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

"Well," replied Hiram, "you see, Tilly sot down and writ invites to all the boys that had been sparkin' 'round her to come to see her the same night. She gave these invites to her brother Bill to deliver. Well, Sam Hill met him, found out what he was about, and kinder surmised what it all meant. Wall, the night came 'round and Sam Hill was the only one that turned up at the time app'inted. After talkin' about the weather, last year's crops, and spring plantin', Sam just braced up and proposed, and Tilly accepted him on the spot."

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

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

"You see, the shortest way to old James's place is to go over the mill race, and all of the fellers but Sam Hill went that way, and the joke of it was that they all fell over into the river and got a duckin'."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again Mandy went to the window and watched the progress of the travellers. Mrs. Crowley came into the kitchen and seeing Mandy at the window quietly turned out a mug of the hot cider and drank it. She then approached Mandy and said, "What was all the laughin' about? I like a good joke myself."

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

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

Patrick."

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

The last potation was too much for her equilibrium, and forgetting the step that led from the kitchen to the side room, she lost her balance and fell p.r.o.ne 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 a.s.sistance.

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

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

Sawyer, and you sang it beautifully. No apologies are needed, for the fact is I was just saying to myself, 'Mr. Sawyer, where are you?' for 'Zekiel told me that he was going to speak to you and ask you to help me drive away those lonesome feelings that always come to me on a day like this. I cannot see the storm, but I can hear it and feel it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," she answered, as she pa.s.sed 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 Tallaha.s.see,'" replied Quincy.

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

"Shall I read it?" asked Quincy.

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

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

The moon's bright rays, In a silver maze, Fall on the rushing river; Each ray of light Like an arrow white Drawn from a crystal quiver.

They romp and play, In a wond'rous way, On tree and shrub and flower; And fill the night With a radiant light, That falls like a silver shower.

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

He replied, "You have conferred judicial functions upon me and a judge does not give his opinion until the evidence is all in."

"Ah! I see," said Alice. "My knowledge of metrical composition," she continued, "is very limited. What I know of it I learned from an old copy of Fowler's Grammar that I bought at Burnham's on School Street soon after I went to Boston. I have always called what you just read a poem. Is it one?" she asked, looking up with a smile.

"I think it is," replied Quincy, "and," he added inadvertently, "a very pretty one, too."

"Oh! Mr. Judge," laughing outright "you have given aid and comfort to the prisoner before the evidence was all in."

And Quincy was forced to laugh heartily at the acuteness she had shown in forcing his opinion from him prematurely."

"Now, this one," said Alice, "I call a song. I know which one it is by the size and thickness of the paper." And she handed him a foolscap sheet.