Sylvester smiled. "Well, the fact is, Mr. Sawyer, while I was working on the _Eastborough Express_, when you were here five years ago, I studied short-hand, and it came in handy that night."

The train was express to Boston and Quincy was in his chair in the Executive Chamber by half-past eleven. After a careful examination of the case of Ivan Wolaski, he decided to refuse the request for extradition, and the Governor of Colorado was so notified in a communication which from moral, legal, political, and humanitarian points of view was unanswerable. It was nearly two o'clock when the last official letter was signed.

The door was opened by the messenger. Quincy expected Maude to enter, but it was Mr. Acton, the energetic opponent of the "peaceful picketing"

law.

"I heard, Mr. Governor, that you were here, and I thought it only fair to inform you that we shall apply for injunctions just the same as if that bill you signed had not become a law, and, in that way, test its const.i.tutionality."

"You have a legal right to do that," said the governor, "but I question your moral right."

"How so?" asked Mr. Acton.

"Supposing I had applied for an injunction to prevent you and a score of others from trying to influence me to veto the bill?"

"That would have been foolish. No judge would have granted it."

"And why not?" said the governor sternly. "Were not all of you engaged in 'peaceful picketing'? Why should not the working man have the same right to persuade his fellows that you exerted to influence me?"

Mr. Acton had not exhausted his argument: "But the probable destruction of property and possible loss of life?"

"Matters fully covered by law," the Governor replied. "They are under the jurisdiction of the police, the sheriff, and, if need be, the militia."

Mr. Acton, despite the argument advanced, "was of the same opinion still."

Quincy rang for the messenger, who appeared.

"I am going now. Does any one wish to see me?"

"There's a young lady outside. She's been waiting some time."

Quincy looked at his watch. It was quarter past two.

"Admit her, at once."

Maude began the conversation. "I received your astonishing telegram, Quincy, and was here _on time_," and she emphasized the final words.

"What does it mean? Is Alice sick?"

Quincy took the cue. "Not exactly sick, but she wants to see you very much, and I felt so sure you would come to please her, that I ignored your refusal to accept an invitation from me. Come, we'll have lunch at Young's, and then a carriage to the station,--is your trunk there?"

Maude nodded. She felt that Quincy had played a trick on her and she was in a rebellious mood.

She ate her lunch in silence. Not a word was spoken during the drive to the station. When the train was under way Quincy remarked, casually, "I invited Mr. Merry to come down next Sat.u.r.day and stay over Sunday."

From that moment until they reached Eastborough Centre, Quincy could not have desired a more talkative or vivacious companion. As they stepped upon the platform, Mr. Parsons came up.

"They're there, safe and sound. I went up with them myself, so's to be sure."

CHAPTER VI

"JUST LIKE OLD TIMES"

Alice had a delightful day at Mandy Maxwell's. The twins, Abraham Mason and Obadiah Strout, st.u.r.dy little fellows of the same age as Ezekiel's boy, were full of fun and frolic. Swiss, Uncle Ike's dog, had grown old in the past five years, but the antics of the youngsters overcame at times both age and its accompanying dignity, or love of repose, and he was often as frisky as in his younger days.

Mrs. Crowley told Alice, in confidence, that she "was most dead" with the noise of them, and that, some day, she would be "kilt intirely" by falling over them.

Alice held the little girl for hours, and, remembering Mrs. Hawkins'

complaint, called her "Martha" instead of "Mattie."

After the death of Capt. Obed Putnam, his companion, Uncle Ike came down from his attic and had the room that Quincy occupied when he boarded with Ezekiel Pettingill. He was now eighty-one years of age, and too feeble to go up and down stairs, so his meals were taken to his room.

He was greatly pleased to see Alice and to learn that there had been no return of the trouble with her eyes.

"If we had known as much then as we do now, you wouldn't have needed any doctor, Alice."

"Why, how's that?" she asked.

"Because the mind governs the body; as we think we are--we are."

"Well, Uncle Ike, why don't you think you are able to go down stairs and walk back again?"

"I was referring to disease, not the infirmities of old age."

"What's the difference, Uncle?"

"I can't explain it, but there's a mighty sight of difference. I've been trying to get Mandy to let me live on sour milk, because a great doctor in Europe says we'll live longer if we do."

"How long would you care to live?"

"As long as I could. I've been reading up on all the religions and all the subst.i.tutes, and it's going to take me some time to decide which is best--for me, I mean. I don't presume to dictate to others."

"Which do you favour so far?"

"I was brought up on theology--great, big doses of it. I was taught that G.o.d was everything and man was nothing. Now I'm willing to give the Almighty credit for all his wonderful works, but I can't help thinking that _man_ deserves some credit for his thousands of years of labour.

There's a man out in Chicago who has got up a religion that he calls Manology. There's some good points in it, but he goes too far to suit me. I've read about ghosts and spirits, but I've got to see one before I take stock in them."

"I understand how you feel, Uncle. You have lost the two anchors which make this life bearable. They are Faith and Hope. For them you have subst.i.tuted Reason--not the reason of others, or of the ages, but your own personal opinion. Until you are satisfied, every one else is wrong."

"Perhaps you're right, Alice. I can see now that my life has been misspent. I should have remained at home and made my wife and children happy. Instead, I became, virtually, a hermit, and for more than twenty years I have thought only of myself and done nothing for humanity, that has done everything for me."

Alice was deeply touched by her Uncle's self-accusation. He had been good to her, and not unkind to others. But he was drifting in a sea of doubt, and really wishing to live his life over again. She felt sorry, but what could she say to give his mind peace? She would begin on the material plane.

"Uncle, how much money have you?"

"That's what troubles me, Alice. When I left home"--his voice lingered on the word--"I gave my wife and children two-thirds of what I had. The rest I put into an annuity, which dies with me. That will do nothing for those I love and who love me."