boarding

house and went upstairs to his room, forgetting that there was a man

from Boston, to arrive late that evening, who was to have the next room

to his.

Abner put up the horse and went home. As he went by Strout's door,

thoughts of the rum and molasses, and the good cigar that he had enjoyed

the night of the surprise party one week ago went through his mind, and

he stopped before Strout's door and listened attentively, but there was

no sound, and he went upstairs disconsolately, and went to bed feeling

that his confidence in the Professor had been somewhat diminished by the

events of the day.

CHAPTER XXIX.

MRS. HAWKINS' BOARDING HOUSE.

Mrs. Hawkins waited patiently until eight o'clock for the gentleman from

Boston to come down to breakfast. She then waited impatiently from eight

o'clock till nine. During that time she put the breakfast on the stove

to keep it warm, and also made several trips to the front entry, where

she listened to see if she could hear any signs of movement on the part

of her new boarder.

When nine o'clock arrived she could restrain her impatience no longer,

and, going upstairs, she gave a sharp knock on the door of Quincy's

room.

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

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

Hawkins.

"I don't wish for any breakfast," said the voice within the room, but in

a much pleasanter tone. "What time do you have dinner?"

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

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

dinner together."

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

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

"It beats all," repeated Mrs. Hawkins, "how these city folks can sit up

till twelve o'clock at night, and then go without their breakfast till

noontime. I've fixed up somethin' pretty nice for him, and I don't

propose to see it wasted."

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

to-morrer mornin'."

"I'm goin' to eat it myself," said Mrs. Hawkins. And suiting the action

to the word, she transferred the appetizing breakfast to the kitchen

table, and, taking a seat, began to devour it.

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

"I was up there Sunday evening," replied Betsy, "and she said Mis'

Putnam was failin' very fast. She keeps her bed all the time now, and

Samanthy has to run up and down stairs, 'bout forty times a day. She

won't let Miss Lindy do a thing for her."

"Well, if I was Lindy," said Mrs. Hawkins, "I wouldn't do anything for

her if she wanted me to. She used to abuse that child shamefully. Is

Miss Lindy goin' to keep house arter her mother dies?"

"No," said Betsy, "she's got her things all packed up, and she told

Samanthy she should leave town for well and good as soon as her mother

was buried."

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

"Oh, she says she wants to rest awhile afore she goes anywheres else to

live. She's all run down."

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

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

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

"Oh, yes," replied Betsy, "but the four boys send mother five dollars a

month apiece, and us girls give her two dollars a month apiece, and it's

understood that none of us is to go and loaf 'round at home, 'less we

pay our board."

"That's all right," said Mrs. Hawkins. "You can tell Samanthy for me

that she can come here and stay a couple o' weeks with you. Your bed's

big enough for two, and I won't charge her no board if she's willin' to

wait on table at dinner time. You'll get the benefit of it, ye know,

Betsy, for you kin get the dinner dishes done so much earlier."

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Hawkins," said Betsy, and the

conversation lapsed for a moment till she inquired, "Will your daughter

Mandy stay with Mr. Pettengill arter he marries Huldy Mason?"

"I don't know," replied Mrs. Hawkins. "Mandy says that Hiram Maxwell is

the biggest fool of a man she ever saw."

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

"Wall, I fancy she does," replied Mrs. Hawkins; "and I've no objections

to him, seein' as that Mr. Sawyer is goin' to put him inter the grocery

store and back him up. But Mandy says that he won't come to the pi'nt.

He hints and hints and wobbles all 'round the question, but he don't ask

her to marry him right out and out. Mandy says she won't gin in until he

does, for if she does, she says he'll be chuckin' it at her one of these

days that he didn't ask her to marry him and be sayin' as how she threw

herself at him, but there's too much of the old Job Skinner spirit in

Mandy for her to do anythin' like that."

At this moment Mrs. Hawkins looked up and saw Hiram Maxwell standing in

the half-open doorway that led into the wood-shed.

"List'ners never hear any good of themselves," remarked Mrs. Hawkins, as

Hiram advanced into the room.

"I didn't hear nothin'," said Hiram. "I've got too many things in my

head to tell yer to mind any women's talk," he continued.

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

"Well, fust," said Hiram, "early this mornin' your sister Samanthy,"

here he looked at Betsy, "came tearin' down to Deacon Mason's house

and said as how Mis' Hepsey Putnam was powerful bad, and she wanted me

to run down to 'Zeke Pettengill's and have him bring his sister right up

to the house, 'cause Mis' Putnam wanted to see her afore she died, and

the Deacon's wife said as how I could go up with him and her, and so we

druv up, and a little while ago your sister Samanthy," here he looked at

Betsy again, "asked me if I'd drive over and ask Mis' Hawkins if you,"

here he looked at Betsy for the third time, "could come up and stay with

her this arternoon, for she thinks Mis' Putnam is goin' to die, and she

don't want to be left alone up in that big house."

[Illustration: "AN OLD-FASHIONED HUSKING BEE." (ACT III.)--Penalty of

red ear.]

Betsy looked at Mrs. Hawkins inquiringly.

Mrs. Hawkins saw the glance and said, "I can't spare yer till arter

dinner, Betsy; say 'bout one o'clock. You kin go and stay till the fust

thing to-morrer mornin'. I guess I kin manage supper alone."

"Samanthy will be much obleeged, Mis' Hawkins," said Hiram. "I'll drive

right back and tell her, and I'll drive down agin about one o'clock

arter Betsy."

"List'ners get a good p'int now and then," remarked Hiram to himself.

"Now I see what made Mandy so durned offish. Wall, she won't have any

excuse in the future. I guess I kin ask her a straight question when I

git good and ready, Mother Hawkins." And he struck the horse such a

violent blow with the whip that it required all his attention for the

next few minutes to bring him down to a trot. When he had done so he had

reached his destination and his resentful feelings had subsided.

After Hiram had gone, Mrs. Hawkins and Betsy busied themselves getting

dinner. Happening to glance out of the window, the former exclaimed,

"Why, there's Jonas, and what on airth has he got in his hands?"

Betsy ran to the window and looked out.

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

At that moment the door opened and Jonas Hawkins entered, bearing a huge

head of lettuce in his hand.

"Wall, Marthy," said Mr. Hawkins, "how did the man from Bosting like his

breakfast? I kalkilated them fresh-laid eggs would suit him to a T."

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

"Must have been putty tired," continued Mr. Hawkins. "I kinder envy him.

Do yer know, Marthy, if I wuz rich I wouldn't 'git up any day till it

wuz time to go to bed agin." And he laughed loudly at his own remark.

"What do yer expect me to do with that head of lettuce?" asked Mrs.

Hawkins with some asperity in her tone.

"Wall," said Jonas, "I was over to Hill's grocery and he'd ordered some

from Bosting for Mis' Putnam, but she's too sick to eat 'em, so Sam gave

me this one, 'cause we're putty good customers, you know, and I

kalkilated that if you made up one of them nice chicken salads o' yourn

it might please the new boarder and the old ones too;" and chuckling to

himself he laid the lettuce on the kitchen table and walked out into the

wood-shed. In a few moments he was vigorously at work chopping wood,

whistling to himself as he worked.

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

"Yes," replied Mrs. Hawkins, "he's too all-fired good-natured for his

own good. If I'd known him twenty-five years ago he'd have money in the

bank now. His fust wife wuz slacker'n dish water. But I guess we've

talked enough for one mornin', Betsy. You jest git that chicken I boiled

and bone it and chop it up, and I'll make the dressin'."

When twelve o'clock sounded from the bell in the church tower, dinner

was on the table at Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house. By five minutes past

twelve there were fourteen seated at the table, with one vacant chair.

Professor Strout sat at the head of the table. At his left was Abner

Stiles, while Robert Wood sat next to Stiles. The vacant seat was at the

Professor's right hand, and all eyes were turned toward it, for all had

heard of the Boston man who had arrived the night before, but who, much

to their disappointment, had not appeared at breakfast.

At ten minutes past twelve the door leading into the dining-room from

the front entry was opened quietly, and the young man who entered,

seeing the vacant chair near the head of the table, took possession of

it.

For a moment nobody looked up, each apparently waiting for some one else

to take the initiative.

Quincy, for it was he, broke the silence, and immediately every face at

the table was turned towards him.

"How do you do, Professor?" said he. "Good afternoon, Mr. Stiles and Mr.

Wood. Ah, glad to see you, Mr. Hill," he added, as he espied Samuel Hill

at the farther end of the table.

The Professor's face grew crimson, then bright red, and finally assumed

a bluish tinge. Abner sat transfixed. The others at the table had a

charming diversity of expressions on their faces, ranging from "grave to

gay, from lively to severe." No one at the table enjoyed the situation

any more than Samuel Hill, who was very fond of a joke and who knew of

Quincy's intention to meet his enemy at close quarters.

For several minutes no one spoke. Betsy flew from one to the other

waiting upon table, but a solemn hush seemed to have fallen upon the

dinner party. Again Quincy broke the silence.

"I trust, gentlemen," said he, "that you will not let my presence

interfere with your usual conversation. I have no doubt Mr. Stiles can

tell us a good story, and I am equally sure that Professor Strout has

some entertaining bit of village gossip that he would like to

circulate."

Here Samuel Hill purposely dropped his fork upon the floor and was

obliged to get under the table to recover it, Betsy assisting him in the

search. When they emerged from under the table their faces were red with

their exertions.

As we have seen on other occasions, the Professor was very quick in

rescuing himself from any dilemma into which he might be thrown. He saw

an opportunity to divert attention from himself and speedily improved

it.

"I think I'll have to walk over and see Miss Tilly James this

afternoon," said the Professor.

At this shot at Samuel Hill and Betsy everybody laughed, including

Quincy, and thus the ice was broken.

"I've heard some pretty big lies told in my life," said Robert Wood,

"but I think Abel Coffin, yer know him, Professor, old Jonathan Coffin's

son, the one that goes carpenterin', he lives over in Montrose, yer

know, can beat anybody we've got in this town, not exceptin' you,

Stiles;" and he gave the latter a nudge with his elbow that nearly

knocked him out of his chair.

"Tell us the story, Robert," said the Professor, who had recovered his

self-complacency; "we're dyin' to hear it."

"Well," continued Robert Wood, "Abel had been shinglin' a house, and I

told him there wuz a place where he'd left off a shingle. Abel laughed

and, sez he, 'If I hadn't better eyesight than you've got I'd carry a

telescope 'round with me.' 'Well,' sez I, thinkin' I'd fool him, 'let's

see which one of us has got the best eyesight.' I pointed up to the

ridgepole of the house, which was 'bout a hundred feet off from where we

stood, and sez I to Abel, 'Can you see that fly walkin' along on the

ridgepole near the chimney? I ken.' Abel put his hand up back of his

ear, and sez he, 'No, I can't see him, but I can hear him walkin'

'round.'"

As Robert concluded, a loud shout of laughter went up from the table.

Quincy had no desire to be considered "stuck up," so he joined in the

laugh, although he had heard the story in a different form before.

So had the Professor, and he never allowed an old story to be told in

his presence without working in two lines of doggerel which he had

composed, and of which he was very proud. So, turning to Robert Wood he

said patronizingly, "That was very well told, Robert. The story is an

old one, but you worked it up very nicely; but," continued the

Professor, "as I have often remarked on similar occasions:

It makes no difference whether a story's new or old,

Everything depends on the way it's told."

Turning quickly to Quincy he said, "No doubt Mr. Sawyer can favor us

with a story that we've never heard before."

Quincy was a little taken aback, for the appeal was unexpected, but he

quickly recovered his self-possession and said in a low but pleasant

voice, "I am afraid that my story will have to depend on the way it is

told rather than upon its novelty." He wondered if his hearers were

acquainted with the travels of Baron Munchausen, but decided to try the

experiment. "About a year ago," resumed Quincy, "I went down to Maine on

some law business. I transacted it, but had to travel some ten miles to

the county town to record my papers. I had a four-wheeled buggy, and a

strong, heavily-built horse. It began to snow very fast after I started,

but I knew the road and drove steadily on. As I approached the county

town I noticed that the snow was deeper than the highest building in the

town, in fact, none of the town was visible, excepting about three feet

of the spire of the tallest church in the place."

Quincy stopped and glanced about the table. Every eye was fastened upon

him, and all, including the Professor and Stiles particularly, were

listening intently. Quincy continued his story:

"I was well supplied with buffalo robes, so after tying my horse firmly

to the weather vane on the spire, I made up a bed on the snow with my

buffalo robes, and slept soundly and comfortably all night. When I woke

in the morning I was still enveloped in the robes, but found to my

surprise that I was lying upon the ground. I looked around, but there

was no sign of snow anywhere. I arose and looked about for my horse and

buggy, but they were not in sight. Then I remembered that I had tied my

horse to the weather vane. Casting my eyes upward I saw my horse and

buggy hanging by the strap, the horse having secured a footing on the

side of the spire. Happily I had a revolver with me, and with one shot I

severed the broad leathern strap. Naturally the horse and buggy fell to

the ground. I put my buffalo robes back into the buggy, rode to the

court house, had my papers recorded, and then drove back ten miles to

town, none the worse for my adventure, but the stableman charged me

fifty cents for the strap that I was obliged to leave on the church

spire."

A number of low whistles, intermixed with several "whews!" were heard,

as Quincy finished his story.

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

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

face.

"One thing puzzles me," said the Professor.

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

"Before you left the church," asked the Professor, "why didn't you reach

up and ontie that strap?"

Another loud shout of laughter broke from the company, and Quincy,

realizing that the Professor had beaten him fairly by putting a point on

his own story, joined heartily in the laugh at his own expense.

"That reminds me," said Abner Stiles, "of an adventure that I had

several years ago, down in Maine, when I wuz younger and spryer'n I am

now."

"How old be you?" said the Professor.

"Wall," replied Abner, "the family Bible makes me out to be fifty-eight,

but jedgin' from the fun I've had I'm as old as Methooserlar."

This remark gave Stiles the preliminary laugh, which he always counted

upon when he told a story.

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

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

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

"Usually with considerable less money than when I went up," replied

Quincy, seeing that Abner was mystified.

"What?" said Abner. "I mean a real black b'ar, one of those big, shaggy

fellers sech as you meet in the woods down in Maine."

"Oh," said Quincy, "I was talking about an open bar, such as you find in

bar-rooms and hotels."

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

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

continued:

"Wall, as I wuz goin' to say, I was out partridge shooting down in Maine

several years ago, and all I had with me was a fowlin' piece and a pouch

of bird shot. In fact, I didn't have any shot left, for I'd killed 'bout

forty partridges. I had a piece of strong twine with me, so I tied their

legs together and slung 'em over my shoulder. I was jest goin' to start

for hum when I heerd the boughs crackin' behind me, and turnin' 'round I

saw--Geewhillikins!--a big black b'ar not more'n ten feet from me. I had

nothin' to shoot him with, and knew that the only way to save my life

wuz to run for it. I jest bent over and threw the partridges on the

ground, thinkin' as I did so that perhaps the b'ar would stop to eat

them, and I could git away. I started to run, but caught my toe in some

underbrush and went down ker-slap. I said all the prayers I knew in

'bout eight seconds, then got up, and started to run ag'in. Like Lot's

wife, I couldn't help lookin' back, and there wuz the b'ar flat on his

back. I went up to him kinder cautious, for I didn't know but he might

be shammin', them black b'ars are mighty cute; but, no, he wuz deader'n

a door nail. I took the partridges back to town, and then a party on us

came back and toted the b'ar home."

Every one sat quietly for a moment, then Quincy asked with a sober face,

"What caused the bear's death; was it heart disease?"

"No," said Abner, "'twas some sort of brain trouble. Yer see, when I

threw those partridges onter the ground it brought a purty powerful

strain onto my galluses. When we cut the b'ar up we found one of my

pants buttons right in the centre of his brain."

Abner's story was greeted with those signs of approval that were so dear

to his heart, and Quincy, realizing that when you are in Rome you must

do as the Romans do, was not backward in his applause.

All eyes were now turned to the Professor.

"I don't think," said he, "that I can make up a lie to match with those

that have jist been told, but if any of you are enough interested in the

truth to want to listen to a true story, I kin tell you one that came

under my observation a few days ago."

All looked inquiringly at Strout, but none spoke.

"Wall," said he, "I s'pose I must consider as how silence means consent,

and go ahead. Wall" he continued, "you all know, or most all on yer do,

old Bill Tompkins, that lives out on the road to Montrose. This

occurrence took place early las' summer. Old Bill hisself is too

close-mouthed to let on about it, but when I was over there the other

day, arter givin' Lizzy Tompkins her music-lesson, I got talkin' with

her mother, and one thing led to another, and finally I got the whole

story outer her. Old Bill had a cow that they called 'Old Jinnie.' She

was always mischeevous, but last year she'd been wusser'n ever. She'd

git out of the barn nights, and knock down fences, and tramp down flower

gardens, and everybody said she wuz a pesky noosance. One night old Bill

and his family wuz seated 'round the centre table in the sittin'-room.

There wuz Mary, his wife; and George, his oldest boy, a young fellow

about eighteen; Tommy, who is a ten-year-older, and little Lizzy, who is

about eight. George wuz readin' somethin' out of a paper to 'em, when

they heerd a-runnin' and a-jumpin', and old Bill said, 'That varmint's

got out of the barn and is rampagin' 'round agin,' The winder curt'ins

wuz up, and old Jinnie must 'a' seed the light, for she run pell-mell

agin the house, and drove her horns through the winder, smashin' four

panes. Old Bill and George managed to git her back inter the barn and

tied her up.

"As they wuz walking back to the house, old Bill said, 'Consarn her

picter, I'll make beef o' her to-morrer or my name ain't Bill Tompkins,'

When they got back to the settin'-room, George said, 'How be yer goin'

ter do it, dad?' 'Why, cut her throat,' said Bill. 'You can't do it,'

said George, 'the law sez yer must shoot her fust in the temple,' 'All

right,' said old Bill, 'you shoot and I'll carve,' So next mornin' they

led old Jinnie out with her head p'inted towards the barn. George had

loaded up the old musket, and stood 'bout thirty feet off. George

didn't know just edzactly where the cow's temple wuz, but he imagined it

must be somewhere atween her eyes, so he fired and hit her squar' in the

forehead. That was enough for old Jinnie, she jist ducked her head, and

with a roar like the bull of Bashan she put for George. He dropped the

musket and went up the ladder inter the haymow livelier'n he ever did

before, you kin bet. Old Jinnie struck the ladder and knocked it

galley-west. Old Jinnie then turned 'round and spied little Tommy. He

put, and she put arter him. There wasn't nothin' else to do, so Tommy

took a high jump and landed in the pig-sty. Old Bill is kinder deef in

one ear, and he didn't notice much what wuz goin' on on that side of

him. He was runnin' the grindstone and puttin' a good sharp edge on his

butcher knife, when he happened to look up and seed old Jinnie comin'

head on. He dropped the knife and started for the house, thinkin' he'd

dodge in the front door. Over went the grindstone and old Jinnie, too,

but she wuz up on her feet ag'in quicker'n scat. She seemed to scent the

old man, for when she got to the front door she turned in and then

bolted right into the parlor. Old Bill heerd her comin', and he went

head fust through the open winder, and landed in the orchard. He got up

and run for a big apple-tree that stood out near the road, and never

stopped till he'd clumb nearly to the top. Little Lizzie gave a yell

like a catamount and ran behind the pianner, which was sot out a little

from the wall. Old Jinnie went bunt inter the planner and made a

sandwich of Lizzie, who wuz behind it. Mis' Tompkins heard Lizzie

scream, and come to see what the matter was. When she see Jinnie she

jist made strides for the wood-shed, and old Jinnie sashayed arter her.

Mis' Tompkins went skitin' through the wood-shed. There wuz a pair of

steps that led up inter the corn barn, and Mis' Tompkins got up there

jist as old Jinnie walked off with the steps. Then old Jinnie took a

walk outside and looked 'round as unconsarned as though nothin' had

happened. Jist about this time one of them tin peddlers come along that

druv one of them red carts with pots, and pans, and kittles, and brooms,

and brushes, and mops hung all over it. He spied old Bill up in the

tree, and sez he, 'What be yar doin', Farmer Tompkins?' 'Pickin'

apples,' said old Bill. He don't waste words on nobody. 'Ain't it rather

early for apples?' inquired the peddler. 'These are some I forgot to

pick last fall,' replied old Bill. 'Anythin' in my line?' said the

peddler. 'Ain't got no money,' said Bill. 'Hain't you got something you

want to trade?' asked the peddler. 'Yes,' said Bill, 'I'll swap that cow

over yonder; you kin have her for fifteen dollars, an' I'll take it all

in trade,' 'Good milker?' said the man. 'Fust-class butter,' said old

Bill. 'What do you want in trade?' said the man. 'Suit yerself,' said

Bill, 'chuck it down side of the road there.' This was soon done, and

the peddler druv up front of old Jinnie and went to git her, so as to

tie her behind his waggin. She didn't stop to be led. Down went her head

agin and she made for the peddler. He got the other side of his team

jist as old Jinnie druv her horns 'tween the spokes of the forrard

wheel. Down come the pots, and pans, and kittles, in ev'ry direction. A

clotheshorse fell on the horse's back and off he started on a dead run,

and that wuz the end of poor Jinnie. Before she could pull back her

horns, round went the wheel and broke her neck. The peddler pulled up

his horse and went back to see old Bill, who was climbin' down from the

apple tree. 'What am I goin' to do about this?' said the peddler. 'I wuz

countin' on drivin' her over to the next town and sellin' her or tradin'

her off, but I hain't got no use for fresh beef.' 'Wall,' said old Bill,

'considering circumstances we'll call the trade off. You kin keep your

stuff and I'll keep my beef.' The peddler loaded up and druv off. Then

old Bill went in and pulled Lizzie out from behind the pianner, and put up

the steps so Mrs. Tompkins could come down from the corn barn, and

fished Tommy out of the pig-sty, and threw a bucket of water over him,

and put up the ladder so George could git down from the haymow, and they

all got round poor old Jinnie and stood as hard as they could and

laughed." Here Professor Strout pushed back his chair and rose to his

feet. "That's how old Bill Tompkins got his beef."

There was a general laugh and a pushing back of chairs, and the whole

company arose and went in various directions to their afternoon work.

Professor Strout went into the front entry, for he always entered and

left the house by the front door. Quincy followed him, and closing the

door that led into the dining-room, said, "Mr. Strout, I would like to

see you in my room for half an hour on important business."

"I guess 'tain't as important as some business of my own I've got to

attend to this arternoon. I'm goin' over to the Centre to fix up my

accounts as tax collector with the town treasurer."

"I think my business is fully as important as that," said Quincy, "it

relates to your appointment as postmaster."

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

suffusing his face.

"I have both hands in it," replied Quincy imperturbably, "and it rests

with you entirely whether I keep hold or let go."

"Wall," said Strout, looking at his watch, "I kin spare you half an

hour, if it will be as great an accommodation to yer as yer seem to

think it will."

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

CHAPTER XXX.

A SETTLEMENT.

When they entered the room Quincy motioned Strout to a chair, which he

took. He then closed the door and, taking a cigar case from his pocket,

offered a cigar to Strout, which the latter refused. Quincy then lighted

a cigar and, throwing himself into an armchair in a comfortable

position, looked straight at the Professor, who returned his gaze

defiantly, and said:

"Mr. Strout, there is an open account of some two month's standing

between us, and I have asked you to come up here to-day, because I think

it is time for a settlement"

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

"I think you owe me better treatment than you have given me the past two

months," remarked Quincy, "but we'll settle that point later."

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

a sneer.

"But you began it," said Quincy, "and had it all your own way for two

months; I waited patiently for you to stop, but you wouldn't, so the

last week I've been squaring up matters, and there is only one point

that hasn't been settled. From what I have heard," continued Quincy, "I

am satisfied that Miss Mason has received full reparation for any

slanderous remarks that may have been started or circulated by you

concerning herself."

The Professor attentively regarded the pattern of the carpet on the

floor.

Quincy continued, "Miss Lindy Putnam has repeated to me what she told

Mr. Stiles about her visit to Boston, and attributed the distorted and

untrue form in which it reached the inhabitants of this town to your

well-known powers of invention. Am I right?"

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

through," he replied.

"I expect and ask no apology or reparation for what you've said about

me," remarked Quincy. "You made your boast that one of us had got to

leave town, and it wouldn't be you. When I heard that I determined to

stay at whatever cost, and we'll settle this afternoon which one of us

is going to change his residence."

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

"Well, I don't know," rejoined Quincy. "Let us see what I have done in a

week. You insulted Mr. Pettengill and his sister by not inviting them to

the surprise party. I know it was done to insult me rather than them,

but you will remember that we three were present, and had a very

pleasant time. I was the lawyer that advised Deacon Mason not to loan

that five hundred dollars to pay down on the store. I told the Deacon I

would loan him five hundred dollars if the store was knocked down to

you, but I would have had that store if it had cost me ten thousand

dollars instead of three. I was the one who put your war record in the

hands of Mr. Tobias Smith, and I was the one that prepared the statement

which showed how negligent you had been in attending to your duties as

tax collector."

"Payin' so much attention to other people's business must have made yer

forget yer own," said Strout, shutting his teeth together with a snap.

"Oh, no," remarked Quincy, with a laugh; "I had plenty of time left to

take a hand in village politics, and my friend Mr. Stackpole was elected

by a very handsome vote, as you have no doubt heard." Strout dug his

heel into the carpet, but said nothing.

"Now," continued Quincy, "I've had your appointment as postmaster held

up till you and I come to terms."

"You're takin' a lot of trouble for nothin'," said Strout. "I can't be

postmaster unless I have a store. I guess I kin manage to live with my

music teachin' and organ playin' at the church."

"I've thought of that," said Quincy. "I don't wish to go to extremes,

but I will if it is necessary. Before you leave this room, Mr. Strout,

you must decide whether you will work with me or against me in the

future."

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

"Well," said Quincy sternly, "if you drive me to it, I'll bring down a

couple of good music teachers from Boston. They'll teach music for

nothing, and I'll pay them good salaries. The church needs a new organ,

and I'll make them a present of one, on condition that they get a new

organist."

Strout looked down reflectively for a few minutes, then he glanced up

and a queer smile passed over his face. "S'posin' I switch 'round," said

he, "and say I'll work with yer?"

"If you say it and mean it, Mr. Strout," replied Quincy, rising from his

chair, "I'll cross off the old score and start fresh from to-day. I'm no

Indian, and have no vindictive feelings. You and I have been playing

against each other and you've lost every trick. Now, if you say so,

we'll play as partners. I'll give you a third interest in the grocery

store for a thousand dollars. The firm name shall be Strout & Maxwell.

I'll put in another thousand dollars to buy a couple of horses and

wagons, and we'll take orders and deliver goods free to any family

within five miles of the store. Maxwell will have a third, and I'll have

a third as silent partner, and I'll see that you get your appointment

as postmaster."

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

came.

"Considerin' as how you put it," said Strout, "I don't think you and me

will clash in the futur'."

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

"That settles it," said Quincy.

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

A loud knock was heard on the door.

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

Strout.

Quincy opened the door and Mr. Stiles stood revealed.

"Is Professor Strout here?" asked he.

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

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

may be kinder private."

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

"Wall," said Abner, looking askance at Quincy, "if yer satisfied, I am.

Hiram Maxwell's jest came down from Mis' Putnam's, and Mis' Heppy

Putnam's dead,"--Quincy started on hearing this,--"and Samanthy Green is

at her wits' end, 'cause she never was alone in the house with a dead

pusson afore, an' Hiram's goin' to take Betsy Green back to stay with

her sister, and then he's goin' to take Miss Alice Pettengill down home,

cuz Miss Pettengill's most tired out; cuz, you see, she's been there

since eight o'clock this mornin', and Mis' Putnam didn't die till about

one o'clock, and Samanthy says Mis' Putnam took on awful, so you could

hear her all over the house, and Miss Lindy Putnam, she's goin' to take

the next train to Bosting--she's goin', bag and baggage--and I've got to

drive her over to the station, and Bob Wood, he's comin' along with a

waggin to carry her trunks and bandboxes and sich, and so I've come to

tell yer, Professor, that I can't take yer over to the Centre this

arternoon, no how."

"That's all right, Abner," said Strout; "considerin' as how things has

gone, to-morrow will do just as well, but I wish you'd drop in and tell

the town treasurer that I'm goin' into business with Mr. Maxwell and Mr.

Sawyer here,"--Abner's eyes dilated,--"under the firm name of Strout,

Maxwell, & Co."

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

"And," continued Mr. Strout, "Mr. Sawyer here is goin' to push through

my app'intment as postmaster."

By this time Abner's mouth was wide open. Quincy saw it, and imagined

the conflict going on in poor Abner's mind.

"What Mr. Strout says is correct," remarked Quincy, "but you have no

time to lose now. Perhaps to-night Mr. Strout will explain the matter

more fully to you."

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

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

Professor.

"Yes," assented Strout; "Abner's a very good shaft horse, but he

wouldn't be of much vally as a lead."

Quincy again extended his cigar case. This time the Professor did not

refuse, but took two. Holding up one of them between his fingers, he

said, "This is the one I didn't take when I came in."

"I will have the partnership papers drawn up in a few days, Mr. Strout,

ready for signature, and I will write at once to my friends in

Washington, and urge them to see the Postmaster General, and have your

appointment made as soon as possible."

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

Quincy was a little taken aback by this remark, for he had not

anticipated a compliment from the Professor. He turned to him and said,

"Until you forfeit my esteem, we are friends, and it is always a

pleasure to me to help my friends."

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

"Not a bad man at heart," soliloquized Quincy. "I am glad the affair has

had such a pleasant termination. Poor Alice! What a time she must have

had with Mrs. Putnam, and so Lindy is going to keep her word, and not

stay to the funeral. Well, knowing what I do, I don't blame her. Perhaps

Mrs. Putnam told Alice that Lindy was not her own child, for Alice would

not accept the fortune, I know, if she thought she was wronging Lindy by

doing so. I'll go home,"--he smiled as he said this,--"and probably

Alice will tell me all about it."

He went down stairs, and not seeing Mrs. Hawkins in the dining-room,

walked out into the kitchen, where she was hard at work washing the

dinner dishes.

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

"I don't wish for anything particularly," said Quincy, "but I do wish to

compliment you on your chicken salad; it was as fine as any I ever ate

at Young's, or Parker's, in Boston, and," continued he, "here are twelve

dollars." He held out the money to her, she wiped her hands on her

apron.

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

"That's for Mandy," said Quincy; "and this," pressing the money into her

hand, "is for four weeks' room rent; I am liable to come here any time

during the next month. I am going into business with Mr. Strout and Mr.

Maxwell--we're going to run the grocery store over here, and it will be

very handy to be so near to the store until we get the business

established. Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawkins," and he took her hand, which

was still wet, in his, and shook it warmly.

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

interposed.

"You better go out the front way," said she, and she ran before him and

opened the door leading to the front entry, and then the front door. As

he passed out, she said, "I wish you success, Mr. Sawyer, and we'll gin

you all our trade."

"Thank you!" said Quincy. He walked down the path, opened the front

gate, and as he closed it raised his hat to Mrs. Hawkins, who stood in

the front doorway, her thin, angular face wreathed in smiles.

"Wall," said she, as she closed the front door and walked back into the

kitchen, "what lies some folks tell. Now, that Professor Strout has

allus said that Mr. Sawyer was so stuck up that he wouldn't speak to

common folks. Wall, I think he's a real gentleman. 'Twon't do for any

one to run him down to me after this."

Here she thought of her money, and, spreading out the three bills in her

hand, she opened the kitchen door and screamed at the top of her voice,

"Jonas! Jonas!! Jonas!!!" There were no signs of Jonas. "Where is that

man? He's never 'round when he's wanted."

"What is it, Marthy?" said a voice behind her. Turning, she saw her

husband puffing away at his brierwood pipe.

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

up?"

"Wall, I did," he replied; "but it didn't take two on us long to do

that. I eat so much chicken salad that it laid kinder heavy on my

stummick, so I went out in the wood-shed to have a smoke. But where did

you git all that money?"

"Mr. Sawyer took the front room for two weeks and paid for it ahead, and

do you know he said my chicken salad was jist as good as Mrs. Young and

Mrs. Parker makes down to Bosting."

"I don't know Mrs. Young nor Mrs. Parker," said Jonas, "but on makin'

chicken salad I'll match Mrs. Hawkins agin 'em any day;" and he went out

in the wood-shed to finish his smoke.

As Quincy walked down the road towards the Pettengill house his mind was

busy with his thoughts.

"To think," said he to himself, "that while I was listening to those

stories, to call them by no worse name, at the dinner table, the woman I

love was witnessing the death agony and listening to the last words of a

dear friend--the woman who's going to leave her a fortune. Now that she

knows that she's an heiress, I can speak; she never would have listened

to me, knowing that she was poor and I was rich, and I never could have

spoken to her with that secret in my mind that Mrs. Putnam told me--that

she was going to leave her all her money. I am so glad for Alice's sake,

even if she does not love me. She can have the best medical attendance

now, and she will be able to give all her time to her literary work, for

which she has a decided genius. Won't she be delighted when I tell her

that Leopold has placed all her stories and wants her to write a book?"

As he reached the front gate he saw Hiram driving up the road and Alice

was with him. As Hiram stopped, Quincy stepped forward and took Alice's

hand to assist her in alighting from the buggy.

"Oh, Mr. Sawyer," said she, "have you heard that Mrs. Putnam is dead,

and I've had such a terrible day with her?"

Her nervous system had been wrought to its highest tension by what she

had undergone during the past six hours. She burst into a flood of

tears. Then she tottered and would have fallen if Quincy had not grasped

her.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

She took a step forward, but he saw at a glance that she had not

sufficient strength to reach her room.

"Open the gate, Hiram. Then give the door-bell a good sharp ring, so

that Mandy will come quickly."

He took her in his arms and went up the path, by the astonished Mandy,

and upstairs to Alice's room, where he laid her tenderly upon her bed.

Turning to Mandy, who had followed close at his heels, he said:

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

He went into his own room and thanked Heaven that he had been at hand to

render her the service that she so much needed. When he went down to

supper Mandy told him that Miss Alice was asleep, and she guessed she'd

be all right in the morning.

CHAPTER XXXI.

AN INHERITANCE.

Quincy reached his room at Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house about midnight

of the day of the town meeting. About the same hour Mrs. Heppy Putnam

awoke from a troubled sleep and felt a pain, like the thrust of a knife

blade, through her left side. The room was dark and cold, the wood fire

in the open grate having died out a couple of hours before, while a cool

wind was blowing with great force outside.

Mrs. Putnam came of the old stock which considered it a virtue to suffer

and be silent, rather than call out and be saved. So she lay for five

long hours suffering intense pain, but declaring to herself, with all

the sturdiness of an old Roman warrior or an Indian chief, that she

would not ask for any assistance "till it wuz time for folks to git up."

This delay was fatal, or was destined to become so, but she did not know

it; she had had colds before, and she had always got well. Why should'nt

she now? It is a strange vagary of old people to consider themselves

just as young as they used to be, notwithstanding their advanced years.

To the majority of the old people, the idea of death is not so appalling

as the inability to work and the incapacity to enjoy the customary

pleasures of life.

Mrs. Putnam had always been an active, energetic woman until she had

lost her power to walk as the result of rheumatic fever; in fact, it was

always acknowledged and said by the country folk that she was the better

half of the matrimonial firm of Silas and Hepsibeth Putnam. Since her

husband's failure to mount to Heaven on the day fixed for the Second

Advent she had had entire control of the family finances. Her

investments, many of which had been suggested by her deceased son, J.

Jones Putnam, had been very profitable.

She owned the house in which she lived, which was the largest, best

finished, and best furnished one in the town of Eastborough. It occupied

a commanding position on the top of a hill, and from its upper windows

could be obtained a fine view of the surrounding country. The soil at

Mason's Corner was particularly fertile, and this fact had led to the

rapid growth of the village, which was three miles from the business

centre of Eastborough, and only a mile from the similar part of the

adjoining town of Montrose.

Back of the Putnam homestead were the best barns, carriage houses, sheds

and other outbuildings to be found in the town, but for years they had

been destitute of horses, cattle, and other domestic animals.

Mr. Putnam had disliked dogs because they killed sheep, and Mrs. Putnam

detested cats. For years no chanticleer had awakened echoes during the

morning hours, and no hens or chickens wandered over the neglected farm.

The trees in the large orchard had not been pruned for a long time, and

the large vegetable garden was overrun with grass and weeds.

Back of the orchard and the vegetable garden, and to the right and left

of the homestead, were about a hundred and sixty acres of arable pasture

and wood-land, the whole forming what could be easily made the finest

farm in the town.

The farm had been neglected simply because the income from her

investments was more than sufficient for the support of the family. The

unexpended income had been added to the principal, until Mrs. Putnam's

private fortune now amounted to fully fifty thousand dollars, invested

in good securities, together with the house and farm, which were free

from mortgage.

When the first streaks of morning reached the room in which Mrs. Putnam

lay upon her bed of pain, she seized one of her crutches, and pounded

vigorously upon the floor. In a short time Samanthy Green entered the

room. She was buttoning up her dress as she came in, and her hair was in

a dishevelled condition.

"Why, what on earth's the matter? You wheeze like our old pump out in

the barn. You do look real sick, to be sure."

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

"don't look at me."

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

doctor?"

"No," replied Mrs. Putnam, "I don't want no doctor. The fust thing that

I want you to do is to go and comb that frowzy pate of yourn, and when

you git that done I want yer to make me a mustard plaster 'bout as big

as that;" and she held up her hands about a foot apart. "Now go, and

don't stand and look at me as though I wuz a circus waggin."

Samanthy left the room quickly, but she had no sooner closed the door

when Mrs. Putnam called out her name in a loud voice, and Samanthy

opened the door and looked in.

"Did you call, marm?" she asked.

"Of course I did," said Mrs. Putnam testily. "I guess ye wouldn't have

come back if yer hadn't known I did."

Mrs. Putnam was evidently in a bad temper, and Samanthy had learned by

years of experience to keep a close mouth under such circumstances, so

she waited for Mrs. Putnam's next words without replying. Finally Mrs

Putnam spoke. "I wish you'd bring up some wood and start a fire, the

room's kinder cold."

When Samanthy reached the kitchen she found Lindy there.

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

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

"She is awful sick," rejoined Samanthy; "I never saw her look so poorly

afore; she seems to be all choked up. She wants a big mustard plaster

and a fire up in her room, and I don't know which to do fust. Oh!" she

cried, "I must comb my hair before I go back;" and she wet a brush and

commenced brushing out her long brown hair, which, with her rosy cheeks,

formed her two principal claims to good looks.

"Sit down," said Lindy, "and I'll fix your hair up much quicker than you

can do it yourself."

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

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

mustard plaster."

When Samanthy entered the chamber with the materials for the fire, Mrs.

Putnam opened her eyes and said sharply, "Did yer bring that plaster?"

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

"Wall," said Mrs. Putnam, "I want the plaster fust, and you go right

down stairs and mix it up quick."

When Samanthy returned to the kitchen she found that Lindy had the

plaster all ready. Samanthy took it, and started upstairs.

Lindy said to her, "Don't tell her that I made it." As she said this she

stepped back into the kitchen and closed the door.

As Samanthy approached the bedside with the plaster, Mrs. Putnam looked

up and asked, "Did you make that plaster, Samanthy?"

"Yes'm," replied Samanthy.

"You're lyin', Samanthy Green, and you know yer are. You can't fool me.

Didn't I hear yer talkin' to somebody in the kitchen?"

"Yes'm," assented Samanthy.

"Wall," rejoined Mrs. Putnam, "of course I know who it wuz yer wuz

talkin' to. Did she make the plaster?"

"Yes'm," again assented Samanthy.

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

Samanthy passed it to her, and the old lady crumpled it in her hand's

and threw it across the room. "Now go down stairs, Samanthy Green, and

make me a mustard plaster, as I told yer to, and when I git up outer

this I'll see if I can't git somebody to wait on me that kin tell the

truth 'thout my havin' to help 'em."

In the course of half an hour the new plaster was made and applied, and

a bright fire was shedding its warmth into the room.

"Go down stairs and git yer breakfast," said Mrs. Putnam. "'Tis a trifle

early, but I hearn tell that lyin' makes people hungry."

As Samanthy gave her an inquiring look, Mrs. Putnam said, "No, I don't

want nothin' to eat or drink nuther, but when yer git the dishes washed

I want yer ter go on an errand for me."

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

room.

"I want yer to go right down to Zeke Pettengill's and tell his sister

Alice that I want her to come right up here. Tell her it's my las'

sickness, and I won't take 'no' for an answer. Be sure you put it to her

jest as I do; and Samanthy," as Samanthy opened the door and was leaving

the room, "say, Samanthy, don't git anybody to do the errand for you."

About ten minutes after Samanthy left the house, Lindy Putnam entered

the sick room. Mrs. Putnam's pain had been relieved somewhat by the

mustard, and this relief restored, to a great extent, her usual vigor of

mind.

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

clouding her face.

"I knew Samanthy had gone out, and so I came up to see if I could do

anything for you, mother."

"Don't mother me. I ain't your mother, and I mean everybody shall know

it soon's I'm dead."

"I've had to say mother before other people," explained Lindy, "and

that's why I forgot myself then. Pray excuse me."

"Oh, don't put on yer citified airs when yer talkin' to me. Ain't yer

glad I'm goin' ter die?"

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

"You know better," rejoined Mrs. Putnam. "You'll be glad when I'm gone,

for then you kin go gallivantin' 'round and spend the money that my son

worked hard fur."

"I've used very little of it," said Lindy; "less than the interest; I

have never touched the principal."

Lindy still remained standing at the foot of the bed.

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

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

"I wish you would," said Mrs. Putnam, "and you'll do me a favor if

you'll pack yer duds as quick as yer can and git out of the house and

never come back agin."

"I will leave the room, but I cannot leave the house while you are

alive," remarked Lindy firmly.

"Why not?" said Mrs. Putnam. "I want to die in peace, and I shall go

much easier if I know I haven't got to set my eyes on your face agin."

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

were alive."

"Oh, you promised Jones, did yer?" cried Mrs. Putnam with a sneer.

"Wall, Jones will let you off on yer promise jest to 'blige me, so yer

needn't stay any longer."

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

"Did yer ever tell anybody I wasn't yer mother?" Lindy hesitated. "Why

don't you out with it," said Mrs. Putnam, "and say no, no matter if it

is a lie? Samanthy can lie faster'n a horse can trot, and I know you put

her up to it."

"I have been impudent and disrespectful to you many times, Mrs. Putnam,

when you were cross to me, but I never told you a deliberate lie in my

life. I have told one person that you were not my mother."

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

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

"Who was it?" inquired Mrs. Putnam eagerly. Lindy did not answer. "Oh,

you won't tell!" said Mrs. Putnam. "Wall, I bet I can guess; it's that

feller that's boardin' over to Pettingill's."

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

herself.

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

"Wall, I can kinder put two and two together," said Mrs. Putnam. "The

day Alice Pettengill came over here with him you two wuz down in the

parlor together, and I had to pound on the floor three times afore I

could make him hear. I knew you must be either spoonin' or abusin' me."

It was with difficulty that Lindy kept back the words which rose to her

lips, but she said nothing.

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

"It wasn't necessary," said Lindy, "I judged from some things that he

said that you had told him yourself."

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, I have surmised for a long time," continued Lindy. "This morning I

asked Samanthy where she was going, and she said down to Pettengill's.

Then I knew."

"I told her not to tell," said Mrs. Putnam, "the lyin' jade. If I git up

off this bed she'll git her walkin' ticket."

"She's ready to go," said Lindy; "she told me this morning that she'd

wait until you got a new girl."

Mrs. Putnam closed her eyes and placed both of her hands over her heart.

Despite her fortitude the intense pain wrung a groan from her.

Lindy rushed forward and dropped on her knees beside the bed. "Forgive

me, Mrs. Putnam," said she, "but you spoke such cruel words to me that I

could not help answering you in the same way. I am so sorry. I loved

your son with all my heart, and I had no right to speak so to his

mother, no matter what she said to me."

The paroxysm of pain had passed, and Mrs. Putnam was her old self again.

Looking at the girl who was kneeling with her head bowed down she said,

"I guess both of us talked about as we felt; as for loving my son, yer

had no right to, and he had no right to love you."

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

"'Twould have been all right if he'd let it stop there," replied Mrs.

Putnam. "Who put it into his head that there was no law agin a man

marryin' his adopted sister? You wuz a woman grown of eighteen, and he

wuz only a young boy of sixteen, and you made him love yer and turn

agin his mother, and then we had ter send him away from home ter keep

yer apart, and then you ran after him, and then he died, and it broke my

heart. You wuz the cause of it, but for yer he would be livin' now, a

comfort to his poor old mother. I hated yer then for what yer did. Ev'ry

time I look at yer I think of the happiness you stole from me, an' I

hate yer wusser'n ever."

"Oh, mother, mother!" sobbed Lindy.

"I'm not your mother," screamed Mrs. Putnam. "I s'pose you must have had

one, but you'll never know who she wuz; she didn't care nuthin' fer yer,

for she left yer in the road, and Silas was fool enough to pick yer up

and bring yer home. What yer right name is nobody knows, and mebbe yer

ain't got none."

At this taunt Lindy arose to her feet and looked defiantly at Mrs.

Putnam. "You are not telling the truth, Mrs. Putnam," said the girl;

"you know who my parents were, but you will not tell me."

"That's right," said Mrs. Putnam, "git mad and show yer temper; that's

better than sheddin' crocodile's tears, as yer've been doin'; yer've

been a curse to me from the day I fust set eyes on yer. I've said I hate

yer, and I do, an' I'll never forgive yer fer what yer've done to me."

Lindy saw that words were useless. Perhaps Mrs. Putnam might, recover,

and if she did not provoke her too far she might relent some day and

tell her what she knew about her parents; so she walked to the door and

opened it. Then she turned and said, "Good-by, Mrs. Putnam, I truly hope

that you will recover."

"Wall, I sha'n't," said Mrs. Putnam. "I'm goin' to die, I want ter die.

I want ter see Jones; I want ter talk ter him; I want ter tell him how

much I loved him--how much I've suffered through yer. I'm goin' ter tell

him how I've hated yer and what fer, and when I git through talkin' to

him, I'll guarantee he'll be my way o' thinkin'."

As the old woman said this, with an almost superhuman effort she raised

herself to a sitting posture, pointed her finger at Lindy, and gave

utterances to a wild, hysterical laugh that almost froze the blood in

the poor girl's veins.

Lindy slammed the door behind her, rushed to her own room, locked the

door, and threw herself face downward upon the bed. Should she ever

forget those last fearful words, that vengeful face, that taunting

finger, or that mocking laugh?

Samanthy took Alice up to Mrs. Putnam's room about eight o'clock. Alice

knelt by the bedside. She could not see the old lady's face, but she

took her withered hands in hers, and caressed them lovingly, saying,

"Aunt Heppy, I am sorry you are so sick. Have you had the doctor?"

The old lady drew the young girl's head down close to her and kissed her

upon the cheek. "The docter kin do me no good. I've sent fer yer becuz I

know yer love me, and I wanted to know that one person would be sorry

when I wuz gone."

"I'm so sorry," said Alice, "that I cannot see to help you, but you are

not going to die; you must have the doctor at once."

"No," said Mrs. Putnam, "I want to die, I want to see my boy. I sent for

you becuz I wanted to tell you that I am goin' to leave this house and

farm and all my money to you."

"To me!" cried Alice, astonished. "Why, how can you talk so, Aunt Heppy?

You have a daughter, who is your legal heir; how could you ever think of

robbing your own flesh and blood of her inheritance?"

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

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

"No," said Mrs. Putnam savagely. "Silas and me didn't think we'd have

any children, so we 'dopted her jest afore we moved down from New

Hampshire and settled in this town."

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

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

were here?"

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

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

"I promised," replied Alice, "not to let any one see it, and to destroy

it within twenty-four hours after your death."

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

"My word is sacred," said Alice solemnly.

"Alice Pettengill," cried Mrs. Putnam, "if you break your word to me I

shall be sorry that I ever loved you; I shall repent that I made you my

heiress." And her voice rose to a sharp, shrill tone. "I'll haunt you as

long as you live."

The girl shrank back from her.

"Don't mind a poor old woman whose hours are numbered, but you'll keep

yer promise, won't yer, Alice?" And she grasped both Alice's hands

convulsively.

"Aunt Heppy," said Alice, "I've given you my promise, and I'll keep my

word whatever happens. So don't worry any more about it, Auntie."

For a few moments Mrs. Putnam remained quiet; then she spoke in clear,

even tones. Not a word was lost upon Alice. "This adopted daughter of

mine has been a curse to me ever since I knew her. She was two years

older than Jones. They grew up together as brother and sister, but she

wasn't satisfied with that, she fell in love with my son, and she made

him love her. She turned him agin his mother. She found out that there

wuz no law agin a man's marryin' his adopted sister. We had to send him

away from home, but she followed him. She wuz goin' to elope with him,

but I got wind of it, and I stopped that; then Jones died away from home

and left her all his money. He wuz so bitter agin me that he put in his

will that she was not to touch a dollar of my money, but better that

than to have her marry him. I stopped that!" and the old woman chuckled

to herself. Then her mood changed. "Such a marriage would 'a' been a sin

agin God and man," she said sternly. "She robbed me of my son, my only

boy, but I'll git even with her. She asked me this mornin' if I knew who

her parents wuz. I told her no, that she was a waif picked up in a New

Hampshire road, but I lied to her. I had to."

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

"Certainly I do," said Mrs. Putnam; "that letter you've got, and that

yer promised to destroy, tells all about 'em, but she shall never see

it. Never! Never!! Never!!!"

Again she rose to a sitting posture, and again that wild, mocking laugh

rang through the house. Lindy, still lying upon her bed in her room,

heard it, shuddered, and covered her ears with her hands to shut out the

terrible sound. Samanthy, in the kitchen, heard it, and saying to

herself, "Mrs. Putnam has gone crazy, and only that blind girl with

her," ran upstairs.

When Mrs. Putnam uttered that wild laugh, Alice started from her chair

with beating heart and a frightened look upon her face. As the door

opened and Samanthy entered, Alice stepped forward. She could not see

who it was, but supposing it was Lindy, she cried out, "Oh, Lindy, I'm

so glad you've come!"

Mrs. Putnam had fallen back exhausted upon her pillow; when she heard

the name Lindy she tried to rise again, but could not. But her

indomitable spirit still survived.

"So you've come back, have you?" she shrieked. "Yer couldn't let me die

in peace. You want to hear more, do you? Well, I'll tell you the truth.

I know who your parents are, but I destroyed the letter; it's burned.

That's what I had the fire built for this mornin'. You robbed me of my

son and I've got even with yer." The old woman pointed her finger at

poor Samanthy, who stood petrified in the doorway, and shrieked again,

"Go!" and she pointed her withered finger toward the door, "and hunt for

your parents."

The astonished Samanthy finally plucked up courage to close the door;

she ran to Lindy's room and pounded upon the door until Lindy was forced

to admit her; then the frightened girl told Lindy what she had heard,

and again the worse than orphan threw herself upon her bed and prayed

that she, too, might die.

Alice did not swoon, but she sank upon the floor, overcome by the horror

of the scene. No sound came from the bed. Was she dead? Alice groped her

way back to the chair in which she had previously sat; she leaned over

and listened. Mrs. Putnam was breathing still--faint, short breaths.

Alice took one of her hands in hers and prayed for her. Then she prayed

for the unhappy girl. Then she thought of the letter and the promise she

had made. Should she keep her promises to the dying woman, and thus be a

party to the wronging of this poor girl?

"Mrs. Putnam! Mrs. Putnam!! Aunt Heppy!!!" she cried; "take back your

fortune, I do not want it; only release me from my oath. Oh, that I

could send for that letter and put it back into her hands before she

dies! If Mr. Sawyer were only here; but I do not know where to find

him."

For hours, it seemed ages to Alice, she remained by the bedside of the

dying woman, seeing nothing, but listening intently, and hoping that she

would revive, hear her words, and release her from that horrid oath.

Suddenly, Alice started; the poor old wrinkled, wasted hand that she

held in hers, was cold--so cold--she leaned over and put her ear above

the old woman's lips. There was no sound of breathing. She pulled down

the bed-clothes and placed her hand upon her heart. It was still. Mrs.

Putnam had gone to meet the boy she had loved and lost.

Feeling her way along the wall, she reached the door. Flinging it wide

open, she cried, "Samantha! Lindy!"

Samanthy came to the foot of the stairs.

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

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

Samanthy ran quickly upstairs. She went first to Miss Lindy's room and

told her that all was over; then she came back, went into Mrs. Putnam's

room, pulled down the curtains, went to the bed and laid the sheet over

Mrs. Putnam's face. She looked at the fire to see that it was safe, came

out and closed the door. Then she helped Alice down stairs, led her into

the parlor and seated her in an easy-chair.

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

for dinner."

Lindy came down stairs and went to the front door. Hiram was there,

smoking a cigar, and beating his arms to keep warm. He had been waiting

outside for a couple of hours, and he was nearly frozen.

"Mr. Maxwell," said Lindy; and Hiram came up the steps. "Mrs. Putnam is

dead," said she. "She expired just a few moments ago, about one

o'clock," she continued, looking at her watch. "I want you to go right

down to Mrs. Hawkins's and bring Betsy Green back to stay with her

sister; then tell Mr. Stiles to come up at once with the buggy and a

wagon to carry my trunks to the station. Tell Mr. Stiles I am going to

Boston on the next train. When you come back you can take Miss

Pettengill home. She will be through her lunch by the time you get back.

After you've taken her home, I want you to go and get Mrs. Pinkham, the

nurse; tell her Mrs. Putnam, is dead, and that I want her to come and

lay her out. Then drive over to Montrose and tell Mr. Tilton, the

undertaker, that I want him to make all the arrangements for the

funeral And take this for your trouble," said she, as she passed him a

five dollar bill.

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

"Take it," said Lindy, with a smile; "I have plenty more--more than I

need--more than I know what to do with."

As Hiram drove off he said to himself, "Lucky girl; she's mighty putty,

too. I wonder that city feller didn't shine up to her. I s'pose she's

comin' back to the funeral."

As Lindy turned to go upstairs she looked into the parlor, and saw Alice

sitting with her head bowed upon her hand. Her first impulse was to go

in and try to justify herself in the eyes of this girl, with whom she

knew that Mr. Sawyer was in love; but no, she was but a waif, with no

name, no birthright, no heritage; that woman had cut her off from her

people. Truly, she had avenged her fancied wrongs.

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

went home.

When Abner Stiles returned from Eastborough, after having seen Lindy

Putnam and all her belongings safe on board the Boston train, he stopped

at the Putnam house to see if he could be of any further service. Mrs.

Pinkham had arrived some time before, and had attended to those duties

which she had performed for many years for both the young and old of

Mason's Corner, who had been called to their long home. Mr. Tilton, the

undertaker from Montrose, had come over immediately, and had given the

necessary professional service which such sad occasions demand. Mrs.

Pinkham called to Mr. Tilton, and he came to the door.

"No; there is really nothing you can do, Mr. Stiles, unless you will be

so kind as to drive around to Deacon Mason's, Mr. Pettengill's, and Mrs.

Hawkins's, and inform them that the funeral will be from the church, at

two o'clock Friday afternoon. I will see that you are paid for your

services."

Undertakers are naturally polite and courteous men. They step softly,

speak low, and are even-tempered. Their patrons do not worry them with

questions, nor antagonize their views of the fitness of things.

When Abner reached his boarding house, after making his numerous calls,

it was about five o'clock; as he went upstairs he noticed that the door

of Strout's room was ajar. In response to his knock, the Professor said,

"Come in."

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

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

"Oh, yer know what I mean," said Abner, throwing himself into a chair

and looking inquiringly at Strout. "What was goin' on this noon 'tween

you and that city feller?"

"Well, you see," continued Strout, "Mr. Sawyer and me have been at

swords' points the las' two months over some pussonal matters. Well, he

kinder wanted to fix up things, but he knew I wouldn't consent to let up

on him 'less he treated me square; so I gets a third interest in the

grocery store, the firm name is to be Strout & Maxwell, and I'm to be

postmaster; so, you see, I got the best end after all, jest as I meant

to from the fust. But, see here, Stiles, Mr. Sawyer and I have agreed to

keep our business and our pussonal matters strictly private in the

futer, and you mustn't drop a word of what I've told yer to any livin'

soul."

"I've carried a good many of yer secrets 'round with me," responded

Abner, "and never dropped one of 'em, as far as I know."

"Oh, yer all right, old man," said the Professor; "but, yer know, for

the last two months our game has been to keep talkin'; now it will pay

us best to keep our mouths shet."

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

store that you promised me?"

"Well, you see," said Strout, "when I made yer that promise, I expected

to own the whole store, but now, yer see, Maxwell will want ter pick one

of the men."

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

ready to be picked."

"Yes, I know," answered Strout; "but the work is goin' to be very hard,

liftin' barrels and big boxes, and I'm afraid you couldn't stand it very

long."

A disappointed look came over Abner's face; he mused for a moment, then

he broke out, "Yes, I see; I'm all right for light work, sech as tellin'

lies 'bout people and spyin' out their actions, and makin' believe I've

seen things that I never heard of, and hearin' things that were never

said; but when it comes to good, clean, honest work, like liftin'

barrels and rollin' hogshead's, the other feller gets the job. All

right, Professor!" said he, getting up and walking towards the door;

"when you want anythin' in my line, let me know." And he went out and

slammed the door behind him.

As he went upstairs to his room, he said to himself, "I have sorter got

the opinion that the Professor took what wuz given him, instid of

gittin' what he asked fer. I kinder guess that it'll pay me to be much

more partickler about number one in the futer than I've been."

CHAPTER XXXII.

AUNT ELLA.

Deacon Mason had an early caller Wednesday morning. He was out in the

barn polishing up his silver-plated harness, for he was going to the

funeral on Friday with his family. Hiram had given him notice that he

would have to go up to the store at once. The Deacon didn't have anybody

in mind to take Hiram's place, and thought he might as well get used to

doing his own work until he came across the right party.

He heard a voice. It said, "Good mornin', Deacon Mason;" and, looking

up, he saw Abner Stiles standing before him.

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

Professor want?"

"I don't know," said Abner; "I heerd that Hiram was goin' to leave yer,

so I came 'round to see if yer wanted ter hire a man."

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

"That's all right, Deacon," said Abner. "I don't blame yer fer havin'

yer little joke. I've worked so long fer the Professor that I expect to

have it flung up at me. But I've renounced the Evil One and all his

wicked ways, and I want to be taken into a good Christian home, and

eventooally jine the church."

"While the lamp holds out to burn,

The vilest sinner may return,"

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

another.

"That's true as Gospel," said Abner; "and I hope you'll see it's your

duty, as I've heerd Parson Howe say, to save the brand from the

burnin'."

"Well, you go in and talk to Mrs. Mason," said the Deacon; "she's the

one that wants the work done, and if she's satisfied to give yer a

trial, it's all the same to me."

"Thank yer, Deacon," answered Abner. "There's one p'int in my favor,

Deacon; I hain't got no girl, and I sha'n't take any of your time to go

courtin';" and with this sly dig at Hiram, he went in to settle his fate

with the Deacon's wife.

On that same Wednesday morning all of the Pettengill family were

together at the breakfast table. The conversation naturally turned to

Mrs. Putnam's death, and Ezekiel remarked "that she was a nice old lady,

and that she and his mother were great friends. It beats all," continued

he, "the way Lindy has acted. Abner Stiles told me that she took the

half-past three train to Boston, and he said Bob Wood took over an

express wagon full of trunks. Samanthy Green told Stiles that Lindy

hadn't left a single thing in the house that belonged to her, and it

don't look as though she was comin' back to the funeral."

During this recital, Alice listened intently. She flushed then grew

pale, and finally burst into tears. All present, of course, attributed

her agitation to her well known love for Mrs. Putnam.

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

"No," said Alice, drying her eyes, "I'm going into the parlor. I told

Mandy to build a fire there, and I want you and Uncle Ike and Mr. Sawyer

to come with me."

When they were gathered in the parlor, Alice began her story. Every word

said by the dead woman had burned itself deep into her memory, and from

the time she entered the sick room until she fell exhausted upon the

stairway, after calling loudly for Samanthy and Lindy, not a word was

missing from the thrilling narrative. Her audience, including even

Quincy, listened intently to the dramatically told story, and they could

almost see the frenzied face, the pointed finger, and hear the wild,

mocking laugh.

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

"Well, I guess," said he, "that will of her'n will stand, all right.

Lindy's got enough of her own; she won't be likely to interfere; and I

never he'rd of their havin' any other relatives."

Then Uncle Ike spoke up. "I shall go to the funeral, of course, next

Friday, and I shall expect to hear the Rev. Mr. Howe stand up in his

pulpit and tell us what a good Christian woman Hepsy was; she was so

kind and so benevolent, and so regardful of the feelings of others, and

it wouldn't make a bit of difference if you went and told him what

you've told us, Alice; he'd say just the same thing."

"Oh, hush! Uncle Ike," cried Alice, pleadingly; "she was a good woman,

excepting on that one point, and you must own that she had some

provocation. Let me ask you a question, Uncle Ike. How far should

promises made to the dead be kept?"

"Just so far," replied Uncle Ike, "as they do not interfere with the

just rights of the living. Where is that letter that she wanted you to

destroy?" he asked.

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

"Well," said Uncle Ike, "if I were in your place I'd open that letter,

read it, and if it was likely to be of any value to Miss Putnam in

finding her parents or relatives, I'd hunt her up and give it to her.

Mrs. Putnam owned up that she lied about it, and the whole thing, any

way, may be a bluff. Perhaps it's only blank paper, after all."

"No," said Alice, "I could never open it or read it. I laid awake all

night, thinking about my promise, and I finally made up my mind that I

would go to see Lindy this morning, and let her read it; but now she has

gone away, and we do not know where to find her. What shall I do with

this dreadful thing?" she cried, as she held the letter up in her hand.

Quincy felt called upon to speak.

"Miss Pettengill," said he, "I think I could find Miss Putnam for you."

A slight flush arose to Alice's cheek which did not escape Quincy's

notice. He continued, "When I went to Boston, last Saturday, I happened

to meet her on the train. She told me then something of her story, and

said she was going to leave the house forever, as soon as Mrs. Putnam

died. She also told me that if I ever learned anything about her parents

I could reach her by advertising in the Personal Column of the New York

'Herald,' addressing 'Linda,' and signing it 'Eastborough.'"

"And will you do this at once for me?" cried Alice, eagerly. "I am so

thankful; you have taken such a load from my mind, Mr. Sawyer. How

fortunate it was that you met her as you did?

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

Ike, with a laugh.

"Kind fortune owes me one or two favors yet before I shall be entirely

satisfied," said Quincy. "Now, Miss Pettengill, will you allow me to

make a suggestion that will free you from the further care of this

document?"

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

must read it."

"That is any idea exactly," assented Quincy. "I will go to Boston on the

noon train and send that advertisement to the New York 'Herald,' With

your permission, I will turn that document over to a legal friend of

mine. He will put it in an envelope and seal it up. He will write on the

outside, 'To be delivered only to Miss Putnam, on the written order of

Miss Alice Pettengill,' and it will repose quietly in his big safe until

Miss Putnam is found."

"That will do splendidly!" said Alice, with animation. "What magicians

you lawyers are! You discover a way out of every difficulty."

"Wait until you get one of those lawyers working against you," remarked

Uncle Ike, "then you'll change your mind. Well, I s'pose now this

matter's settled, I can go upstairs and have my morning smoke."

"And I've got to go to the store," said Ezekiel to Uncle Ike, "and get

some corn, or those chickens of your'n will swaller the hen coop." And

both men left the room together.

"If you can give me a little of your time, Miss Pettengill," said

Quincy, "I have some news for you that I think will please you very

much."

"About my stories?" cried Alice.

"Yes," replied Quincy. "Just before I went to Boston last Saturday I got

a letter from Leopold, asking me to call on him as soon as convenient. I

found him at home Sunday evening, and this is what he said. The New York

house has accepted your series of eight detective stories, and will pay

you twenty-five dollars for each of them. The house will send you a

check from time to time, as they publish them. Leopold has accepted your

long story for the magazine published by the house for which he is

reader. He says Jameson will get your other story into one of the Sunday

papers, and he will have his dramatic version ready for production next

fall. He can't tell how much you will make out of these just yet; the

magazine pays by the page and the newspaper by the column, and, of

course, Jameson will give you part of his royalty, if he gets the play

on."

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

Monte Cristo."

"But you have not heard all," continued Quincy. "Leopold has placed your

two songs with a music publishing house, and you will get a royalty on

them in time. He says they don't pay any royalty on the first three

hundred copies, and perhaps they won't sell; the public taste on sheet

music is very fickle. Then, that composer, I can never remember his

name, is at work on your poem, 'The Lord of the Sea.' He told Leopold he

was going to make it his _opus vitae_, the work of his life, you know,

and he is talking it up to the director of the Handel and Haydn

Society."

"How true it is," said Alice, "that gladness quickly follows sadness! I

was so unhappy this morning", but now the world never looked so bright

to me. You have brushed away all my sorrows, Mr. Sawyer, and I am really

very happy to hear the good news that you have told me."

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

Quincy.

"And that?" asked Alice, brushing back the wavy golden hair from her

forehead, and looking up at him with her bright blue eyes, which bore no

outward sign of the dark cloud that dimmed their vision,--"and that

is?"--she repeated.

"That letter," taking the hand that held it in both of his own. "If I am

to get that noon train I have no time to lose."

"Before you take it," said Alice, "you must promise me that it shall not

be opened, and no eye but Lindy's must ever rest upon it."

"You have my word," he replied.

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

He took the letter with one hand, his other hand still retaining its

grasp upon hers.

"I go," said Quincy, assuming a bantering tone, "upon your quest, fair

lady. If I return victorious, what shall be my reward?"

"Gallant knights," said Alice, as she withdrew her hand from his, "do

not bargain for their reward until they have fulfilled their trust."

"I accept the reproof," said Quincy gravely.

"It was not so intended, Sir Knight," responded Alice brightly; "so I

will make amends by answering your query. If you return successful, tell

me what you would prize the most, and even if it be half my kingdom, it

shall be yours."

"I am content, but modern locomotives do not wait even for gallant

knights of old. So adieu."

He quitted the room, and Alice stood where he had left her until she

heard the rumble of wheels as he drove off for the station; then she

found her way to her chair before the fire, and her mind wove the

outline of a romantic story, in which there was a gallant knight and a

lovely maiden. But in her story the prize that the knight asked when he

returned successful from his quest was the heart and hand of the lovely

maiden.

Jim Cobb went over to Eastborough Centre, so as to drive the team back.

Before going to the station, Quincy stepped into the post office and

found a letter addressed to him in a peculiar, but familiar,

handwriting.

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

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

sister.

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

to the point.

"My DEAR QUINCY:--Maude gave me your address.

What are you doing in a miserable, little country town in

the winter? They are bad enough in the summer, but in

March!--'Bah! Come and see me at once, you naughty

boy! AUNT ELLA."

"Dated yesterday," said Quincy; "how fortunate. I will go up to Mt.

Vernon Street to-morrow noon and take lunch with her."

When Quincy reached Boston he went directly to his father's office. The

Hon. Mr. Sawyer was not present, but his partners, Mr. Franklin

Crowninshield and Mr. Atherton Lawrence, were busily engaged. Quincy

took a seat at the desk which, he had occupied before going to

Eastborough, and wrote out his advertisement for the New York "Herald."

It read as follows: "Linda. Important paper discovered; communicate at

once with Q.A.S., Eastborough."

He enclosed a check to cover a fortnight's insertion; then walked down

State Street to the post office to mail his letter. When he returned,

Mr. Lawrence informed him that his father was in his private office. His

father greeted him pleasantly, but not effusively; in fact, any marked

exhibition of approval or disapproval was foreign to the Sawyer

character, while the Quincys were equally notable for their reticence

and imperturbability.

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

asked the father.

"To-night," replied Quincy, with a smile, "I shall be with you at

dinner, stay all night, and take breakfast with you."

"I trust your long visit will not oblige you to neglect other more

important matters," said the father.

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

"And when do you think your health will allow you to resume your

position in the office?" inquired the Hon. Nathaniel.

"That is very uncertain," replied Quincy.

"If you do not intend to come back at all," continued the father, "that

would simplify matters. I could then make room for a Harvard graduate to

study with us."

Quincy reflected. He had been taught by his father not to give a

positive answer to any question on the spur of the moment, if more time

could be taken, as well as not, for consideration. So, after a few

moments of thought, Quincy said, "I will write you in the course of ten

days or a fortnight, and give you a positive answer."

"That will be entirely satisfactory," answered his father. "As you are

going out, will you kindly tell Mr. Crowninshield that I wish to consult

with him?"

Quincy knew that the interview had expired by limitation. He went home,

but found that his mother and sisters were out riding.

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

Quincy went into the parlor and opened the grand piano. He sat down

before it, touched a few of the keys casually, then sang, with great

expression, the song by J.R. Thomas entitled "Pleasant Memories." He

next wandered into the library, and took down and glanced at several

books that he had devoured with avidity when a boy of sixteen. Then he

went upstairs to his own room, which he had occupied since he was eight

years old. It looked familiar, everything was in its accustomed place;

still, the room did not look homelike. Strange as it may seem, Quincy

had been happier in the large west chamber, with its old-fashioned

bureau and carpet and bed, than he had ever been in this handsomely

furnished apartment in the Beacon Street mansion. There was no wide

fireplace here, with ruddy embers, into whose burning face he could look

and weave fanciful dreams of the fortune and happiness to be his in the

future.

He spent a pleasant evening with the family. His father was present, but

passed the time in reading the newspapers and a legal brief that he

wished to more closely examine. His mother was engrossed in a new novel,

but no approving smile or sympathetic tear demonstrated any particular

interest in the fates of the struggling hero or suffering heroine.

Florence sat at the piano, and, in response to Quincy's request that she

would give him some music, played over some chromatic scales and

arpeggios. He declared that they reminded him of grand opera, which

remark sent Maude into a fit of satirical laughter, and Florence up to

her room in a pout.

Then Maude fell to asking Quincy questions about himself, to which he

returned evasive and untruthful answers, until she was, as she said,

completely disgusted. Then she dropped her head upon his shoulder, and

with the arms of the brother whom she dearly loved clasped around her,

she went to sleep. He looked at the sweet girlish face and thought, not

of her, but of Alice.

Next morning he was up early, for he knew that a busy day was before

him. The last thing before retiring, and the first thing upon getting

up, he examined his inside vest pocket, to see if that precious letter,

that priceless trust that he had given his knightly word to deliver, was

safe.

He breakfasted early, and eight o'clock found him in Bowdoin Square, at

the corner of Green and Chardon Streets. His first visit was to a safe

manufactory, a few doors from the corner, where he purchased one for the

firm of Strout & Maxwell.

After traversing both sides of Friend Street, he finally settled upon

two horses, stout country roadsters, and left an order for their

shipment to Eastborough Centre, when they were notified that the wagons

were ready. He bought the wagons in Sudbury Street. They had red bodies

and yellow wheels, and the words, "Strout & Maxwell, Mason's Corner,

Mass.," were to be placed on them in gold letters.

These tasks completed, Quincy walked up Tremont Row by Scollay's

Building. Crossing Pemberton Square, he continued up Tremont Street

until he came to the building in which was the law office of Curtis

Carter, one of his law school chums.

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

"Well, 'pon honor, Quincy," cried Curtis, "the sight of you is good for

sore eyes, and I've got such a beastly cold that I can't see with one

eye and can't read with the other."

"Well," said Quincy, "I came in here intending to consult you

professionally, but I don't think a blind lawyer will answer my

purpose."

"Oh, I shall be all right in a few minutes," replied Curtis. "I dropped

into Young's as I came up and took an eye-opener. What's the matter, old

fellow, breach of promise?"

Quincy took a seat near Curtis's desk.

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

"Oh! I see," said Curtis, "party cut off with a shilling, going to try

and break the will?"

"Have a cigar?" asked Quincy. "While you are lighting it and getting it

under way I may slide in and get a chance to state my business."

"Oh! you want to do the talking?" said Curtis good humoredly. "Well, go

ahead, old man;" and he leaned back and smoked complacently.

Quincy then related as much as he thought necessary of the story of the

sealed letter, and as he concluded he took the package from his pocket

and placed it on the corner of the lawyer's desk.

"You are doing just right," said Curtis; "the probate judges nowadays

are looking more carefully at wills, especially when their provisions

indicate that the signer was more red Indian than white Christian. I

understand you perfectly," he continued; "what you wish me to do is to

put this letter in an envelope, seal it securely, and endorse upon it

these words, 'To be delivered only to Miss Lindy Putnam upon the written

order of Miss Alice Pettengill.'"