"I am going to write to Mr. Sawyer to-day. We must have those books

before we can go much farther. Would it not be well to tell him that we

are ready for our audience?"

Alice assented, and the letter reached Quincy one Friday evening, it

being his last call on his aunt before her departure for Old Orchard.

"Give my love to both of them," said Aunt Ella, "and tell Alice I send

her a kiss. I won't tell you how to deliver it; you will probably find

some way before you come back."

Quincy protested that he could not undertake to deliver it, but his aunt

only laughed, kissed him, bade him good-by, and told him to be sure and

come down to Maine to see her.

Quincy and Leopold took the Saturday afternoon boat and arrived, as

usual, about seven o'clock. They both repaired to the hotel previously

patronized by Quincy, having decided to defer their call upon the young

ladies until Sunday morning. It was a bright, beautiful day, not a cloud

was to be seen in the broad, blue expanse above them. A cool breeze was

blowing steadily from the southwest, and as the young men walked down

Centre Street towards the Cliff, Leopold remarked that he did not wonder

that the Nantucketers loved their "tight little isle" and were sorry to

leave it. "One seems to be nearer Heaven here than he does in a crowded

city, don't he, Quincy?" Quincy thought to himself that his Heaven was

in Nantucket, and that he was very near to it, but he did not choose to

utter these feelings to his friend, so he merely remarked that the sky

did seem much nearer.

They soon reached Mrs. Gibson's and were shown directly to the young

ladies' parlor and library, for it answered both purposes. They were

attired in two creations of Mrs. Chessman's dressmaker, Aunt Ella having

selected the materials and designed the costumes, for which art she had

a great talent. Rosa's dress was of a dark rose tint, with revers and a

V-shaped neck, filled in with tulle of a dark green hue. The only other

trimming on the dress was a green silk cord that bordered the edges of

the revers and the bottom of the waist. As Quincy looked at her, for she

sat nearest to the door, she reminded him of a beautiful red rose, and

the green leaves which enhanced its beauty. Then his eyes turned quickly

to Alice, who sat in her easy-chair, near the window. Her dress was of

light blue, with square-cut neck, filled in with creamy white lace. In

her hair nestled a flower, light pink in color, and as Quincy looked at

her he thought of the little blue flower called forget-me-not, and

recalled the fact that wandering one day in the country, during his last

year at college, he had come upon a little brook, both sides of which,

for hundreds of feet, were lined with masses of this modest little

flower. Ah! but this one forget-me-not was more to him than all the

world beside.

The greetings were soon over, and Quincy was assured by both young

ladies that they were happy and contented, and that every requisite for

their comfort had been supplied by Mrs. Gibson.

The reading then began. Rosa possessed a full, flexible, dramatic voice,

and the strong passages were delivered with great fervor, while the sad

or sentimental ones were tinged with a tone of deep pathos.

At the conclusion Alice said, "I wish Miss Very could read my book to

the publishers."

"You forget," remarked Leopold, with a laugh, "that reading it to me

will probably amount to the same thing."

A merry party gathered about Mrs. Gibson's table at dinner, after which

they went for a drive through the streets of the quaint old town. Quincy

had, as the phrenologists say, a great bump for locality. Besides, he

had studied a map of the town while coming down, and, as he remarked,

they couldn't get lost for any great length of time, as Nantucket was an

island, and the water supplied a natural boundary to prevent their

getting too far out of their way.

While Dolly Gibson was helping her mother by wiping the dinner dishes,

she said, with that air of judicial conviction that is shown by some

children, that she guessed that the lady in the red dress was Mr.

Leopold's girl, and that the blind lady in the blue dress was Mr.

Quincy's.

After a light supper they again gathered in the parlor and an hour was

devoted to music. Leopold neither played nor sang, but he was an

attentive and critical listener. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and

Leopold asked Rosa if she would not like to take a walk up on the Cliff.

She readily consented, but Alice pleasantly declined Quincy's invitation

to accompany them, and for the first time since the old days at Mason's

Corner, he and she were alone together.

They talked of Eastborough and Mason's Corner and Aunt Ella for a while.

Then conversation lagged and they sat for a time in a satisfied,

peaceful silence.

Suddenly Quincy spoke. "I had almost forgotten, Miss Pettengill, I

bought a new song yesterday morning, and I brought it with me. If you

have no objection I will try, it over."

"I always enjoy your singing," she replied.

He ran down stairs and soon returned with the music. He seated himself

at the piano and played the piece through with great expression.

"It is a beautiful melody," remarked Alice. "What is it?"

"It is a German song," replied Quincy, "by Reichardt. It is called

'Love's Request.' I will sing it this time."

And he did sing it with all the force and fervor of a noble, manly

nature, speaking out his love covertly in the words of another, but

hoping in his heart that the beautiful girl who listened to him would

forget the author and think only of the singer. How many times young

lovers have tried this artful trick, and in what proportion it has been

successful only Heaven knows.

"The words are very pretty, are they not?" said Alice. "I was listening

so closely to the melody that I did not catch them all."

"I will read them to you," rejoined Quincy, and going to the window,

where the light was still bright enough, he read the words of the song

in a low, impassioned voice:

"Now the day is slowly waning,

Evening breezes softly, softly moan;

Wilt thou ne'er heed my complaining,

Canst thou leave me thus alone?

Stay with me, my darling, stay!

And, like a dream, thy life shall pass away,

Like a dream shall pass away.

"Canst thou thus unmoved behold me,

Still untouched by love, by love so deep?

Nay, thine arms more closely fold me,

And thine eyes begin to weep!

Stay with me, my darling, stay!

And, like a dream, thy life shall pass away,

Like a dream shall pass away.

"No regret shall e'er attend thee,

Ne'er shall sorrow dim thine eyes;

'Gainst the world's alarms to 'fend thee,

Gladly, proudly, would I die!

Stay with me, my darling, stay!

And, like a dream, thy life shall pass away,

Shall pass away."

As Quincy finished reading, Leopold and Rosa came suddenly into the

room.

"We were not eavesdropping," explained Leopold, "but just as we were

going to enter the room we heard your voice and knew that you were

either reading or speaking a piece, so we waited until you had

finished."

"I was only reading the words of a new song that I brought down to Miss

Pettengill," said Quincy; "she liked the melody and I thought she would

appreciate it still more if she knew the words."

"Exactly," said Leopold; "that's the reason I don't like opera, I mean

the singing part. All that I can ever make out sounds like oh! ah! ow!

and when I try to read the book in English and listen to the singers at

the same time I am lost in a hopeless maze."

The young gentlemen were soon on their way to their hotel, and the next

afternoon found them again in Boston.

The month of June was a busy, but very enjoyable one, for both Alice and

Rosa. They were up early in the morning and were at work before

breakfast. They ate heartily and slept soundly. Every pleasant

afternoon, when tea was over, they went riding. Tommy Gibson held the

reins, and although Dolly was not yet in her teens, she knew every nook

and corner, and object of interest on the island, and she took a child's

delight in pointing them out, and telling the stories that she had heard

about them. The books that Quincy brought on his last visit were

utilized, and Miss Very made up another list to be sent to him before

his next visit.

The proofs of three more stories Mr. Ernst sent down by mail, and after

correction, they were returned to him in a similar manner. Little Dolly

Gibson was impressed into service as a reader, for Rosa could not read

and correct at the same time, and there was no obliging Mr. Sawyer near

at hand. As Huldy had said, Alice did miss him. It must be said, in all

truthfulness, not so much for himself, but for the services he had

rendered. As yet, Alice's heart was untouched.

When Dolly Gibson showed her mother the money that Miss Very had given

her, at Alice's direction, she was told to take it right back at once,

but Dolly protested that she had earned it, and when her mother asked

her to tell how, the child, whose memory was phenomenal, sat down and

made her mother's hair stand almost on end and her blood almost run cold

with her recitals of the Eight of Spades, The Exit of Mrs. Delmonnay,

and He Thought He Was Dead.

"They are immense," cried Dolly, "they beat all the fairy stories I ever

read!"

In due time another letter was sent to Mr. Sawyer, informing him that

more books were needed, and that more chapters were ready, and on the

morning of the last Sunday in June the young ladies were awaiting the

arrival of Mr. Sawyer and Mr. Ernst.

The morning had opened with a heavy shower and the sky was still

overcast with angry-looking, threatening rain clouds. Within the little

parlor all was bright and cheerful.

Familiar voices were heard greeting Mrs. Gibson and the children, and

men's footsteps soon sounded upon the stairs. Leopold entered first,

and, advancing to Rosa, handed her a large bouquet of beautiful red

roses.

"Sweets to the sweet, roses to Miss Rosa," said he, as he bowed and

presented them.

"They are beautiful," she exclaimed.

"All roses are considered so," he remarked with a smile.

While this little byplay was going on, Quincy had approached Alice, who,

as usual, was sitting by the window, and placed in her hand a small

bunch of flowers. As he did so he said in a low voice, "They are

forget-me-nots. There is a German song about them, of which I remember a

little," and he hummed a few measures.

"Oh! thank you," cried Alice, as she held the flowers before her eyes in

a vain effort to see them. "The music is pretty. Can't you remember any

of the words?"

"Only a few," replied Quincy. Then he repeated in a low, but clear

voice:

"There is the sweet flower

They call forget-me-not;

That flower place on thy breast,

And think of me."

"Say, Quincy, can't you come over here and recite a little poem about

roses to Miss Very, just to help me out?" cried Leopold. "All I can

think of is:

"The rose is red,

The violet's blue--"

"Stop where you are," said Rosa laughingly, "for that will do."

Alice dropped the forget-me-nots, in her lap. The illusion was

dispelled.

The newly-completed chapters were next read, and quite a spirited

discussion took place in regard to the political features introduced in

one of them. Dinner intervened and then the discussion was resumed.

Alice maintained that to write about Aaron Burr and omit politics would

be the play of "Hamlet," with Hamlet left out; and her auditors were

charmed and yet somewhat startled at the impassioned and eloquent manner

in which she defended Burr's political principles.

When she finished Leopold said, "Miss Pettengill, if you will put in

your book the energetic defence that you have just made, I will withdraw

my objections."

"You will find that and more in the next chapter," Alice replied.

And the reading was resumed.

The angry, threatening clouds had massed themselves once more; the

thunder roared; the lightning flashed and the rain fell in torrents.

Leopold walked to the window and looked out. "Walking is out of the

question," said he; "will you come for a sail?"

Music filled the evening, and during a lull in the storm the young men

reached their lodgings.

Another month had nearly passed. The weather was much warmer, but there

was a great incentive to hard work--the book was nearly finished. Quincy

had sent down a package of books soon after his return home, and Alice

and Rosa had worked even harder than in June.

Another letter went from Miss Very to Mr. Sawyer. It contained but a few

words: "The book is done. Miss Pettengill herself wrote the words, 'The

end,' on the last page, signed her name, and dated it 'July 30, 186--.'

She awaits your verdict."

The first Sunday in August found the young ladies again expectant. Once

more they sat on a Sunday morning awaiting the advent of their gentlemen

friends. The day was pleasant, but warm. Soon a voice was heard at the

front door. Both ladies listened intently; but one person, evidently,

was coming upstairs. Alice thought it must be Mr. Sawyer, while Rosa

said to herself, "I think it must be Mr. Ernst."

A light knock, the door was opened and Quincy entered.

Rosa looked up inquiringly.

"Mr. Ernst," said Quincy, "wished me to present his regrets at not being

able to accompany me. The fact is he will be very busy this coming week.

He is going to try to close up his work, so that he can come down next

Saturday. He intends to take a month's vacation. I shall come with him,

and we will endeavor to have a fitting celebration of the completion of

your book, Miss Pettengill. You young ladies look very cool and

comfortable this hot day."

They were both dressed in white, Alice with a sash of blue, while Rosa

wore one of pink.

"Then we shall have no reading till next Sunday," remarked Rosa.

"Yes," said Quincy, seating himself in one of the willow rockers; "we

have decided upon the following programme, if it meets with Miss

Pettengill's approval. I am to listen to the remainder of the book

to-day. I will hand the complete manuscript over to him to-morrow

afternoon. He will then finish the chapters that he has not read and

turn the work over to his firm, with his approval, before he comes down

for his rest. If the work is accepted, Mr. Morton, one of the firm, will

write him to that effect."

"The plan is certainly satisfactory to me," said Alice, "and Miss Very

and I will be delighted to contribute our aid to the proposed

celebration."

Rosa then resumed her reading. But dinner time came before it was

completed. At that meal they were all introduced to Captain Henry

Marble.

"My only brother," Mrs. Gibson said, by way of introduction. "He's just

home from a cruise. His ship is at New Bedford. He is going to take the

children out late this afternoon for a sail in the harbor. He always

does when he comes here. Wouldn't you ladies and Mr. Sawyer like to go

with him?"

Captain Marble repeated the invitation, adding that he was an old

sailor, that he had a large sailboat, and that they were "only going to

Wauwinet, not out to sea, you know, but only up the inner harbor, which

is just like a pond, you know."

Rosa thought it would be delightful, but such a trip had no attractions

for Alice, and it was finally decided that Rosa should go, while Alice

and Mr. Sawyer would remain at home.

The reading of the remaining chapters of Blennerhassett was completed by

three o'clock, and at quarter of four, Miss Very, attired in a natty

yachting costume, which formed part of her summer outfit, was ready to

accompany Captain Marble and the children on their trip.

When they were alone Quincy turned to Alice and said, "I bought another

song yesterday morning, which I thought you might like to hear."

"Is it another German song?" asked Alice.

"No," replied Quincy, as he took a roll from the piano and opened it.

"It is a duet; the music is by Bosco, but you can tell nothing by that.

The composer's real name may be Jones or Smith."

He seated himself at the piano and played it through, as he had done

with that other song two long months before.

"I think it more beautiful than the other," said Alice. "Are the words

as sweet as those in that other song?"

"Then you have not forgotten the other one," said Quincy, earnestly.

"How could I forget it?" answered Alice. "Rosa has sung it to me several

times, but it did not sound to me as it did when you sang it."

"I will sing this one to you," said he; and Alice came and stood by his

side at the piano.

Quincy felt that the time to which he had looked forward so long had

come at last. He could restrain the promptings of his heart no longer.

He loved this woman, and she must know it; even if she rejected that

love, he must tell her.

"It is called 'The Bird of Love,'" he said. Then he played the prelude

to the song. He sang as he had never sung before; all the power and

pathos and love that in him lay were breathed forth in the words and

music of that song.

With his voice lingering upon the last word, he turned and looked up at

Alice. Upon her face there was a startled, almost frightened look.

"Shall I read the words to you, Miss Pettengill?" There was almost a

command in the way he said it. His love had o'ermastered his politeness.

Alice said nothing, but bowed her head.

Then Quincy recited the words of the song. He had no need to read them,

for he knew them by heart. It seemed to him that he had written the

words himself. He did not even remember the author's name, and Alice

stood with bowed head and closed eyes and drank in these words as they

fell from his lips:

In this heart of mine the bird of love

Has built a nest,

Has built a nest.

And so she has in mine!

Response:

And so she has in mine!

And she toils both day and night, no thought

Of food or rest

Of food or rest,

And sings this song divine.

Response:

And sings this song divine.

Duet:

All the day long,

Such a sweet song,

Teaching love true,

I love! Do you?

When Quincy came to the last line, instead of reading it he turned to

the piano and sang it with even more passion in his voice than at first.

"Will you try it over with me?" he said. And without waiting for her

reply he dashed off the prelude.

Their voices rang out together until they reached the line, "And so she

has in mine." As Alice sang these words she opened her eyes and looked

upward. A smile of supreme joy spread over and irradiated her face. Her

voice faltered; she stopped, then she caught at the piano with her right

hand. She tottered and would have fallen if Quincy had not sprung up and

taken her in his arms.

"Is it true, Alice?" cried he; "is it so? Can you truly say, 'And so she

has in mine?'"

And Alice looked up at him with that glorious smile still upon her face

and softly whispered, "'And so she has in mine,' Quincy."

Quincy led her to the lounge by the window, through which the cool

evening breeze was blowing, and they sat down side by side. It has been

truly said that the conversations of lovers are more appreciated by

themselves than by anybody else, and it is equally true that at the most

tender moment, in such conversations, intensely disagreeable

interruptions are likely to occur.

Sometimes it is the well-meaning but unthinking father; again it is the

solicitous but inquisitive mother; but more often it is the unregenerate

and disrespectful young brother or sister. In this case it was Miss Rosa

Very, who burst into the room, bright and rosy, after her trip upon the

water. As she entered she cried out, "Oh! you don't know what you

missed. I had a most delightful--" She stopped short, the truth flashed

upon her that there were other delightful ways of passing the time than

in a sailboat. She was in a dilemma.

Quincy solved the problem. He simply said, "Good-by, Alice, for one

short week."

He turned, expecting to see Miss Very, but she had vanished. He clasped

Alice in his arms, and kissed her, for the first time, then he led her

to her easy-chair and left her there.

As he quitted the room and closed the door he met Miss Rosa Very in the

entry.

"I did not know," said she, "but I am so glad to know it. She is the

sweetest, purest, loveliest woman I have ever known, and your love is

what she needed to complete her happiness. She will be a saint now. I

will take good care of her, Mr. Sawyer, until you come again, for I love

her, too."

Quincy pressed her hand warmly, and the next moment was in the little

street. He was a rich man, as the world judges riches, but to him his

greatest treasure was Alice's first kiss, still warm upon his lips.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THEN THEY WERE MARRIED.

When he bade Alice good-by for a week, Quincy was keeping a promise he

had made to his father. The second evening before he had spent with his

family at Nahant, and while he was smoking an after-dinner cigar upon

the veranda, the Hon. Nathaniel had joined him.

"Quincy," said the latter, "I must ask you when you intend to resume

your professional duties. You are now restored to health, and it is my

desire that you do so at once."

"While I would not wilfully show disrespect to your wishes, father,"

said Quincy, calmly, "I must say frankly that I do not care to go back

to the office. The study of law is repugnant to me, and its practice

would be a daily martyrdom."

"What!" cried the Hon. Nathaniel, starting in his chair. "Perhaps, sir,

you have fixed upon a calling that is more elevated and ennobling than

the law."

"One more congenial, at any rate," remarked Quincy.

"Then you have chosen a profession," said his father with some

eagerness. "May I inquire what it is?"

"It can hardly be called a profession," he answered. "I've bought a

third interest in a country grocery store."

If the Hon. Nathaniel started before, this last piece of information

fairly brought him to his feet. "And may I inquire, sir," he thundered,

"if this special partnership in a country grocery store is the summit of

your ambitions? I suppose I shall hear next that you are engaged to some

farmer's daughter, and propose to marry her, regardless of the wishes

of your family, and despite the terrible example supplied by your Uncle

James."

"It hasn't come to that yet," remarked Quincy, calmly, "but it may if I

find a farmer's daughter who comes up to my ideal of a wife and to whom

I can give an honest love."

The Hon. Nathaniel sank back in his chair. Quincy continued, "I will not

try to answer your sarcastic reference to the grocery store. It is a

good investment and an honorable business, fully as honorable as

cheating the prison or the gallows of what is due them; but the summit

of my ambition is by no means reached. I am young yet and have plenty of

time to study the ground before expanding my career, but I will tell

you, privately and confidentially, that my friends have asked me to run

for the General Court, and I have about decided to stand as a candidate

for nomination as representative from our district."

"I am glad to hear you say that, Quincy," said his father, somewhat

mollified, and he edged his arm-chair a little closer to his son,

despite the heavy clouds of smoke emitted from Quincy's cigar. "If you

get the regular nomination in our district it's tantamount to an

election. I need scarcely say that whatever influence I may possess will

be exerted in your favor."

"Thank you," said Quincy; "I mean to stump the district, anyway. If I

lose the regular nomination I shall take an independent one. I had

rather fight my way in than be pushed in."

His father smiled and patted him on the arm. Then they rose from their

chairs, Quincy observing that as he was going away early in the morning

he would immediately retire.

"That reminds me," said his father. "I have a favor to ask of you,

Quincy. It is this, Lord Algernon Hastings, heir to the earldom of

Sussex, and his sister, Lady Elfrida, are now in Boston, and bring

letters from the Lord High Chancellor, with whom I became acquainted

when I was in England, two years ago. I have invited them to visit us

here next week, and my wish is that you will spend as much of your time

at home as possible and assist me in entertaining them--I mean the son,

of course, particularly."

Quincy's thoughts flew quickly to Nantucket and back. Had he foreseen

what was to happen on his coming visit, he would have hesitated still

longer, but thinking that, after all, next Sunday's journey might not

end any more conclusively than the previous one, he presently turned to

his father and answered:

"I will do so. I must go to-morrow, but I will return early on Monday,

and will stay at home the entire week."

"I thank you very much, Quincy," said the Hon. Nathaniel, and he laid

his hand on his son's shoulder as affectionately as he was capable of

doing, when they entered the house.

Lady Elfrida Hastings and her brother, Lord Algernon, arrived in due

season, and Quincy was there to assist at their reception. The former

was tall, and dark, and stately; her features were cast in a classic

mould, but the look in her eye was cold and distant, and the face,

though having all the requirements of beauty, yet lacked it. To Mrs.

Sawyer and her daughter, Florence, the Lady Elfrida was a revelation,

and they yearned to acquire that statuesque repose that comes so natural

to the daughter of an earl. But Maude told her brother that evening that

the Lady Elfrida was a "prunes and prisms," and was sure to die an old

maid.

Lord Algernon was tall and finely built; he had a profusion of light

brown curly hair, and a pair of large blue eyes that so reminded Quincy

of Alice that he took to the young lord at once. They rode, played

billiards, bowled, and smoked together.

One afternoon while they were enjoying a sail in the bay, Quincy

inquired of his guest how he liked America.

"'Pon honor, my dear fellow, I don't know," replied Lord Algernon. "I

came here for a certain purpose, and have failed miserably. I am going

to sail for home in a week, if my sister will go."

"Then you didn't come to enjoy the pleasures of travel?" remarked

Quincy, interrogatively.

"No! By Jove, I didn't. My sister did, and she supposes I did. I'm going

to tell you the truth, Mr. Sawyer. I know you will respect my

confidence." Quincy nodded.

"The fact is," Lord Algernon continued, "I came over here to find a girl

that I'm in love with, but who ran away from me as soon as I told her of

it."

"But why?" asked Quincy, not knowing what else to say.

"That's the deuce of it," replied Lord Algernon; "I sha'n't know till I

find her and ask her. I met her at Nice, in France; she was with her

mother, a Mdme. Archimbault; the daughter's name was Celeste--Celeste

Archimbault. They said they were not French, they were French Canadians;

came from America, you know. I was traveling as plain Algernon Hastings,

and I don't think she ever suspected I was the son of an earl. I

proposed one evening. She said she must speak to her mother, and if I

would come the next evening about seven o'clock, she would give me her

answer, and I thought by the look in her eye that she herself was

willing to say 'Yes' then. But when I called the next evening they had

both gone, no one knew where."

"You are sure she was not an adventuress?" inquired Quincy. "Excuse the

question, my lord, but you really knew nothing about her?"

"I knew that I loved her," said Lord Algernon, bluntly, "and I would

give half of my fortune to find her. I know she was a true, pure,

beautiful girl, and her mother was as honest an old lady as you could

find in the world."

"I wish I could help you," remarked Quincy.

"Thank you," said Lord Algernon; "perhaps you may be able to some day.

Don't forget her name, Celeste Archimbault; she is slight in figure,

graceful in her carriage, ladylike in her manners. She has dark hair,

large, dreamy black eyes, with a hidden sorrow in them; in fact, a very

handsome brunette. Here is my card, Mr. Sawyer. I will write my London

address on it, and if you ever hear of her, cable me at once and I'll

take the next steamer for America."

Quincy said that he would, and put the card in his cardcase.

He excused himself to Lord Algernon and his sister that evening; a prior

engagement made it necessary for him to leave for Boston early next

morning, and the farewells were then spoken. Lord Algernon's last words

to Quincy were whispered in his ear, "Don't forget her name--Celeste

Archimbault!"

The next Sunday morning Quincy and Leopold, as they approached Mrs.

Gibson's house on the Cliff, found Rosa Very standing at the little

gate. She had on the white dress that she had worn the Sunday before,

but which Leopold had not seen. Upon her head was a wide-brimmed straw

hat, decked with ribbons and flowers, which intensified the darkness of

her hair and eyes."

"Don't forget her name--Celeste Archimbault," came into Quincy's mind,

but he said, "Nonsense," to himself, and dismissed the thought.

"All ready for a walk on the Cliff?" asked Leopold, as he raised his hat

and extended his hand to Rosa. She shook hands with him and then with

Quincy. She opened the little gate, placed her hand on Leopold's arm and

they walked on up the Cliff Road.

As Quincy entered the little parlor, Alice sprang toward him with a cry

of joy. He caught her in his arms, and this time one kiss did not

suffice, for a dozen were pressed on hair and brow and cheek and lips.

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

"Only one short week," replied Quincy.

"Short! Those six days have seemed longer than all the time we were

together at Eastborough. I cannot let you go away from me again," she

cried.

"Stay with Me, My Darling, Stay," sang Quincy, in a low voice, and Alice

tried to hide her blushing face upon his shoulder.

Then they sat down and talked the matter over. "I must leave you," said

Quincy, "and only see you occasionally, and then usually in the presence

of others, unless--"

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

face.

"Unless you marry me at once," said Quincy. "I don't mean this minute;

say Wednesday of this coming week. I have a license with me I got in

Boston yesterday morning. We'll be married quietly in this little room,

in which you first told me that you loved me. We could be married in a

big church in Boston, with bridesmaids, and groomsmen, and music on a

big organ. We could make as big a day of it as they did down to

Eastborough."

"Oh, no!" said Alice; "I couldn't go through that. I cannot see well

enough, and I might make some terrible blunder. I might trip and fall,

and then I should be so nervous and ashamed."

"I will not ask you to go through such an ordeal, my dearest. I know

that we could have all these grand things, and for that reason, if for

no better one, I'm perfectly willing to go without them. No, Alice, we

will be married here in this room. We will deck it with flowers,"

continued Quincy. "Leopold will go to Boston to-morrow and get them.

Rosamond's Bower was not sweeter nor more lovely than we will make this

little room. I will get an old clergyman; I don't like young ones;

Leopold shall be my best man and Rosa shall be your bridesmaid. Mrs.

Gibson and her brother, who I see is still here, shall be our witnesses,

and we will have Tommy and Dolly for ushers."

Both laughed aloud in their childish glee at the picture that Quincy

had painted. "I could ask for nothing better," said Alice; "the ceremony

will be modest, artistic, and idyllic."

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

And so it came to pass! They were married, and the transformation in the

little room, that Quincy and Alice had seen in their mind's eye, was

realized to the letter. Flowers, best man, bridesmaid, witnesses,

ushers, and the aged clergyman, with whitened locks, who called them his

children, and blessed them and wished them long life and happiness,

hoped that they would meet and know each other some day in the

infinite--all were there.

This was on Wednesday. On Thursday came a letter from Aunt Ella. It

contained the most kindly congratulations, and a neat little wedding

present of a check for fifty thousand dollars. She wrote further that

she was lonesome and wanted somebody to read to her, and talk to her,

and sing to her. If the book was done, would not Miss Very come to spend

the remainder of the season with her, and if Mr. Ernst was there could

he not spare time to escort Miss Very.

That same evening Leopold received a letter from Mr. Morton. It simply

read, "Blennerhassett accepted; will be put in type at once and issued

by the first of November, perhaps sooner."

The next morning Leopold and Rosa started for Old Orchard, and the

lovers were left alone to pass their honeymoon, with the blue sea about

them, the blue sky above them, and a love within their hearts which grew

stronger day by day.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

LINDA'S BIRTHRIGHT.

For Quincy and Alice, day after day, and week after week, found them in

a state of complete happiness. The little island floating in the azure

sea was their world, and for the time, no thought of any other intruded

upon their delightful Eden. It seemed to Quincy all a blissful dream of

love, and everything he looked upon was wreathed in flowers and golden

sunshine.

But lotus land is not so far distant from the abodes of mortal man but

that his emissaries may reach it. The first jarring note in the sweet

harmony of their married life came in the form of a letter from Dr.

Culver, who wrote to remind Quincy that it would soon be time to start

in ploughing the political field. Quincy's reply was brief and to the

point.

"MY DEAR CULVER:--I will see you in Boston on the tenth

of September. Q.A.S."

When Aunt Ella learned that her nephew was going to town, she made

hurried preparations for her departure from Old Orchard, and wrote to

him insisting that he and Alice should come and stay with her. This

invitation they gladly accepted, Quincy arranging in his mind to explain

matters to his family by saying that, as he had now entered politics and

would necessarily have a great many callers to entertain, he thought it

best to make his headquarters with Aunt Ella until the campaign was

over.

Accordingly, the ninth of September saw them located at Mt Vernon

Street. On the very day of their arrival, proof of the remaining

stories and a large instalment of Blennerhassett reached them, with a

note from Ernst:

"Please rush. Press is waiting."

Miss Very's assistance was now absolutely necessary, but when Quincy

asked Leopold for her address, he was surprised at the reply he

received.

"I haven't seen her," said Leopold, "since we came back from Old Orchard

together. In fact, since that time, our relations, for some reason or

other, have undergone a great change. However, I think I can help you

out. I don't believe in keeping a good friend like you, Quincy, in

suspense, so I will tell you the truth. I am married. My wife is fully

as competent to assist Mrs. Sawyer as Miss Very would have been. She is

in the library now at work. I will go and ask her."

He entered the room, closing the door behind him. Quincy threw himself

rather discontentedly into a chair. He fancied he heard laughing in the

next room, but he knew Alice would be disappointed, and he himself felt

in no mood for laughter.

Leopold opened the library door. "Quincy, I've induced her to undertake

the task," he said. "Do spare a moment from your work, Mrs. Ernst; I

wish to introduce to you Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer, the husband of the

author of that coming literary sensation, Blennerhassett. Mr. Sawyer,"

he continued, "allow me to present you to my wife, Mrs. Rosa Ernst." And

as he said this, Leopold and Rosa stood side by side in the doorway.

"When did you do it?" finally ejaculated Quincy, rushing forward and

grasping each by the hand. "Leopold, I owe you one." And then they all

laughed together.

By some means, Dr. Culver said by the liberal use of money, Barker

Dalton secured the regular nomination from Quincy's party. The latter

kept his word and entered the field as an independent candidate. A hot

contest followed. The papers were full of the speeches of the opposing

candidates, and incidents connected with their lives. But in none

relating to Quincy was a word said about his marriage, and the fact was

evidently unknown, except to a limited few. When the polls closed on

election day and the vote was declared, it was found that Sawyer had a

plurality of two hundred and twenty-eight and a clear majority of

twenty-two over both Dalton and Burke, the opposing candidates. Then the

papers were full of compliments for Mr. Sawyer, who had so successfully

fought corruption and bribery in his own party, and won such a glorious

victory.

But Quincy never knew that the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer had used all

his influence to secure his son's election, and for every dollar

expended by Dalton, the Hon. Nathaniel had covered it with a two or five

if necessary.

The publication of Blennerhassett had been heralded by advance notices

that appeared in the press during the month of October.

These notices had been adroitly written. Political prejudices, one

notice said, would no doubt be aroused by statements made in the book,

and one newspaper went so far as to publish a double-leaded editorial

protesting against the revival of party animosities buried more than two

generations ago. The leaven worked, and when the book was placed in the

stores on the eleventh of November, the demand for it was unparalleled.

Orders came for it from all parts of the country, particularly from the

State of New York, and the resources of the great publishing house of

Hinckley, Morton, & Co. were taxed to the utmost to meet the demand.

While Quincy was fighting Dalton in the political field, another

campaign was being planned in the clever diplomatic brain of Aunt Ella.

It related to the introduction of Alice, the "farmer's daughter," to the

proud patrician family of Sawyer, as Quincy's wife--no easy matter to

accomplish satisfactorily, as all agreed.

The initial step was taken a couple of weeks after Thanksgiving, when a

daintily-engraved card was issued from Mt. Vernon Street, which read:

"Your company is respectfully requested on the evening of the tenth of

December at a reception to be given to Bruce Douglas, the author of

Blennerhassett."

One evening, Quincy ran up the steps of the Mt. Vernon Street house. He

opened the door and started to run up the stairs to his wife's room, as

was his custom, when he came into collision with a young lady, who, upon

closer inspection, he found to be his sister Maude.

"Come in here," she said. She grasped him by the arm, and, dragging him

into the parlor, she closed the door behind him.

"Oh, Mr. Man!" she cried, "I've found you out, but horses sha'n't drag

it out of me. No, Quincy, you're always right, and I won't peach. But

'twas mean not to tell me."

Quincy looked at her in voiceless astonishment. "What do you mean,

Maude, and where did you gather up all that slang?"

"I might ask you," said Maude, "where you found your wife. I've been

talking to her upstairs. She must have thought that papa and mamma knew

all about it, for she told me who she was, just as easy. Who is she,

Quincy?"

He drew his sister down beside him on a sofa. "She was Miss Mary Alice

Pettengill. She is now known to a limited few, of which you, sister

Maude, are one, as Mrs. Mary Alice Sawyer; but she is known to a wide

circle of readers as Bruce Douglas, the author of many popular stories,

as also of that celebrated book entitled Blennerhassett."

"Is that so?" cried Maude; "why, papa is wild over that book. He's been

reading it aloud to us evenings, and he said last night that that young

man--you hear, Quincy?--that young man, had brought the truth to the

surface at last."

"Now, Maude," said Quincy, "you go right home and keep your mouth shut a

little while longer, and when you are sixteen"--"the ninth of next

January," broke in Maude--"I'll give you a handsome gold watch, with my

picture in it."

"I don't have to be paid to keep your secrets, Quincy," replied Maude

archly, as Quincy kissed her.

"I know it, dear," said Quincy; "I'll give you the watch, not as pay,

but to show my gratitude."

Quincy took an early opportunity to explain to his wife his remissness

in not informing his parents of his marriage, and disclosed to her Aunt

Ella's plan.

On the tenth, Mrs. Chessman's spacious parlor was thronged from nine

till eleven o'clock with bright and shining lights, representing the

musical, artistic, literary, and social culture of Boston. Among the

guests were the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer, his wife, and his

daughters, Florence and Maude. The surprise of the visitors at the

discovery that Bruce Douglas was a young woman was followed by one of

great pleasure at finding her beautiful and affable.

The reception and entertainment were acknowledged on all sides to have

been most successful, and a thoroughly pleased and satisfied company had

spoken their farewells to author and hostess by quarter-past eleven. So,

when Quincy came up Walnut Street and glanced across at his aunt's

house, a little before twelve, he found the windows dark and the

occupants, presumably, in their beds.

As part of her plan, Quincy had been advised by Aunt Ella to stay away

from the reception, to spend the night at his father's house, and to be

sure and take breakfast with them, so as to hear what was said about the

previous evening.

As soon as the morning meal was over, Quincy ran quickly upstairs,

seized his hand-bag, which he always kept packed, ready for an

emergency, and in a very short space of time, reached Mt. Vernon Street.

He found his wife and aunt in the den. The latter was reading a

manuscript to Alice.

As soon as the greetings were over, and a little time given to

discussing the reception, Quincy asked: "Who is this Mr. Fernborough

that Maude told me about this morning?"

"He is an English gentleman," explained Alice, "who has come to this

country to see if he can find any trace of an only daughter, who ran

away from home with an American more than thirty years ago, and who, he

thinks, came to this country with her husband. His wife is dead, he is

alone in the world, and he is ready to forgive her and care for her, if

she needs it."

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

he come to you?"

"That's the strange part of it," Alice replied, "He said he

thoughtlessly picked up a magazine at a hotel where he was staying, and

his eye fell upon my story, How He Lost Both Name and Fortune. He read

it, and sought me out, to ask if it were fiction, or whether it was

founded on some true incident. He was quite disappointed when I told him

it was entirely a work of the imagination."

"Did he say what hotel?" asked Quincy.

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

stranger?"

Then Quincy told the story of the broken envelope--the little piece of

cloth--and the name, Linda Fernborough.

"I must find him at once," said he, "for I have an impression that his

daughter must have been Lindy Putnam's real mother. You gave me my

reward, Alice, before my quest was successful, but I gave my word to

find her for you, and I shall not consider myself fully worthy of you

till that word is kept."

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

"My father took me to task," began Quincy, "for not being present at the

reception, but I told him I had to see Culver on some political

business. Then he remarked that I missed a very pleasant evening. He

complimented Aunt Ella, here, for her skill as an entertainer, and

expressed his surprise that Bruce Douglas, instead of being a young man,

was a young and very beautiful woman. Yes, Aunt Ella, he actually called

my wife here a very beautiful young woman."

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

"In order to continue the conversation, I ventured the remark that Bruce

Douglas came from an ordinary country family and one not very well off;

for which aspersion, I humbly ask your pardon, Mrs. Sawyer. Father

replied that he thought that I must have been misinformed; that Bruce

Douglas was worth fifty thousand dollars in her own right, and he added

that she would become a very wealthy woman if she kept up her literary

activity."

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

"Well," said Quincy, "I resolved to do something desperate, so I asked:

'Doesn't she look countrified?' again asking your pardon, Mrs. Sawyer."

"No," said mother, "she has the repose of a Lady Clara Vere de Vere, and

is as correct in her speech as was the Lady Elfrida Hastings."

"It will come out all right," cried Aunt Ella; and Quincy, kissing his

aunt and wife, and promising to write or telegraph every day, caught up

his hand-bag and started forth in search of the Hon. Stuart Fernborough,

M.P.

When Quincy left his aunt's house he had not the slightest idea which

way would be the best to turn his footsteps. He commenced his search,

however, at the Revere House, then he tried the American House, but at

neither place was Mr. Fernborough a guest.

At the Quincy House the clerk was busy with a number of new arrivals. He

had just opened a new hotel register, and the old one lay upon the

counter. Quincy took it up, and turning over the leaves, glanced up and

down its pages. Suddenly he started back; then, holding the book closer

to his eyes he read it again. There it was, under the date of September

10, "Mdme. Rose Archimbault and daughter." The residence given in the

proper column was "New York." Quincy kept the book open at the place

where he found this entry until the clerk was at leisure. He remembered

Mdme. Archimbault and daughter in a general way. He was sure that they

arrived from Europe the day that they came to the hotel, and he was

equally sure that they went to New York when they left. What made him

positive was that he remembered asking the young lady when she wrote New

York in the register if she had not just returned from Europe. She said

yes, but that her home residence was in New York.

Quincy thanked the clerk, and started forth again in search of the

elusive Mr. Fernborough. A visit to Young's, Parker's, and the Tremont

furnished no clue, and Quincy was wondering whether his search, after

all, was destined to be fruitless, when he thought of a small hotel in

Central Court, which led from Washington Street, a little south of

Summer Street.

It was noted for its English roast beef, Yorkshire mutton chops, and

musty ale, and might be just the sort of place that an English gentleman

would put up at, provided he had been informed of its whereabouts.

On his way Quincy dropped into the Marlborough, but Mr. Fernborough had

not been there, and Quincy imagined that the little hotel in Central

Court was his last hope.

His persistence was rewarded. Mr. Fernborough was not only a guest, but

he was in his room. Quincy sent up his card, and in a very short time

was shown into the presence of a courtly gentleman, between sixty and

seventy years of age. His face was smooth shaven, and had a firm but not

hard expression. His eyes, however, showed that he was weighed down by

some sorrow, which the unyielding expression of his face indicated that

he would bear in silence rather than seek sympathy from others.

Quincy's story was soon told. The old gentleman listened with breathless

interest, and when at the close Quincy said, "What do you think?" Mr.

Fernborough cried, "It must be she, my daughter's child. There are no

other Fernboroughs in England, and Linda has been a family name for

generations. Heaven bless you, young man, for your kindly interest, and

take me to my grandchild at once. She is the only tie that binds me to

earth. All the others are dead and gone."

The old gentleman broke down completely, and for several minutes was

unable to speak.

Quincy waited until his emotion had somewhat subsided. Then he said, "I

am at your service, sir; we will do our best to find her. I have a

feeling that she is in New York, but not a single fact to prove it. We

can take the one o'clock train, if you desire."

The old gentleman began at once to prepare for the journey. Quincy told

him he would meet him at the hotel office, and from there he sent a note

to Aunt Ella informing her of his intended departure.

Arriving in New York they were driven at once to the Fifth Avenue Hotel.

Quincy prevailed upon Sir Stuart to retire at once, telling him that he

would prepare an advertisement and have it in the next morning's issue

of the "New York Herald."

Quincy wrote out two advertisements and sent them by special messenger

to the newspaper office. The first one read: "Linda: important paper

not destroyed, as suspected. Communicate at once with Eastborough,

'Herald' office." The second was worded as follows: "Celeste A----t: an

American friend has a message for you from me. Send your address at once

to Eastborough, 'Herald' office. ALGERNON H."

[Illustration: ALICE RECOVERS HER SIGHT (ACT IV.)]

Then began the days of weary waiting; the careful examination of the

"Herald" each morning, to be sure that the advertisements were in, for

both had been paid for a week in advance. The request for mail made

every morning at the "Herald" office received a stereotyped "no" for

answer; then he vowed that he would advertise no more, but would enlist

other aids in the search.

On the morning of the eighth day Quincy stood upon the steps of the

Fifth Avenue Hotel. He was undecided which way to go. It is in such

cases of absolute uncertainty that unseen powers should give their aid,

if they ever do, for then it is most needed. He did not hear any angels'

voices, but he crossed over Broadway and started up town on the

right-hand side of that great thoroughfare. As he walked on he glanced

at the shop windows, for they were resplendent with holiday gifts, for

Christmas was only one short week away.

Just beyond the corner of Broadway and Twenty-ninth Street his attention

was attracted by a wax figure in a milliner's window. The face and

golden hair reminded him of his wife, and he thought how pretty Alice

would look in the hat that was upon the head of the figure. His first

inclination was to go in and buy it, then he thought that it would make

an unhandy package to carry with him, and besides his taste might not be

appreciated.

Thinking, however, that he might return and purchase it, he glanced up

at the sign. One look and he gave a sudden start backward, coming

violently in contact with a gentleman who was passing. Quincy's apology

was accepted and the gentleman passed on, giving his right shoulder an

occasional pressure to make sure that it was not dislocated. Then Quincy

took another look at the sign to make sure that he had not been

mistaken. On it he read, in large golden letters, "Mdme. Archimbault."

It was but the work of an instant for Quincy to enter the store and

approach the only attendant, who was behind the counter nearest the

door.

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

manner.

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

eez in ze boudoir."

As she said this she pointed to a partition with windows of ground

glass, which extended across the farther end of the store, evidently

forming a private department for trying on hats and bonnets. Quincy said

nothing, but taking out his cardcase passed one to the attendant.

The girl walked towards the boudoir, opened the door and entered. Quincy

followed her, and was but a few feet from the door when it was closed.

He heard a woman's voice say, "What is it, Hortense?" And the girl's

reply was distinctly audible. This is what she said, "A veezitor,

mademoiselle."

An instant's silence, followed by a smothered cry of astonishment,

evidently from mademoiselle. Then ensued a short conversation, carried

on in whispers. Then Hortense emerged from the boudoir, and facing

Quincy said, "Ze mademoiselle weel not zee you. She has no desire to

continue ze acquaintance."

As she said this she stepped behind the counter, evidently thinking that

Quincy would accept the rebuff and depart. Instead of doing this he took

a step forward, which brought him between Hortense and the door of the

boudoir. Turning to the girl he said in a low tone, "There must be some

mistake. I have never met Mademoiselle Archimbault. I will go in and

explain the purpose of my visit." And before Hortense could prevent him,

Quincy had entered the boudoir and closed the door behind him.

In the centre of the room stood a beautifully carved and inlaid table.

Before it sat an elegantly-dressed woman, whose hair, artistically

arranged, was of the darkest shade of brown--almost black. Her arms were

crossed upon the table, her face was buried in them, and from her came a

succession of convulsive sobs, that indicated she was in great physical

or mental distress.

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

Finally she said, and there was a tone of deep suffering in her voice:

"Oh! Algernon, why have you followed me? I can never, never marry you.

If it had been possible I would have met you that evening, as I

promised."

The thought flashed across Quincy's mind, "This is the girl that ran

away from Lord Hastings. But why did she call me Algernon?" Then he

spoke for the first time. "Mademoiselle, there is some misunderstanding;

my name is not Algernon. I am not Lord Hastings."

As he spoke he looked at the woman seated at the table. She looked up;

there was an instantaneous, mutual recognition. In her astonishment she

cried out, "Mr. Sawyer!"

As these words fell from her lips, Quincy said to himself, "Thank God!

she's found at last." But the only words that he spoke aloud were,

"Lindy Putnam!"

"Why do I find you here," asked Quincy, "and under this name? Why have

you not answered my advertisements in the 'Herald?'" And he sank into a

chair on the other side of the little table.

The revulsion of feeling was so great at his double discovery that he

came nearer being unmanned than ever before in his life.

"How did you come by this card!" asked Mademoiselle Archimbault in a

broken voice. "When you have explained, I will answer your questions."

Quincy took the card from her hand and glanced at it. "What a big

blunder I made and yet what a fortunate one," cried he, for he now saw

that he had sent in Lord Hastings's card bearing the London address.

"Lord Hastings himself gave it to me," he continued. "He was a guest at

my father's cottage at Nahant last summer. He came to America and spent

three months vainly searching for you. He loves you devotedly, and made

me promise that if I ever found you I would cable at once to the address

on that card, and he said he would come to America on the next steamer.

Of course when I made that promise I did not know that Lindy Putnam and

Celeste Archimbault were one and the same person."

"But knowing it as you now do, Mr. Sawyer, you will not send him any

word. Give me your solemn promise you will not. I cannot marry him. You

know I cannot. There is no Lindy Putnam, and Celeste Archimbault has no

right to the name she bears."

"Did you come to New York when you left Eastborough, as you promised you

would?" inquired Quincy.

"No, I did not, Mr. Sawyer," said she. "Forgive me, but I could not. I

was distracted, almost heartbroken when I reached Boston the day she

died. She had robbed me of all hope of ever finding my relatives, and

but for my hatred of her I believe I would have had brain fever. One

thing I could not do, I would not do. I would not remain in America. I

was rich, I would travel and try to drown my sorrow and my hatred. I did

not go to a hotel, for I did not wish any one to find me. What good

could it do? I looked in the 'Transcript' and found a boarding place.

There I met Mdme. Archimbault, a widow, a French-Canadian lady, who had

come to Boston in search of a niece who had left her home in Canada some

five years before. Mdme. Archimbault had spent all the money she had in

her unavailing search for her relative, and she told me, with tears in

her eyes and expressive French gestures, that she would have to sell her

jewelry to pay her board, as she had no way of making a living in a

foreign land. Then I told her part of my story. She was sure her niece

was dead, and so I asked her to be my mother, to let me take her name

and be known as her daughter. I told her I was rich and that I would

care for her as long as our compact was kept and the real truth not

known. My visit to Nice and my meeting with Algernon Hastings, he has no

doubt told you. I did not know he was a lord, but I suspected it. So

much the more reason why he should not marry a nameless waif, a poor

girl with no father or mother and all hope lost of ever finding them. I

came back to America with Mdme. Archimbault, covering my tracks by cross

journeys and waits which he could not anticipate. We landed in Boston."

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

"I don't think I could escape from you as easily as I did from him," she

said, the first faint sign of a smile showing itself upon her face. "I

went to my bankers in Boston and told them that I had been adopted by a

wealthy French lady named Archimbault. I informed them that we were

going to return to France at once. They made up my account, and I found

I was worth nearly one hundred and forty thousand dollars. I took my

fortune in New York drafts, explaining that madame wished to visit

relatives in New York, and that we should sail for France from that

port. I did this so my bankers could not disclose my whereabouts to any

one. We came here, but I could not remain idle. I always had a natural

taste for millinery work, so I proposed to madame that we should open a

store under her name. We did this late in September, and have had great

success since our opening day. Now you know all about me, Mr. Sawyer.

Give me your promise that you will not tell Lord Hastings where I am."

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

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

you have?"

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

Quincy inquired.

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

Quincy took a copy of the paper from his pocket, laid it upon the table

and pointed with his finger to the word "Linda." She read the

advertisement, then looked up to him with distended eyes, full of

questioning.

"What does the paper say? It could not have disclosed much or you would

not have waited so long to tell me."

Then Quincy related the story of the sealed package, how it had been

given to Alice Pettengill long before Mrs. Putnam died; how Miss

Pettengill had sworn to destroy it, but would not when she learned that

it might possibly contain information relating to her parents. He told

her that Miss Pettengill would not allow any one to read it but herself;

and how he had promised to search for her until he found her. Then he

related the incident at the lawyer's office and the piece of cloth

bearing the name, "Linda Fernborough," "which," said Quincy, "I think

must have been your mother's maiden name." He did not tell her of the

old gentleman only five blocks away, ready and willing to claim her as

his granddaughter without further proof than that little piece of doth.

Quincy looked at his watch. "I have just time," said he, "to get the one

o'clock train for Boston. I will obtain the papers to-morrow morning,

and be in New York again to-morrow night. The next morning early I will

be at your residence with the papers, and let us hope that they will

contain such information as will disclose your parentage and give you a

name that you can rightfully bear."

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

He gave her hand a quick, firm pressure and left the store, not even

glancing at Hortense, who gazed at him with wonderment. He hailed a

hack and was driven to the hotel. He found Sir Stuart and told him that

he had found his supposed granddaughter, but that he must wait until he

returned from Boston with the papers, that his wife's feelings must be

respected, and that the document could only be opened and read by the

person who had been known to her as Lindy Putnam.

Quincy reached Mt. Vernon Street about eight o'clock that evening. His

wife and aunt listened eagerly to the graphic recital of his search. He

pictured the somewhat sensational episode in the boudoir in the most

expressive language, and Alice remarked that Quincy was fast gathering

the materials for a most exciting romance; while Aunt Ella declared that

the disclosure of the dual personality of Linda and Celeste would form a

most striking theatrical tableau.

Aunt Ella informed him that she had been requested by Mr. and Mrs.

Nathaniel Adams Sawyer to extend an invitation to Miss Bruce Douglas to

dine with them on any day that might be convenient for her. "I was

included in the invitation, of course," Aunt Ella added. "What day had

we better fix, Quincy?" she inquired.

"Make it Christmas," replied Quincy. "Tell them Miss Bruce Douglas has

invitations for every other day but that for a month to come. What a

precious gift I shall present to my father," said he, caressing his

wife, who laid her fair head upon his shoulder.

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

"I don't know which will please him most," replied Quincy, "the fact

that such a talented addition has been made to the family, or the

knowledge, which will surely surprise him, that his son was smart enough

to win such a prize."

The next morning Quincy arose early and was at Curtis Carter's office as

soon as it was opened. Alice had signed an order for the delivery of the

package to him and he presented it to Mr. Carter's clerk, to whom he

was well known. The ponderous doors of the big safe were thrown open and

the precious document was produced. When the clerk passed the package to

him and took Alice's order therefor, Quincy noticed that a five-dollar

bill was pinned to the envelope; a card was also attached to the bill,

upon which was written: "This money belongs to Mr. Quincy Sawyer; he

dropped it the last time he was in the office."

Quincy would not trust the package to his hand-bag, but placed it in an

inside pocket of his coat, which he tightly buttoned. After leaving the

lawyer's office he dropped into Grodjinski's, and purchased a box of

fine cigars. He had the clerk tack one of his cards on the top of the

box. On this he wrote:

"MY DEAR CURTIS:--Keep the ashes for me; they make

good tooth powder. QUINCY."

The box was then done up and addressed to Curtis Carter, Esq., the clerk

promising to have it delivered at once.

Quincy had found a letter at his aunt's from Mr. Strout, asking him to

buy a line of fancy groceries and confectionery for Christmas trade, and

it was noon before he had attended to the matter to his complete

satisfaction. A hasty lunch and he was once more on his way to New York,

and during the trip his hand sought the inside pocket of his coat a

score of times, that he might feel assured that the precious document

was still there.

Arriving, Quincy proceeded at once to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Sir Stuart

was eagerly awaiting his arrival, and his first question was, "Have you

the papers?"

Quincy took the package from his pocket and placed it on the table

before him, remarking as he did so, "It must not be opened until

to-morrow morning, and then by the young lady herself."

The old man pushed the package away from him and turned a stern face

toward Quincy. "I yield obedience," said he, "to your wife's command,

but if one man or two stood now between me and my darling's child, I

would have their lives, if they tried to keep her from my arms for one

instant even."

After a little reflection he apologized for his vehement language, and

sought his room to think, and hope, and wait--but not to sleep.

The next morning, a little before nine o'clock, a carriage containing

two gentlemen stopped before a modest brick dwelling in West Forty-first

Street. A servant admitted them and showed them into the little parlor.

The room was empty. Quincy pointed to a sofa at the farther end of the

room, and Sir Stuart took a seat thereon. Quincy stepped into the entry

and greeted Celeste, who was just descending the stairs.

"Sir Stuart Fernborough is in your parlor," said he; "he may be, and I

hope to Heaven he is, your grandfather, but you must control your

feelings until you know the truth. Come and sit by me, near the window,

and read what is written in this package, so loud that he can hear every

word." As he said this he placed the package, which might or might not

prove her honorable heritage, in her hands.

They entered the room and took seats near the window. Celeste opened the

package with trembling fingers. As she did so that little telltale piece

of cloth, bearing the name "Linda Fernborough," once more fell upon the

floor. Quincy picked it up, and held it during the reading of the

letter, for a letter it proved to be.

It had no envelope, but was folded in the old-fashioned way, so as to

leave a blank space on the back of the last sheet for the address. The

address was, "Mr. Silas Putnam, Hanover, New Hampshire."

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

"Is there no date?" asked Quincy.

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

"Thirty years ago," said Quincy.

Celeste read on:

"DEAR BROTHER SILAS:--You will, no doubt, be surprised to find I

am in this town when I usually go to Gloucester or Boston, but the truth

is I had a strange adventure during my last fishing trip on the Polly

Sanders, and I thought I would come into port as close to you as I

could. About ten days ago I had a good catch on the Banks and sailed for

home, bound for Boston. A heavy fog came up, and we lay to for more than

twenty-four hours. During the night, heard cries, and my mate, Jim

Brown, stuck to it that some ship must have run ashore; and he was

right, for when the fog lifted we saw the masts of a three-master

sticking out of water, close on shore, and about a mile from where we

lay. We up sail and ran down as close as we dared to see if there was

anybody living on the wreck. We couldn't see anybody, but I sent out Jim

Brown with a boat to make a thorough search. In about an hour he came

back, bringing a half-drowned woman and just the nicest, chubbiest,

little black-eyed girl baby that you ever saw in your life. Jim said the

woman was lashed to a spar, and when he first saw her, there was a man

in the water swimming and trying to push the spar towards the land, but

before he reached him the man sunk and he didn't get another sight of

him."

"Oh, my poor father!" cried Celeste. The letter dropped from her hands

and the tears rushed into her eyes.

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

Celeste nodded, and he read on:

"I gave the woman some brandy and she came to long enough to tell me who

she was. She said her name was Linda Chester or Chessman, I couldn't

tell just which. Her husband's name was Charles, and he was an artist.

He had a brother in Boston named Robert, and they were on their way to

that city. The wrecked ship was the Canadian Belle, bound from Liverpool

to Boston. I didn't tell her her husband was drowned. I gave her some

more brandy and she came to again and said her husband left a lot of

pictures in London with Roper & Son, on Ludgate Hill. I asked her where

she came from and she said from Heathfield, in Sussex. She said no more

and we couldn't bring her to again. She died in about an hour and we

buried her at sea. I noticed that her nightdress had a name stamped on

it different from what she gave me, and so I cut it out and send it in

this letter. Now, I've heard you and Heppy say that if you could find a

nice little girl baby that you would adopt her and bring her up. I sold

out my cargo at Portland, and so I've put in here, and I'll stay till

you and Heppy have time to drive down here and make up your minds

whether you'll take this handsome little baby off my hands. Come right

along, quick, for I must be off to the Banks again soon. From your

brother,

OBED PUTNAM,

Captain of the Polly Sanders.

"Portsmouth Harbor, N.H.

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

Linda Fernborough Chessman."

The tears had welled up again in the young girl's eyes, when Quincy read

of the death of her mother and her burial at sea. His own hand trembled

perceptibly when he realized that the young woman before him, though not

his cousin, was yet connected by indisputable ties of relationship to

his own aunt, Mrs. Ella Chessman. Following his usual habit of reticence

he kept silence, thinking that it would be inappropriate to detract in

any way from the happy reunion of grandfather and granddaughter.

Sir Stuart had scarcely moved during the reading of the letter. He had

sat with his right hand covering his eyes, but yet evidently listening

attentively to each word as it fell from the reader's lips. As Quincy

folded up the letter and passed it back to Linda, Sir Stuart arose and

came forward to the front part of the room. Quincy took Linda's hand and

led her towards Mr. Fernborough. Then he said, "Sir Stuart, I think this

letter proves conclusively that this young lady's real name is Linda

Fernborough Chessman. I knew personally Mr. Silas Putnam, mentioned in

the letter, and scores of others can bear testimony that she has lived

nearly all her life with this Silas Putnam, and has been known to all as

his adopted daughter. There is no doubt but that the Linda Fernborough

who was buried at sea was her mother. If you are satisfied that Mrs.

Charles Chessman was your daughter, it follows that this young lady must

be your granddaughter."

"There is no doubt of it in my mind," said Sir Stuart, taking both of

Linda's hands in his. "I live at Fernborough Hall, which is located in

Heathfield, in the county of Sussex. But, my dear, I did not know until

to-day that my poor daughter had a child, and it will take me just a

little time to get accustomed to the fact. Old men's brains do not act

as quickly as my young friend's here." As he said this he looked towards

Quincy. "But I am sure that we both of us owe to him a debt of gratitude

that it will be difficult for us ever to repay."

The old gentleman drew Linda towards him and folded her tenderly in his

arms. "Come, rest here, my dear one," said he; "your doubts and hopes,

your troubles and trials, and your wanderings are over." He kissed her

on the forehead, and Linda put her arms about his neck and laid her head

upon his breast.

"You are the only one united to me by near ties of blood in the world,"

Sir Stuart continued, and he laid his hand on Linda's head and turned

her face towards him. "You have your mother's eyes," he said. "We will

go back to England, and Fernborough Hall will have a mistress once more.

You are English born, and have a right to sit in that seat which might

have been your mother's but for the pride and prejudice which thirty

years ago ruled both your grandmother and myself."

Leaving them to talk over future plans, Quincy went back to the hotel

and wrote two letters. The first was addressed to Lord Algernon Hastings

in London. The other was a brief note to Aunt Ella, informing her that a

party of four would start for Boston on the morning train and that she

might expect them about four o'clock in the afternoon.

It lacked but five minutes of that hour when a carriage, containing the

party from New York, stopped before the Mt. Vernon Street house. It

suited Quincy's purpose that his companions should first meet his wife,

although the fact that she was his wife was as yet unknown to them.

The meeting between Alice and Linda was friendly, but not effusive. They

had been ordinary acquaintances in the old days at Eastborough, but now

a mutual satisfaction and pleasure drew them more closely together.

"I have come," said Linda, "to thank you, Miss Pettengill, for your

kindness and justice to me. Few women would have disregarded the solemn

oath that Mrs. Putnam forced you to take, but by doing so you have given

me a lawful name and a life of happiness for the future. May every

blessing that Heaven can send to you be yours."

"All the credit should not be given to me," replied Alice. "The morning

after Mrs. Putnam's death I was undecided in my mind which course to

follow, whether to destroy the paper or to keep it. It was a few words

from my Uncle Isaac that enabled me to decide the matter. He told me

that a promise made to the dead should not be carried out if it

interfered with the just rights of the living. So I decided to keep the

paper, but how? It was then that Mr. Sawyer came to the rescue and

pointed out to me the line of action, which I am truly happy to learn

has ended so pleasantly."

"Grandpa and I have both thanked Mr. Sawyer so much," said Linda, "that

he will not listen to us any more, but I will write to Uncle Ike, for I

used to call him by that name, and show him that I am not ungrateful. I

have lost all my politeness, I am so happy," continued Linda; "I believe

you have met grandpa."

Sir Stuart came forward, and, in courtly but concise language, expressed

his sincere appreciation of the kind service that Miss Pettengill had

rendered his granddaughter.

Then Linda introduced Mdme. Archimbault as one who had been a true

friend and almost a mother to her in the hours of her deepest sorrow and

distress.

"Now, my friends," said Quincy, "I have a little surprise for you

myself. I believe it my duty to state the situation frankly to you. My

father is a very wealthy man--a millionaire. He is proud of his wealth

and still more proud of the honored names of Quincy and Adams, which he

conferred upon me. Like all such fathers and mothers, my parents have

undoubtedly had bright dreams as to the future of their only son. One of

their dreams has, no doubt, been my marriage to some young lady of

honored name and great wealth. In such a matter, however, my own mind

must decide. I have acted without their knowledge, as I resolved to

deprive them of the pleasure of my wife's acquaintance until Christmas

day."

Stepping up to Alice, Quincy took her hand and led her forward, facing

their guests. "I take great pleasure, my friends, in introducing to you

my wife, Mrs. Quincy Adams Sawyer."

There came an exclamation of pleased surprise from Linda, followed by

congratulations from all, and while these were being extended, Aunt

Ella entered the room. She advanced to meet Sir Stuart, who had been

present at Alice's reception. Quincy introduced Mdme. Archimbault, and

then Aunt Ella turned towards Linda. "This is the young lady, I

believe," said she, "who has just found a long-lost relative, or rather,

has been found by him. You must be very happy, my dear, and it makes me

very happy to know that my nephew and niece, who are so dear to me, have

been instrumental in bringing this pleasure to you. But have you been

able to learn your mother's name? Quincy did not mention that in his

letter."

"Yes," said Quincy, stepping forward, "the letter contained that

information, but I thought I would rather tell you about it than write

it. My dear aunt, allow me to introduce to you Miss Linda Fernborough

Chessman."

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

"Listen to me, Aunt Ella;" and taking her hand in his he drew her

towards him. "Your husband had a brother, Charles Chessman; he was an

artist and lived in England; while there he married; he wrote your

husband some thirty years ago that he was going to return to America,

but Uncle Robert, you told me, never heard from him again after

receiving the letter."

"Yes, yes!" assented Aunt Ella; "I have the letter. But what is the

mystery, Quincy? You know I can bear anything but suspense."

"There is no mystery, auntie, now; it is all cleared up. Uncle Robert's

brother Charles married Linda Fernborough, Sir Stuart's daughter. The

vessel in which father, mother, and child sailed for America was

wrecked. Father and mother were lost, but the child was rescued. This is

the child. Aunt Ella, Linda Chessman is your niece, but unfortunately I

am unable to call her cousin."

Aunt Ella embraced Linda and talked to her as a mother might talk to her

daughter. Her delight at finding this relative of the husband whom she

had loved so well and mourned so sincerely, showed itself in face, and

voice, and action. Her hospitality knew no bounds. Linda must stay with

her a month at least, so must Sir Stuart and Mdme. Archimbault. It was

the holiday season, and they must all feast and be merry over this

happy, unexpected return.

It was a joyous party that gathered in the dining-room at Aunt Ella's

house that evening. She said that such an occasion could not be fitly

celebrated with plain cold water, so a battle of choke old port was

served to Sir Stuart, and toasts to Mrs. Sawyer and Miss Chessman were

drunk from glasses filled with foaming champagne.

Then all adjourned to Aunt Ella's room and Uncle Robert's prime cigars

were offered to Sir Stuart and Quincy. But Aunt Ella had too much to say

to think of her cigarette. For an hour conversation was general;

everybody took part in it. The events of the past year, which were of so

great interest to all present, were gone over, and when conversation

lagged it was because everybody knew everything that everybody else

knew.

Quincy spent that night at his father's house. The next morning his

mother told him that the author had selected Christmas day on which to

be received by them at dinner, and that she was making unusual

preparations for that event.

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

"You may invite as many as you choose, Quincy, if you will promise to be

here yourself. You have been away from home so much the past year I

hardly anticipate the pleasure of your company on that day."

"Have no fear, mother," Quincy said. "I wish very much to meet the

author that father and you are so greatly pleased with. Of course Aunt

Ella is coming?"

"Certainly," answered his mother. "I understand that the author has been

stopping with her since the reception."

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

me."

To his mother's surprise he gave her a slight embrace, a light kiss upon

her cheek, and was gone.

The sun showed its cheerful face on Christmas morning. The snow that

fell a fortnight previous had been washed away by continued heavy rains.

A cold wind, biting, but healthful, quickened the pulse and brought

roses to the cheeks of holiday pedestrians.

The programme for the meals on Christmas day had been arranged by Mrs.

Sawyer as follows: Breakfast at nine, dinner at one, and a light supper

at six. It had always been the rule in the Sawyer family to exchange

Christmas gifts at the breakfast hour. Quincy was present, and his

father, mother, and sisters thanked him for the valuable presents that

bore his card. Father, mother, and sisters, on their part, had not

forgotten Quincy, and the reunited family had the most enjoyable time

that they had experienced for a year.

As Quincy rose to leave the table, he said to his mother, "I have

another gift for father and you, but it has not yet arrived. I am going

to see about it this morning."

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

lips.

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

A little after noontime, the Chessman carriage arrived at the Beacon

Street mansion of the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer, and a moment later

Mrs. Ella Chessman and the young author, Bruce Douglas, were ushered

into the spacious and elegant parlor. They were received by Mr. and Mrs.

Sawyer and their daughter Florence.

Twenty minutes later a carriage arrived before the same mansion. Its

occupants were Sir Stuart Fernborough, his granddaughter, and Mdme.

Archimbault. A few minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Leopold Ernst appeared,

having walked the short distance from their rooms on Chestnut Street.

The new arrivals were presented to Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer by Mrs. Chessman,

and a pleasant ante-prandial conversation was soon under way.

From behind the curtains of a second-story window of the mansion, a

young miss had watched the arrival and departure of the carriages. As

the second one drove away she exclaimed, "Oh! what a lark! Those last

folks came in Aunt Ella's carriage, too. I bet Quincy and auntie have

put up some sort of a game on pa and ma. I won't go down stairs till

Quincy comes, for I want to give my new sister a hug and a squeeze and a

kiss, and I sha'n't dare to do it till Quincy has introduced her to pa

and ma."

At that moment the young man, faultlessly attired, came down stairs from

the third story, and Maude sprang out from her doorway on the second

floor and said in a whisper, "How long have you been home, Quincy?"

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

"Oh, you rogue," cried Maude. "I have been watching out the window for

an hour. I see it all now, you don't mean to give pa and ma a chance to

say boo until after dinner. Let me go down first, Quincy."

Maude went down stairs and was duly presented to the assembled guests as

the youngest scion of the house of Sawyer.

At exactly five minutes of one Quincy entered the parlor through the

rear door. Aunt Ella and Alice were seated side by side between the two

front windows. As Quincy advanced he exchanged the compliments of the

season with the guests. Finally the Hon. Nathaniel and his son Quincy

stood facing Aunt Ella and Alice.

"Quincy," said his father, in slow, measured tones, "it gives me great

pleasure to present you to the, celebrated young author, Bruce Douglas."

Quincy bent low, and Alice inclined her head in acknowledgment. He

reached forward, clasped her hand in his and took his place by her

side. "Father, mother, and sisters," he cried, and there was a proud

tone in his clear, ringing voice, "there is still another presentation

to be made--that Christmas gift of which I spoke this morning at

breakfast. You see I hold this lady by the hand, which proves that we

are friends and not strangers. To her friends in the town of

Eastborough, where she was born, the daughter of an honest farmer, who

made a frugal living and no more, she was known by the name of Mary

Alice Pettengill. To the story and book-reading public of the United

States, she is known as Bruce Douglas, but to me she is known by the

sacred name of wife. I present to you as a Christmas gift, a daughter

and a sister."

There was a moment of suspense, and all eyes were fixed upon the parents

so dramatically apprised of their son's marriage. The Hon. Nathaniel

cleared his throat, and advancing slowly, took Alice's hand in his and

said, "It gives me great pleasure to welcome as a daughter one so highly

favored by nature with intellectual powers and such marked endowments

for a famous literary career. I am confident that the reputation of our

family will gain rather than lose by such an alliance."

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

Mrs. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer took Alice's hand in hers and kissed her

upon the cheek. "You will always be welcome, my daughter, at our home. I

know we shall learn to love you in time."

It was Florence's turn now. Like her mother, she took her new sister's

hand and gave her a society kiss on the cheek. Then she spoke: "As

mother said, I know I shall learn to love you, sister, in time."

A slight form dashed through the front parlor door, and throwing her

arms about Alice's neck, gave her a hearty kiss upon the lips. "My sweet

sister, Alice, I love you now, and I always shall love you, and I think

my brother Quincy is just the luckiest man in the world to get such a

nice wife."

Then abashed at her own vehemance, she got behind Aunt Ella, who said to

herself, "Maude has got some heart."

Dinner was announced. The Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer offered his arm to

Mrs. Quincy Adams Sawyer, and they led the holiday procession. Sir

Stuart Fernborough, M.P., escorted Mrs. Sarah Quincy Sawyer; next came

Mr. Leopold Ernst and Miss Linda Fernborough Chessman, followed by Mr.

Quincy Adams Sawyer and Mrs. Leopold Ernst; behind them walked, arm in

arm, Mrs. Ella Quincy Chessman and Mdme. Rose Archimbault; while

bringing up the rear came the Misses Florence Estelle and Maude Gertrude

Sawyer. Maude had politely offered her arm to Florence, but the latter

had firmly declined to accept it. In this order they entered the

gorgeous dining-room and took their places at a table bearing evidences

of the greatest wealth, if not the greatest refinement, to partake of

their Christmas dinner.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

FERNBOROUGH.

Five years passed away, years of not unmixed happiness for any of those

with whom this story has made us acquainted. Quincy and Alice had

undergone a severe trial in the loss of two of the three little ones

that had been born to them; the remaining child was a fair little boy,

another Quincy, and upon him the bereaved parents lavished all the

wealth of their tenderness and affection.

In his political life, however, Quincy had found only smooth and

pleasant sailing, and thanks to his bright and energetic nature, and not

a little, perhaps, to his father's name and influence, he had risen

rapidly from place to place and honor to honor. One of his earliest

political moves had been the introduction of a bill into the House for

the separation of Mason's Corner and Eastborough into individual

communities.

Soon after the incorporation of the former town under its new name of

Fernborough, Abbot Smith, at Quincy's suggestion, had started the

Fernborough Improvement Association, and now after these few years, the

result of its labors was plainly and agreeably apparent. The ruins of

Uncle Ike's chicken coop had been removed, and grass covered its former

site. Shade trees had been planted along all the principal streets, for

the new town had streets instead of roads. The three-mile road to

Eastborough Centre had been christened Mason Street, and the square

before Strout & Maxwell's store had been named Mason Square. Mrs.

Hawkins's boarding house had become a hotel, and was known as the

Hawkins House. The square before the church was called Howe's Square,

in honor of the aged minister. The old Montrose road was now dignified

by the appellation of Montrose Avenue. The upper road to Eastborough

Centre that led by the old Putnam house was named Pettengill Street,

although Ezekiel protested that it was a "mighty poor name for a street,

even if it did answer all right for a man." The great square facing

Montrose Avenue, upon which the Town Hall and the Chessman Free Public

Library had been built, was called Putnam Square. On three sides of it,

wide streets had been laid out, on which many pretty houses had been

erected. These three streets had been named Quincy Street, Adams Street,

and Sawyer Street.

It was the morning of the fifteenth of June, a gala day in the history

of the town. The fifth anniversary of the laying of the corner stone of

the Town Hall and the library was to be commemorated by a grand banquet

given in the Town Hall, and was to be graced by many distinguished

guests, among them the Hon. Quincy Adams Sawyer and wife, and Mrs. Ella

Chessman. After the banquet, which was to take place in the evening,

there was to be an open-air concert given, followed by a grand display

of fireworks. During the feast, the citizens were to be admitted to the

galleries, so that they could see the guests and listen to the speeches.

About ten o'clock the visiting party started off to view the sights of

the town. Under the leadership of the town officers they turned their

steps first towards the new library. On entering this handsome building,

they observed hung over the balcony, facing them, a large oil painting

of a beautiful dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, dressed in satin and velvet

and ermine, and having a coronet upon her head. Underneath was a tablet

bearing an inscription.

"An admirable portrait," said Quincy to his wife. "Can you read the

tablet, dear? I fear I shall really have to see Dr. Tillotson about my

eyes."

Alice smiled at the allusion, and directing her gaze upon it, read

without the slightest hesitation: "Linda Putnam, once a resident of this

town, now Countess of Sussex, and donor of this library building, which

is named in honor of her father, Charles Chessman, only brother of

Robert Chessman."

During the evening festivities the Town Hall was brilliantly lighted,

and every seat in the galleries and coigns of vantage were occupied. The

guests at the banquet numbered fully sixty. A Boston caterer, with a

corps of trained waiters, had charge of the dinner. During its progress

the Cottonton Brass Band performed at intervals. They were stationed in

Putnam Square, and the music was not an oppressive and disturbing

element, as it often is at close range on such occasions.

When coffee was served, Toastmaster Obadiah Strout, Esq., arose, and the

eyes of banqueters and sightseers were turned toward him.

"This is a glorious day in the history of our town," the toastmaster

began, "The pleasant duty has fallen to me of proposing the toasts to

which we shall drink, and of introducing our honored guests one by one.

I know that words of advice and encouragement will come from them. But

before I perform the duties that have been allotted to me, it is my

privilege to make a short address. Instead of doing so, I shall tell you

a little story, and it will be a different kind of a story from what I

have been in the habit of telling."

This remark caused an audible titter to arise from some of the auditors

in the galleries, and Abner Stiles, who was sitting behind Mrs. Hawkins,

leaned over and said to her, "I guess he's goin' to tell a true story."

The toastmaster continued: "More than six years ago a young man from the

city arrived in this town. It was given out that he came down here for

his health, but he wasn't so sick but that he could begin to take an

active part in town affairs as soon as he got here. They say confession

is good for the soul, and I'm goin' to confess that I didn't take to

this young man. I thought he was a city swell, who had come down here to

show off, and in company with several friends, who looked at his visit

down here about the same as I did, we did all we could for a couple of

months to try and drive him out of town. Now I am comin' to the point

that I want to make. If we had let him alone the chances are that he

wouldn't have stayed here more than a month any way. Now, s'posen he had

gone home at the end of the month; in that case he never would have met

the lady who sits by his side to-night, and who by her marriage has

added new lustre to her native town. If he had not remained, she never

would have written those stories which are known the world over, and I

tell you, fellow-citizens, that in writing Blennerhassett, An American

Countess, The Majesty of the Law, and The Street Boy, she has done more

to make this town famous than all the men who were ever born in it."

The speaker paused and drank a glass of water, while cheers and applause

came from all parts of the gallery. Abner Stiles apparently forgot his

surroundings, and, thinking probably that it was a political rally,

called out, "Three cheers for Alice Pettengill"! which were given with a

will, much to his delight, and the surprise of the banqueters.

The toastmaster resumed: "If he had gone away disgusted with the town

and its people, he never would have found out who Linda Putnam really

was, and she, consequently, would never have been what she is to-day, a

peeress of England and the great benefactress of this town, a lady who

will always have our deepest affection and most sincere gratitude."

Again the orator paused, and the audience arose to its feet. Applause,

cheers, and the waving of handkerchiefs attested that the speaker's

words had voiced the popular feeling. Once more Abner Stiles's voice

rose above the din, and three cheers for "Lindy Putnam, Countess of

Sussex," were given with such a will that the band outside caught the

enthusiasm and played "God Save the Queen," which most of the audience

supposed was "America."

"In conclusion," said the orator, "I have one more point to make, and

that is a purely personal one. Some writer has said the end justifies

the means, and another writer puts it this way, 'Do evil that good may

come.' In these two sayin's lies all the justification for many sayin's

and doin's that can be found; and if I were a conceited man or one

inclined to praise my own actions, I should say that the good fortune of

many of our distinguished guests this evening, and the handsome

financial backin' that this town has received, are due principally to my

personal exertions."

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

with perspiration.

"Good Lord!" said Mrs. Hawkins to Olive Green, who sat next to her, "to

hear that man talk anybuddy would think that nobuddy else in the town

ever did anything."

"To conclude," said the speaker, "I don't wish, feller citizens, to have

you understand that I am defendin' my actions. They were mean in spirit

and mean in the way in which they were done, but the one against whom

they were directed returned good for evil, and heaped coals of fire on

my head. At a time when events made me think he was my greatest enemy,

he became my greatest friend. It is to his assistance, advice, and

influence that I owe the present honorable position that I hold in this

town, and here to-night, in his presence, and in the presence of you

all, I have made this confession to show that I am truly repentant for

the past. At the same time, I cannot help rejoicing in the good fortune

that those misdeeds were the means of securin' for us all."

As the speaker sat down, overcome with emotion, he was greeted with

applause, which was redoubled when Mr. Sawyer arose in his seat. But

when Quincy leaned forward and extended his hand to Strout, which the

latter took, the excitement rose to fever heat, and cheers for Quincy

Adams Sawyer and Obadiah Strout resounded throughout the hall and fell

upon the evening air. This time the band played "The Star Spangled

Banner."

Again the toastmaster arose and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, the first

toast that I am going to propose to-night is a double one, because, for

obvious reasons, it must include not only the State, but its chief

representative, who is with us here to-night. Ladies and gentlemen, let

us drink to the Old Bay State, and may each loyal heart say within

itself, 'God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts!'" The guests

touched their lips to their glasses. "And now," continued the

toastmaster, "to his Excellency QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER, Governor

of the Commonwealth, whom I have the honor of introducing to you."

The Governor arose amid wild applause and loud acclamations, while the

band played "Hail to the Chief!"

THE END.

$Hope Hathaway$

_IS ANOTHER STRONG WESTERN STORY OF MONTANA RANCH

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$MY

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HESTER

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THE ROMANCE OF A COUNTRY GIRL

...BY...

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MISS

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By

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(_MON PETIT COEUR_)

[Illustration.]

N.Y. TIMES SATURDAY REVIEW.

JUNE 14, 1902.

"From the moment when Agatha

Renier makes her appearance 'swaying

like a scarlet vine' to the bridle of old

Mrs. Copeland's maddened horses

and stopping their headlong

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developments. And in

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disappointed

NASHVILLE AMERICAN

MAY 22.

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MARJIE

OF THE LOWER RANCH

BY FRANCES PARKER

This is a ranch story by a real

ranch girl. She has woven into her

breezy Western romance vivid pictures

of ranch life from the viewpoint

of a girl who has lived on the great

Montana ranches since childhood.

Miss Parker's writing has the Western

dash that might be expected of a

girl who would not ride a broncho that

she herself had not broken to saddle.

Illustrations by Victor A. Searles

Attractively bound in cloth, 1.50

C.M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. BOSTON

Telling an Hitherto Unrevcaled Romance In One of

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$TITO$

BY

WILLIAM HENRY CARSON, author "Hester Blair"

UNANIMOUS PRAISE FROM THE PRESS

"A story of strong power, depicting the human emotions."--CHICAGO

JOURNAL, March 23.

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Mr. Carson has conceived."--NEW YORK WORLD, March 14.

"Told with delicacy of feeling and thorough knowledge of the Italian

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"The reading public will take it up with increasing and consuming

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"It contains abundant action, numerous startling scenes and no end

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fiction."--NEW YORK AMERICAN AND JOURNAL, March 28.

"Mr. Carson has handled his material in a masterly manner and given

fiction a strong book."--INDIANAPOLIS SENTINEL, April 5.

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$ON

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$NEW YORK AMERICAN, Saturday, April 11, 1903$. "So

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which will make this book of more than passing value."

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MARJIE of the LOWER RANCH,

By Frances Parker.

LOVE STORIES from REAL LIFE,

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MISS PETTICOATS,

By Dwight Tilton.

QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER,

By Charles Felton Pidgin.

MY LADY LAUGHTER,

By Dwight Tilton.

ON SATAN'S MOUNT,

By Dwight Tilton.

TITO,

By William Henry Carson.

HESTER BLAIR,

By William Henry Carson

HOPE HATHAWAY,

By Frances Parker.

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