As they neared the Poorhouse Quincy turned to Huldy and said, "The Jim Sawyer who has been at the Eastborough Poorhouse for the last five years is my father's brother and my uncle. His story is a very sad one. I will tell it to you some day. He is in the last stages of consumption, and I am taking Miss Miller over to care for him while he lives."

Huldy nodded, and nothing more was said until they reached the Poorhouse. Quincy jumped out and called to Sam, who was close at hand, to hold the horse. Sam looked at him with a peculiar expression that Quincy did not stop to fathom, but running up the short flight of steps entered the room that served as the office for the Poorhouse. Mr. Waters was there writing at his desk. He turned as Quincy entered.

"How is my uncle?" asked Quincy.

"He is better off than us poor mortals," replied Mr. Waters with a long-drawn countenance.

"What do you mean?" asked Quincy. "Is he dead?"

"Yes," said Mr. Waters, "he died about four o'clock this mornin'. Sam sat up with him till midnight, and I stayed with him the balance of the time."

"I am so sorry I was not here," said Quincy.

"It wouldn't have done any good," said Waters. "He didn't know what was going on after two o'clock, and you couldn't have been of any use if you'd been here. If 't had been daytime I should have sent over for you. He only spoke once after I went upstairs and that was to say that you would see to buryin' him."

"Yes," said Quincy, "I will take charge of the remains."

"Well," remarked Mr. Waters, "I called in the town undertaker and he has got him all ready."

"When does the next train leave for Boston?" asked Quincy, taking out his watch.

"In just twenty minutes," Waters replied, looking up at the clock.

"I will be back from Boston at the earliest possible moment," said Quincy; and before the astonished Waters could recover himself, the young man had left the room.

Quincy jumped into the team, grasped the reins, and started off at full speed for Eastborough Centre.

"My uncle died this morning," said he, turning to Huldy, "I must go to Boston at once to make the necessary arrangements for his funeral He is to be buried at Amesbury with his wife and children, so please get word to Mr. Pettengill that I shall not be home for several days. I will get some one at the hotel to drive you home, Miss Mason. Only stern necessity compels me to leave you in this way."

"You will do nothing of the sort," said Huldy. "I am perfectly confident that I am able to drive this team home all by myself."

"I never can consent to it," said Quincy. "If anything happened to you, your father and—" Huldy glanced at him. "I mean," said Quincy, "I should never forgive myself, and your father would never forgive me. Your arm is still weak, I know."

"My arm is just as good as ever," said Huldy. "The doctor told me it wouldn't break in that place again. Besides, Mr. Sawyer," she said, as the hotel came in sight, "I shall drive back just the same way we came, and there are no hills or sharp corners, you know." She laughed heartily and added, "I shall enjoy it very much, it is part of the comedy."

"We will get out here, Miss Miller," said he, and he helped the nurse to alight. Grasping the heavy valise, he started at a brisk pace for the station, and Miss Miller was obliged to run in order to keep up with him. They boarded the train and took their seats. The train was ahead of time and waited for a few minutes at the station.

Quincy did not know as he sped towards Boston on his sad errand that Miss Lindy Putnam was in the second car behind him, bound to the same place. Nor did he know for several days that Abner Stiles, who drove her to the station, had seen Huldy driving towards Mason's Corner. Nor did he know that Strout had told Abner of his seeing Huldy and Sawyer together. Nor did he know that Abner whipped up his horse in a vain attempt to overtake Huldy on her return to Mason's Corner. She, too, had whipped up her horse and had reached home, and was in the house, calling for Hiram, just as Abner turned into the square by Hill's grocery.

Quincy made the necessary purchases, and with the city, undertaker returned to Eastborough Centre by the noon train. The body was placed in a leaden casket and Quincy and the undertaker with their sad burden returned to Boston by the five o'clock express.

His mother and sisters were still in New York, but he passed the evening with his father, who approved of all he had done and what he proposed doing.

Quincy went to Amesbury and purchased a small lot in the cemetery. After a day's search he discovered the place of burial of his uncle's wife and children. They were disinterred, and the four bodies were placed in the little lot.

On his return to Boston he made arrangements for two plain marble stones for his uncle and aunt, and two smaller ones for his little cousins, whom he had never seen.

The directions that he left with the monument maker and the undertaker at Amesbury were followed to the letter. If one should pass by that little lot he would see on one marble slab these words:

Eunice Raymond Sawyer,
Aged 29 yrs., 6 mos.

On the little slab at her feet the simple words:

Mary, Aged 4 yrs., 2 mos.

At its side another little stone bearing only these words:

Ray, Aged 6 yrs., 8 mos.

Adhering strictly to his uncle's request, the other large stone bore no name, but on it were engraved these words:

In Heaven we Know our Own.

A WET DAY.

When Quincy alighted from the train at Eastborough Centre, after attending his uncle's funeral, he found the rain descending in torrents. He hired a closed carriage and was driven to Mason's Corner, arriving there about ten o'clock. He had taken his breakfast in Boston.

When he reached the Pettengill house he saw Hiram standing at the barn door. Bidding the driver stop, he got out and paid his score; he then took Hiram by the arm and led him into the barn. When he had primed the latter with a good cigar, he said, "Now, Hiram, I've been away several days and I want to know what has been going on. You know our agreement was that you should tell me the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I don't want you to spare my feelings nor anybody else's. Do you understand?" said he to Hiram. Hiram nodded. "Then go ahead," said Quincy.

"Well, first," said Hiram, puffing his cigar with evident satisfaction, "they got hold of the point that Miss Huldy drove back alone from Eastborough Centre. Abner Stiles took Lindy Putnam down to the station and she went to Boston on the same train that you did. Abner tried to catch up with Huldy, so he could quiz her, but she whipped up her horse and got away from him."

"Smart girl!" interjected Quincy.

"You can just bet," said Hiram, "there ain't a smarter one in this town, though, of course, I think Mandy is pretty smart, too."

"Mandy's all right," said Quincy; "go ahead."

"Well, secondly, as the ministers say," continued Hiram, "Lindy Putnam told Abner when he drove her home from the station that night that the copper company that Mr. Sawyer told her to put her money in had busted, and she'd lost lots of money. That's gone all over Mason's Corner, and if Abner told Asa Waters, it's all over Eastborough Centre by this time."

"The whole thing is a lie," said Quincy hotly; "the stock did go down, but my father told me yesterday it had rallied and would soon advance from five to ten points. What's the next confounded yarn?"

"Well, thirdly," continued Hiram, "of course everybody knows Jim Sawyer was your uncle, and somebody said—you can guess who—that it would look better if you would pay up his back board instead of spending so much money on a fancy funeral and cheating the town undertaker out of a job."

"I paid him for all that he did," said Quincy.

"Yes," said Hiram, "but this is how it is. You see the undertaker makes a contract with the town to bury all the paupers who die during the year for so much money. They averaged it up and found that about three died a year, so the town pays the undertaker on that calculation; but this year, you see, only two have died, and there ain't another one likely to die before town meeting day, which comes the first Monday in March, so, you see the undertaker gets paid for buryin' your uncle, though he didn't do it, and some one says—you can guess who—that he is going to bring the matter up in town meeting."

Quincy smothered an exclamation and bit savagely into his cigar.

"Anything else?" inquired he. "Have they abused the ladies as well as me?"

"Well, I guess that's about the size of it," said Quincy. "Now, for instance, Hiram, you and Mandy are good friends, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Hiram, "after we get over our little difficulties we are."

"Well," said Quincy, "I happen to know that 'Zekiel and Huldy have got over their little difficulties and they are now good friends."

"Been't they going to get married?" asked Hiram.

"Are you and Mandy going to get married?" asked Quincy.

"Well, we haven't got so far along as to set the day exactly," said Hiram.

"And I don't believe 'Zekiel and Huldy will get married any sooner than you and Mandy will," remarked Quincy. "But don't say a word about this, Hiram."

"Mum's the word," replied Hiram. "I am no speaker, but I hear a thing or two."

"Now, Hiram," said Quincy, "run in and tell Mandy I'll be in to lunch as usual, and then come back, for I have something more to say to you."

Hiram did as directed, and Quincy sat and thought the situation over. So far he had been patient and he had borne the slings and arrows hurled at him without making any return. The time had come to change all that, and from now on he would take up arms in his own defence, and even attack his opponents.

When he had reached this conclusion, Hiram reappeared and resumed his seat on the chopping block.

Quincy asked, "In what regiment did the singing-master go to war?"

"The same one as I did,—th Mass.," replied Hiram.

"Did you go to war?" inquired Quincy.

"Well, I rather guess," said Hiram. "I went out as a bugler; he was a corporal, but he got detailed for hospital duty, and we left him behind before we got where there was any fightin'."

"Was he ever wounded in battle?" asked Quincy.

"One of the sick fellers in the hospital gave him a lickin' one day, but I don't suppose you'd call that a battle," remarked Hiram.

"Well, how about that rigmarole he got off down to the grocery store that morning?" Quincy interrogated.

"Oh, that was all poppycock," said Hiram. "He said that just to get even with you, when you were telling about your grandfathers and grandmothers."

Quincy laughed.

"Oh, I see," said he. "Were you ever wounded in battle, Hiram?"

"Well, I was shot onct, but not with a bullet."

"What was it," said Quincy, "a cannon ball?"

"No," said Hiram. "I never was so thunderin' mad in my life. When I go to regimental reunions the boys just joke the life out of me. You see I was blowin' my bugle for a charge, and the boys were goin' ahead in great style, when a shell struck a fence about twenty feet off. The shell didn't hit me, but a piece of that darned fence came whizzin' along and struck me where I eat, and I had a dozen stummick aches inside o' half a minute. I just dropped my bugle and clapped my hands on my stummick and yelled so loud that the boys told me afterwards that they were afraid I had busted my bugle."

Quincy laid back in his chair and laughed heartily.

"What do the boys say to you when you go to the reunions?" he asked.

Quincy had another good laugh. Then he resumed his usual grave expression and asked, "What town offices does the singing-master hold?"

"Well," said Hiram, "he is fence viewer and hog reeve and pound keeper, but the only thing he gets much money out of is tax collector. He gets two per cent on about thirty thousand dollars, which gives him about ten dollars a week on an average, 'cause he don't get no pay if he don't collect."

"Did he get a big vote for the place?" asked Quincy.

"No," said Hiram "he just got in by the skin of his teeth; he had last town meetin' two more votes than Wallace Stackpole, and Wallace would have got it anyhow if it hadn't been for an unfortunate accident."

"How was that?" asked Quincy.

"Has the tax collector performed his duties satisfactorily?" asked Quincy.

"Well," said Hiram, "Wallace Stackpole told me the other day that he hadn't got in more than two-thirds of last year's taxes. He said the selectmen had to borrow money and there'd be a row at the next town meetin'."

"Well," said Quincy, rising, "I think I will go in and get ready for lunch. I had a very early breakfast in Boston."

"Did you have oyster stew?" asked Hiram.

"No," replied Quincy, "people who live in Boston never eat oyster stews at a restaurant. If they did there wouldn't be enough left for those gentlemen who come from the country."

He opened the door and Hiram grasped his arm.

"By Gosh! I forgot one thing," he cried. "You remember Tilly James, that played the pianner at the concert?"

"Yes," said Quincy, "and she was a fine player, too."

"Well," said Hiram, "she's engaged to Sam Hill, you know, down to the grocery store. That ain't all, old Ben James, her father, he's a paralytic, you know, and pretty well fixed for this world's goods, and he wants Benoni to sell out his grocery when Tilly gets married and come over and run the farm, which is the biggest one in the town, and I heerd Abner Stiles say to 'Manuel Howe, that he reckoned he—you know who I mean—would get some fellers to back him up and he'd buy out the grocery and get 'p'inted postmaster. I guess that's all;" and Hiram started off towards Deacon Mason's.

Quincy met Ezekiel at lunch. He told Quincy that everything was working smoothly; that the singing-master evidently thought he had the field all to himself. He said Huldy and Alice were old friends, and Huldy was coming over twice a week to see Alice, and so he shouldn't go up to Deacon Mason's very often.

"Where is Miss Pettengill?" said Quincy.

"Well," replied Ezekiel, "she isn't used to heavy dinners at noon, so she had a lunch up in her room. I am going over to West Eastborough this afternoon with the boys to see some cows that 'Bias Smith has got to sell. The sun is coming out and I guess it will be pleasant the rest of the day."

"'Bias Smith?" asked Quincy.

"His name is Tobias," said Ezekiel, "but everybody calls him 'Bias."

"I have heard of him," said Quincy. "You just mention my name to him, Mr. Pettengill, and say I am coming over some day with Mr. Stackpole to see him."

'Zekiel smiled. "Going to take a hand yourself?" asked he.

"Yes," said Quincy, "the other fellow has been playing tricks with the pack so long that I think I shall throw down a card or two myself, and I may trump his next lead."

"By the way," said 'Zekiel, "while you were away Uncle Ike had our piano tuned and fixed up. It hasn't been played since Alice went to Boston five years ago. But the tuner who came from Boston said it was just as good as ever. So if you hear any noise underneath you this afternoon you will know what it means."

"Music never troubles me," said Quincy, "I play and sing myself."

"Well, I hope you and Alice will have a good time with the piano," remarked 'Zekiel as he left the room.

Quincy went back to his room and wrote a letter to a friend in Boston, asking him to get a certified copy of the war record of Obadiah Strout, Corporal —th Mass. Volunteers, and send it to him at Eastborough Centre as soon as possible. It was many days before that letter reached its destination.

He then sat down in his favorite armchair and began thinking out the details of his aggressive campaign against the singing-master. He had disposed of his enemy in half a dozen pitched battles, when the sound of the piano fell upon his ear.

She was playing. He hoped she was a good musician, for his taste in that art was critical. He had studied the best, and he knew it when he heard it sung or played. The piano was a good one, its tone was full and melodious, and it was in perfect tone.

He listened intently. He looked and saw that he had unintentionally left the door of his room ajar. The parlor door, too, must be open partly, or he could not have heard so plainly. What was that she was playing? Ah! Mendelssohn. Those "Songs Without Words" were as familiar to him as the alphabet. Now it is Beethoven, that beautiful work, "The Moonlight Sonata," she was evidently trying to recall her favorites to mind, for of course she could not be playing by note. Then she strayed into a "valse" by Chopin, and followed it with a dashing galop by some unknown composer. "She is a classical musician," said Quincy to himself, as the first bars of a Rhapsodic Hongroise by Liszt fell upon his ear. "I hope she knows some of the old English ballads and the best of the popular songs," thought Quincy.

As if in answer to his wish she played that sterling old song, "Tis but a Little Faded Flower," and Quincy listened with pleasure to the pure, sweet, soprano voice that rang out full and strong and seemed to reach and permeate every nook and corner in the old homestead.

Quincy could stand it no longer. He stepped quietly to his door, opened it wide, and listened with delight to the closing lines of the song.

Then she sang that song that thrilled the hearts of thousands of English soldiers in the Crimea on the eve of the battle of Inkermann, "Annie Laurie," and it was with difficulty that Quincy refrained from joining in the chorus. Surely Annie Laurie could have been no purer, no sweeter, no more beautiful, than Alice Pettengill; and Quincy felt that he could do and die for the girl who was singing in the parlor, as truly as would have the discarded suitor who wrote the immortal song.

But Quincy was destined to be still more astonished. Alice played a short prelude that seemed familiar to him, and then her voice rang out the words of that beautiful duet that Quincy had sung with Lindy Putnam at the singing-master's concert. Yes, it was Jewell's "Over the Bridge." This was too much for Quincy. He went quietly down the stairs and looked in at the parlor door, which was wide open. Alice was seated at the piano, and again the sun, in its westward downward course, shone in at the window, and lighted up her crown of golden hair. This time she had reversed the colors which she evidently knew became her so well, and wore a dress of light pink, while a light blue knitted shawl, similar to its pink companion, lay upon the chair beside her.

When she reached the duet Quincy did not attempt to control himself any further, but joined in with her, and they sang the piece together to the end.

Alice turned upon the piano stool, faced the door and clapped her hands.

"That was capital, Mr. Sawyer. I didn't know that you sang so well. In fact, I didn't know that you sang at all."

"How did you know it was I?" said Quincy, as he advanced towards her. "It is a little cool here, Miss Pettengill. Allow me to place your shawl about you;" and, suiting the action to the word, he put it gently over her shoulders.

"Yes," said Alice, "I put it on when I first came down. It interfered with my playing and I threw it into the chair."

"May I take the chair, now that it is unoccupied?" he asked.

"Yes," said Alice, "if you will give me your word of honor that you did not try to make me think it was cold: here, so that you could get the chair."

Quincy replied with a laugh, "If I did my reward is a great return for my power of invention, but I assure you I was thinking of your health and not of the chair, when I tendered my services."

"You are an adept in sweet speeches, Mr. Sawyer. You city young men all are; but our country youth, who are just as true and honest, are at a great disadvantage, because they cannot say what they think in so pleasing a way."

"I hope you do not think I am insincere," remarked Quincy, gravely.

"Not at all," said Alice, "but I have not answered your question. How did I know that it was you? You must remember, Mr. Sawyer, that those who cannot see have their hearing accentuated, and the ear kindly sends those pictures to the brain which unfortunately the eye cannot supply."

"I have enjoyed your playing and singing immensely," said Quincy. "Let us try that duet again."

They sang it again, and then they went from piece to piece, each suggesting her or his favorite, and it was not till Mandy's shrill voice once more called out with more than usual force and sharpness, "Supper's ready," that the piano was closed and Quincy, for the first time taking Alice's hand in his, led her from the parlor, which was almost shrouded in darkness, into the bright light of the dining-room, where they took their accustomed seats. They ate but little, their hearts were full of the melody that each had enjoyed so much.

SOME MORE NEW IDEAS.

When Ezekiel and Cobb's twins returned from West Eastborough, they said the air felt like snow. Mandy had kept some supper for them. Ezekiel said they had supper over to Eastborough Centre, but the home cooking smelled so good that all three sat down in the kitchen and disposed of what Mandy had provided.

The other members of the Pettengill household were in their respective rooms. Uncle Ike was reading a magazine. Alice had not retired, for Mandy always came to her room before she did so to see that her fire was all right for the night. Alice was a great lover of music and she had enjoyed the afternoon almost as much as Quincy had. She could not help thinking what musical treats might be in store for them, and then the thought came to her how she would miss him when he went back to Boston.

In the next room, Quincy was pursuing a similar line of thought. He was thinking of the nice times that Alice and he could have singing together. To be sure he wished to do nothing to make his father angry, for Quincy appreciated the power of money. He knew that with his mother's third deducted, his fathers estate would give him between two and three hundred thousand dollars. He had some money in his own right left him by a fond aunt, his father's sister, the income from which gave him a good living without calling upon his father.

What Ezekiel had prophesied came true. No one knew just when the storm began, but the picture that greeted Mandy Skinner's eyes when she came down to get breakfast was a great contrast to that of the previous day.

The snow had fallen steadily in large, heavy flakes, the road and the fields showed an even, unbroken surface of white; the tops of the taller fences were yet above the snow line, each post wearing a white cap. As the morning advanced the storm increased, the wind blew, and great drifts were indications of its power. The thick clouds of white flakes were thrown in every direction, and only dire necessity, it seemed, would be a sufficient reason for leaving a comfortable fireside.

Mandy and Mrs. Crowley were busily engaged in preparing the morning meal, when a loud scratching at a door, which led into a large room that was used as an addition to the kitchen, attracted their attention. In bounded Swiss, the big St. Bernard dog belonging to Uncle Ike. At Uncle Ike's special request Swiss had not been banished to the barn or the wood-shed, but had been allowed to sleep on a pallet in the corner of the large room referred to.

After breakfast Uncle Ike came into the kitchen and received a warm welcome from Swiss. Uncle Ike told Mandy and Mrs. Crowley the well-known story of the rescues of lost travellers made by the St. Bernard dogs on the snow-clad mountains of Switzerland. When Mrs. Crowley learned that Swiss had come from a country a great many miles farther away from America than Ireland was, he rose greatly in her estimation and she made no objection to his occupying a warm corner of the kitchen.

About noon, when the storm was at its very worst, Mandy, who was looking out of the kitchen window, espied something black in the road about halfway between Deacon Mason's and the Pettengill house. She called Mrs. Crowley to the window and asked her what she thought it was.

"That's aisy," said Mrs. Crowley, "It's a man coming down the road."

"What can bring a man out in such a storm as this?" asked Mandy.

"Perhaps he is going for the docther," remarked Mrs. Crowley.

"Then he would be going the other way," asserted Mandy.

"He's a plucky little divil anyway," said Mrs. Crowley.

"That's so," said Mandy. "He is all right as long as he keeps on his feet, but if he should fall down—"

At that moment the man did fall down or disappear from sight. Mandy pressed her face against the window pane and looked with strained eyes. He was up again, she could see the dark clothing above the top of the snow.

What was that! A cry? The sound was repeated.

"I do believe the man is calling for help," cried Mandy.

She rushed to the kitchen door and opened it. A gust of snow swept into the room, followed by a stream of cold, chilling air. Swiss awoke from his nap and lifted, his head. Despite the storm, Mandy stood at the door and screamed "Hello!" with her sharp, strident voice. Could she believe her ears? Through the howling storm came a word uttered in a voice which her woman's heart at once recognized. The word was "Mandy," and the voice was Hiram's.

"What on earth is he out in this storm for?" said Mandy to herself. She called back in response, "Hello! Hello! Hello!" and once more her own name was borne to her through the beating, driving storm.

She shut the door and resumed her post at the window. Hiram was still struggling manfully against the storm and had made considerable progress.

Mandy turned to Mrs. Crowley and said, "Mr. Maxwell is coming, Mrs. Crowley."

"More fool he," remarked Mrs. Crowley, "to be out in a storm like this."

"Get some cider, Mrs. Crowley," said Mandy, "and put it on the stove. He will need a good warm drink when he gets here."

"If he was a son of mine he'd get a good warmin'," said Mrs. Crowley, as she went down cellar to get the cider.

She turned, and to her surprise found Swiss by her side, looking up at her with his large, intelligent eyes. Quick as lightning, Uncle Ike's story came back to her mind. She patted Swiss on the head, and pointed out into the storm.

Not another word was needed. With a bound Swiss went into the snow and rapidly forward in the direction of the road. Mandy was obliged to close the door again and resume her place at the window. How her heart beat! How she watched the dog as he ploughed his way through the drifts? He must be near the place. Yes, he is scratching and digging down into the snow. Now the dark form appears once more. Yes, Hiram is on his feet again and man and dog resume their fight with the elements.

It seemed an age to Mandy, but it was in reality not more than five minutes, before Hiram and Swiss reached the kitchen door and came into the room.

"Come out into the back room," said Mandy to Hiram. "I don't want this snow all over my kitchen floor." So Hiram and Swiss were taken into the big room and in a short time came back in presentable condition.

"Now, Mr. Maxwell, if you have recovered the use of your tongue, will you kindly inform me what sent you out in such a storm as this?"

"Well," replied Hiram, "I reckoned I'd git down kinder early in the mornin' and git back afore dark."

"That's all right," said Mandy; "but that don't tell me what you are out for, anyway."

"Well, you didn't suppose," said Hiram, "that I could go all day long without seein' you, did yer, Mandy?"

Mrs. Crowley chuckled to herself and went into the side room. Even Swiss seemed to recognize that two were company and he followed Mrs. Crowley and resumed his old resting place in the corner on the pallet.

As Mrs. Crowley went about her work, she chuckled again, and said to herself, "It's a weddin' I'll be goin' to next time in place of a funeral."

Upstairs other important events were taking place. Quincy had gone to his room directly after breakfast, and looked out upon the wild scene of storm with a sense of loneliness that had not hitherto oppressed him. Why should he be lonely? Was he not in the same house with her, with only a thin wall of wood and plaster between them? Yes, but if that wall had been of granite one hundred feet thick, it could not have shut him off more effectually from seeing her lovely face and hearing her sweet voice.

There came a sharp rap at the door.

"Come in," called out Quincy.

"Ah!" said Uncle Ike as he entered, "I am glad to see you have a good fire. The snow has blown down into Alice's room and her fire is out. Will you let her step in here for a few moments, Mr. Sawyer, until 'Zeke and I get the room warm again?"

"Why, certainly," replied Quincy. "I am only too happy—"

But Uncle Ike was off, and returned in a few moments leading Alice. Quincy placed a chair for her before the fire. This cold wintry day she wore a morning dress of a shade of red which, despite its bright color, seemed to harmonize with the golden hair and to take the place of the sun, which was not there to light it up.

"If Miss Pettengill prefers," said Quincy, "I can make myself comfortable in the dining-room, and she can have my room to herself."

He had started this speech to Uncle Ike, who left the room abruptly in the middle of it, and Quincy's closing words fell on Alice's ears alone.

"Why, certainly not," said Alice; "sit down, Mr. Sawyer, and we will talk about something. Don't you think it is terrible?" As Quincy was contemplating his fair visitor, he could hardly be expected to say "yes" to her question. "Perhaps you enjoy it?" said she.

"I certainly do," answered Quincy, throwing his whole heart into his eyes.

"Well, I must differ with you," said Alice. "I never did like snow."

"Oh, you were talking about the weather!" remarked Quincy.

"Why, yes," said Alice. "What else did you think I was talking about?"

Quincy, cool and self-possessed as he invariably was, was a trifle embarrassed.

Turning to Alice he said, "I see, Miss Pettengill, that I must make you a frank statement in order that you may retain your respect for me. I know you will pardon me for not hearing what you said, and for what I am about to say; but the fact is, I was wondering whether you have had the best advice and assistance that the medical science of to-day can afford you as regards your eyes."

"But what did the oculist say was the trouble with your eyes?" Quincy asked.

"He didn't tell me," replied Alice. "He may have told my employer. He gave me some drops to put in my eyes three times a day; and a little metal tube with a cover to it like the top of a pepper box; on the other end is a piece of rubber tubing, with a glass mouthpiece attached to it"

"How do you use that?" asked Quincy.

"Isn't that harsh treatment?" asked Quincy, as he looked at the beautiful blue but sightless eyes that were turned towards him.

"No," said Alice with a laugh, "the pain and the tears are like an April shower, for both soon pass away."

At this moment Uncle Ike entered the room and Ezekiel's steps were heard descending the stairs. Uncle Ike said, "We have got it started and 'Zeke's gone down to bring up a good stock of wood. If you have no objection, Mr. Sawyer, I will sit down here a few minutes. Don't let me interrupt your conversation."

"I hope you will take a part in it," said Quincy. "You put a lot of new ideas into my head the first time I came to see you, and perhaps you may have some more new ones for me to-day. Miss Pettengill was just saying she would feel miserable if she lost her situation."

"I have no doubt of it," said Uncle Ike. "The Pettengills are not afraid to work. If a man is obliged to earn his living by the sweat of his brow, I don't see why woman shouldn't do the same thing."

"But the home is woman's sphere," said Quincy.

"Bosh!" cried Uncle Ike.

"Why, Uncle!" cried Alice.

"Oh, Mr. Sawyer understands me!" said Uncle Ike. "In the Middle Ages, when women occupied the highest position that has fallen to her lot since the days of Adam, the housework was done by menials and scullions. Has the world progressed when woman is pulled down from her high estate and this life of drudgery is called her sphere? Beg your pardon, Mr. Sawyer, but there should be no more limit fixed to the usefulness of woman than there is to the usefulness of man."

"Well," said Uncle Ike, "so should the man. I am inclined to think if the father spent more time at home, it would be for the advantage of both sons and daughters."

"But," said Quincy, "do you think it is for the best interests of the community that woman should force her way into all branches of industry and compete with man for a livelihood?"

"Why not?" said Uncle Ike. "In the old days when they didn't work, for they didn't know how and didn't want to, because they thought it was beneath them, if a man died, his wife and children became dependent upon some brother or sister or uncle or aunt, and they were obliged to provide for them out of their own small income or savings. In those days it was respectable to be genteelly poor, and starve rather than work and live on the fat of the land. Nothing has ever done so much to increase the self-respect of woman, and add to her feeling of independence, as the knowledge of the fact that she can support herself." Alice bowed her head and covered her eyes with her hand. "There's nothing personal in what I say," said Uncle Ike. "I am only talking on general principles."

Quincy yearned to say something against Uncle Ike's argument, but how could he advance anything against woman's work when the one who sat before him was a workingwoman and was weeping because she could not work? There was one thing he could do, he could change the subject to one where there was an opportunity for debate. So he said, "Well, Mr. Pettengill, I presume if you are such an ardent advocate of woman's right or even duty to work, that you are also a supporter of her right to vote."

"Granted," said Quincy, "but what has that to do with the question of woman's right to vote?"

"Woman has no inherent right to vote," said Uncle Ike. "The ballot is a privilege, not a right. Why, I remember reading during the war that young soldiers, between eighteen and twenty-one years of age, claimed the ballot as a right, because they were fighting for their country. If voting is a right, what argument could be used against their claim?"

"I remember," added Quincy, "that they argued that 'bullets should win ballots.' Do you think any one should vote who cannot fight?" asked Quincy.

"If he does not shirk his duty between eighteen and forty-five," said Uncle Ike, "he should not be deprived of his ballot when he is older; but the question of woman's voting does not depend upon her ability to fight. The mother at home thinking of her son, the sister thinking of her brother, the wife thinking of her husband, are as loyally fighting for their native land as the soldiers in the field, and no soldier is braver than the hospital nurse, who, day after day and night after night, watches by the bedsides of the wounded, the sick, and the dying. No, Mr. Sawyer, it is not a question of fighting or bravery."

During the discussion Alice had dried her eyes and was listening to her uncle's words. She now asked a question, "When will women vote, Uncle?"

"When it is deemed expedient for them to do so," replied Uncle Ike. "The full privilege will not be given all at once. They will probably be allowed to vote on some one matter in which they are deeply interested. Education and the rum question are the ones most likely to be acted upon first. But the full ballot will not come, and now I know Alice will shake her head and say, 'No!' I repeat it—the full ballot will not come for woman until our social superstructure is changed. Woman will not become the political equal of man until she is his social and industrial equal; and until any contract of whatever nature made by a man and a woman may be dissolved by them by mutual consent, without their becoming criminals in the eye of the law, or outcasts in the eyes of society."

At this moment Ezekiel looked in the door and said, "Alice's room is nice and warm now." Advancing, he took her hand and led her from the room. Uncle Ike thanked Quincy for his kindness and followed them. Quincy sat and thought. The picture that his mind drew placed the woman who had just left his room in a large house, with servants at her command. She was the head of the household, but no menial nor scullion. She did not work, because he was able and willing to support her. She did not vote, because she felt with him that at home was her sphere of usefulness; and then Quincy thought that what would make this possible was money, money that not he but others had earned, and he knew that without this money the question could not be solved as his mind had pictured it; and he reflected that all women could not have great houses and servants and loving husbands to care for them, and he acknowledged to himself that his solution was a personal, selfish one and not one that would answer for the toiling million's of the working world.

AFTER THE GREAT SNOWSTORM.

Mandy was, of course, greatly pleased inwardly because Hiram had come through such a great storm to see her, but, woman-like, she would not show it.

So she said to Hiram, "Your reason is a very good one, and of course I am greatly flattered, but there must be something else besides that. Now, what have you got to tell me?"

"Well, the fact is, Mandy, I've got two things on my mind. One of 'em is a secret and t'other isn't. I meant to have told you yesterday; but Mr. Sawyer kept me busy till noon, and the Deacon kept me busy all the afternoon, and I was too tired to come over last night."

"Well," said Mandy, "tell me the secret first. If the other one has kept so long it won't spoil if it's kept a little longer."

Hiram had kept his eyes on the stove since taking his seat, and he then remarked, "I am afraid that cider will spoil unless I get a drink of it pretty soon."

"Well, I declare," cried Mandy, "if I didn't forget to give it to you, after sending Mrs. Crowley down stairs for it, when you was out there in the road."

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

"Well, not in itself," said Hiram; "but I am willing to bet a year's salary agin a big red apple that those two people have made up and are engaged reg'lar fashion."

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

"Well, a number of things," said Hiram. "I overheard the Deacon say to Huldy, 'It will be pretty lonesome for us one of these days,' and then you see Mrs. Mason, she is just as good as pie to me all the time, and that shows something has pleased her more than common; and then you see Huldy has that sort of look about her that girls have when their market's made, and they feel so happy that they can't help showing it. You see, Mandy, I'm no chicken. I've had lots of experience."

What Mandy might have said in reply to this remark will never be known, for at this juncture Ezekiel entered the room and passed through on his way to the wood-shed.

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

Ezekiel was piling up some wood which he was to take to Alice's room, when Hiram came up beside him and slyly passed him the note. Then Hiram looked out of the wood-shed window at the storm, which had lost none of its fury, while Ezekiel read the note.

"Are you going home soon?" asked Ezekiel.

"Well, I guess I'll try it again," said Hiram, "as soon as I get warm and kinder limbered up."

"I guess I'll go back with you," said Ezekiel. "We will take Swiss with us; two men and a dog ought to be enough for a little snowstorm like this."

"You won't find it a little one," said Hiram, "when you get out in the road, but I guess the three on us can pull through."

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

"What did I tell you?" said Hiram to Mandy. "'Zeke's going back with me. She has writ him to come over and see her. Now you see if you don't lose your apple."

"I didn't bet," said Mandy; "but what was that other thing you were going to tell me that was no secret?"

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

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

"Samuel Hill," replied Hiram, "and she managed it fust rate. You know the boys have been flocking round her for more than a year. Old Ben James, her pa, told me he'd got to put in a new hitchin' post. You see, there has been Robert Wood and 'Manuel Howe and Arthur Scates and Cobb's twins and Ben Bates and Sam Hill, but Samuel was the cutest one of the lot."

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

"Where were the other fellers?" asked Mandy. "I always surmised that she thought more of Ben Bates than she did of Sam Hill."

"Well, it didn't come out till a couple of days afterwards," said Hiram. "You see, the shortest way to old James's place is to go over the mill race, and all of the fellers but Sam Hill went that way, and the joke of it was that they all fell over into the river and got a duckin'."

"Well," said Mandy, "they must have been drinking. Tilly is well rid of the whole lot of them. Why, I've walked over that log time and time again."

"Well, they hadn't been drinkin'," said Hiram. "You see it was pretty dark and they didn't get on to the fact that the log was greased till it was kinder too late to rectify matters."

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

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

The laughing was quickly hushed as the kitchen door opened and Ezekiel entered, warmly dressed for his fight with the snow and carrying a heavy cane in his hand.

"Call the dog, Hiram," said Ezekiel, "and we'll start. Mandy, tell Jim and Bill to come over to Deacon Mason's for me about four o'clock, unless it looks too bad; if it does they needn't try it till to-morrow morning."

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

Mandy said, "Oh, he was telling me about a girl that invited all her fellers to come and see her the same evening, and only one of them got there because he greased the log over the mill race, and all the rest of them fell into the water."

"It was a mane trick," said Mrs. Crowley. "Now, when all the boys were after me, for I was a good lookin' girl once, Pat Crowley, he was me husband, had a fight on hand every night for a fortnight and all on account of me; and they do say there were never so many heads broken in the County of Tipperary on account of one girl since the days of St. Patrick."

Mandy had paid but little attention to Mrs. Crowley's speech. She was too busy watching the travellers. Mrs. Crowley filled and emptied the mug once more.

The last potation was too much for her equilibrium, and forgetting the step that led from the kitchen to the side room, she lost her balance and fell prone upon the floor. Her loud cries obliged Mandy to turn from the window, but not until she had seen that the travellers had reached the fence before Deacon Mason's house, and she knew they were safe for the present. Mrs. Crowley was lifted to her feet by Mandy. The old woman declared that she was "kilt intirely," but Mandy soon learned the cause of the accident, and returning to the kitchen closed the door and continued her morning duties.

Before Ezekiel left the house he had interrupted Quincy's meditations by knocking on his door, and when admitted told him that he had had a letter from Huldy.

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

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

"Oh," said Ezekiel, "we'll be all right! Hiram is going with me, and we are going to take Swiss along with us. Now, Mr. Sawyer, I am going to ask you to do me and Alice a favor. Uncle Ike is upstairs busy reading, and if you will kinder look out for Alice till I get back I shall be greatly obliged."

Quincy promised and Ezekiel departed.

Quincy thought the fates had favored him in imposing upon him such a pleasant task. But where was she, and what could he do to amuse her? Then he thought, "We can sing together as we did yesterday."

He went down stairs to the parlor, thinking she might be there, but the room was empty. The fire was low, but the supply of wood was ample, and in a short time the great room was warm and comfortable. Quincy seated himself at the piano, played a couple of pieces and then sang a couple; he did not think while singing the second song that he had possibly transcended propriety, but when he sang the closing lines of "Alice, Where Art Thou?" it suddenly dawned upon him, and, full of vexation, he arose and walked to the window and looked out upon the howling storm.

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

Turning, he saw Alice standing in the middle of the room, while Mandy's retreating figure showed who had been her escort. Her brother Ezekiel had rigged a bell wire from her room to the kitchen, so that she could call Mandy when she needed her assistance.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Pettengill," said Quincy, advancing towards her. "The song has always been a favorite of mine, but I never thought of its personal application until I reached the closing words. I trust you do not think I was so presuming as to—"

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

"I am at your service," said he. "I am only afraid that your requirements will exceed my ability."

"Very prettily spoken," said Alice, as Quincy led her to a seat by the fire, and took one himself. "I am going to confess to you," said she, "one of my criminal acts. I am going to ask you to sit as judge and mete out what you consider a suitable punishment for my offence."

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

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

"The crime is a great one," said Quincy. "But if the poetry be good it may serve to mitigate your sentence. Are those the evidences of your crime you hold in your hand, Miss Pettingill?"

"Yes," she answered, as she passed a written sheet to him; "I wrote them before my eyes failed me. Perhaps you will find it hard to read them. Which one is that?" she asked.

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

"Oh!" cried Alice, "I didn't write that song myself. A gentleman friend, who is now dead, was the author of it. But he couldn't write a chorus and he asked me to do it for him. The idea of the chorus is moonlight on the river."

"Shall I read it?" asked Quincy.

"Only the chorus part, if you please," replied Alice, "and be as lenient as you can, good Mr. Judge, for that was my first offence."

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