For G.o.d alone is mighty, The Lord of the sea, The Lord of the land!"

As Quincy resumed his seat, Alice clapped her hands to show her approbation of his oratorical effort. Then they both sat in silence for a few minutes, each evidently absorbed in thought.

Suddenly Alice spoke:

"And now, Mr. Sawyer, will you let me ask you a serious question? If I continue writing pieces like these, can I hope to earn enough from it to support myself?"

Quincy thought for a moment, and then said, "I am afraid not. If you would allow me to take them to Boston the next time I go I will try and find out their market value, but editors usually say that poetry is a drug, and they have ten times as much offered them as they can find room for. On the other hand, stories, especially short ones, are eagerly sought and good prices paid for them. Did you ever think of writing a story, Miss Pettengill?"

"Oh, yes!" said Alice, "I have several blocked out, I call it, in my own mind, but it is such a task for me to write that I dare not undertake them. If I could afford to pay an amanuensis it would be different."

Quincy comprehended the situation in a moment. "I like to write, Miss Pettengill," said he, "and time hangs heavily upon my hands. We are likely to have a long spell of winter weather, during which I shall be confined to the house as well as yourself. Take pity on me and give my idle hands something to do."

"Oh, it would be too much to ask," said Alice.

"But you have not asked," answered Quincy. "I have offered you my services without your asking."

"But when could we begin?" asked Alice, hesitatingly.

"At once," replied Quincy. "I brought with me from Boston a half ream of legal paper and a dozen good pencils. I can write faster and much better with a pencil than I can with a pen, and as all legal papers have to be copied, I have got into the habit of using pencils for everything."

It took Quincy but a few minutes to go to his room and secure his paper and pencils. He drew a table close to Alice's chair and sat down beside her.

"What is the name of the story?" asked he.

Alice replied, "I have called it in my mind, 'How He Lost Both Name and Fortune.'"

CHAPTER XXIII.

A VISIT TO MRS. PUTNAM.

It must not be supposed that Alice's story was written out by Quincy in one or even two days. The oldest inhabitants will tell you that the great snowstorm lasted three days and three nights, and it was not till the fourth day thereafter that the roads were broken out, so that safe travel between Eastborough Centre and Mason's Corner became possible.

The day after the storm the sad intelligence came to Quincy and Alice that old Mr. Putnam had pa.s.sed quietly away on the last day of the storm. Quincy attended the funeral, and he could not help acknowledging to himself that Lindy Putnam never looked more beautiful than in her dress of plain black. The only ornament upon her was a pair of beautiful diamond earrings, but she always wore them, and consequently they were not obtrusive.

Quincy bore an urgent request from Mrs. Putnam that Alice should come to see her. As the story was finished and copied on the seventh day after the storm, Quincy had the old-fashioned sleigh brought out and lined with robes. Taking the horse Old Bill, that sleigh bells or snow slides could not startle from his equanimity, Alice was driven to Mrs.

Putnam's, and in a few minutes was clasped to Mrs. Putnam's bosom, the old lady crying and laughing by turns.

Quincy thought it best, to leave them alone, and descending the stairs he entered the parlor, the door being halfway open. He started back as he saw a form dressed in black, seated by the window.

"Come in, Mr. Sawyer," said Lindy. "I knew you were here. I saw you when you drove up with Miss Pettengill. What a beautiful girl she is, and what a pity that she is blind. I hope with all my heart that she will recover her sight."

"She would be pleased to hear you say that," remarked Quincy.

"We were never intimate," said Lindy. "You can tell her from me, you are quite the gallant chevalier, Mr. Sawyer, and what you say to her will sound sweeter than if it came from other lips. Are you going to marry her, Mr. Sawyer?"

"I do not think that our acquaintance is of such long standing that you are warranted in asking me so personal a question," replied Quincy.

"Perhaps not," said Lindy, "but as I happened to know, though not from your telling, that she is to be my mother's heiress, I had a little curiosity to learn whether you had already proposed or were going--"

"Miss Putnam," said Quincy sternly, "do not complete your sentence. Do not make me think worse of you than I already do. I beg your pardon for intruding upon you. I certainly should not have done so had I antic.i.p.ated such an interview."

Lindy burst into a flood of tears. Her grief seemed uncontrollable.

Quincy closed the parlor door, thinking that if her cries and sobs were heard upstairs it would require a double explanation, which it might be hard for him to give.

He stood and looked at the weeping girl. She had evidently known all along who her mother's heiress was. She had been fooling him, but for what reason? Was she in love with him? No, he did not think so; if she had been she would have confided in him rather than have sought to force him to confide in her. What could be the motive for her action? Quincy was nonplussed. He had had considerable experience with society girls, but they either relied upon languid grace or light repartee. They never used tears either for offence or defence.

A surprise was in store for Quincy. Lindy rose from her chair and came towards him, her eyes red with weeping.

"Why do you hate me so, Mr. Sawyer?" she asked. "Why will you not be a friend to me, when I need one so much? What first turned you against me?"

Quincy replied, "I will tell you, Miss Putnam. They told me you were ashamed of your father and mother because they were old-fashioned country people and did not dress as well or talk as good English as you did."

"Who told you so?" asked Lindy.

"It was common talk in the village," he replied.

"I should think you had suffered enough from village gossip, Mr. Sawyer, not to believe that all that is said is true."

Quincy winced and colored. It was a keen thrust and went home.

"Where there is so much smoke there must be some fire," he answered, rather lamely, as he thought, even to himself.

"Mr. Sawyer, when I asked you to tell me a little secret you had in your possession, you refused. I wanted a friend, but I also wanted a proven friend. No doubt I took the wrong way to win your friendship, but I am going to tell you something, Mr. Sawyer, if you will listen to me, that will at least secure your pity for one who is rich in wealth but poor in that she has no friends to whom she can confide her troubles."

Quincy saw that he was in for it, and like a gentleman, determined to make the best of it, so he said, "Miss Putnam, I will listen to your story, and if, after hearing it, I can honorably aid you I will do so with pleasure."

Lindy took his hand, which he had half extended, and said, "Come, sit down, Mr. Sawyer. It is a long story, and I am nervous and tired," and she looked down at her black dress.

They sat upon the sofa, he at one end, she at the other.

"Mr. Sawyer," she began abruptly, "I am not a natural-born child of Mr.

and Mrs. Putnam. I was adopted by them when but two years of age. I do not know who my father and mother were. I am sure Mrs. Putnam knows, but she will not tell me."

"It could do no harm now that you are a woman grown," said Quincy.

"At first they both loved me," Lindy continued, "but a year after I came here to live their son was born, and from that time on all was changed.

Mr. Putnam was never unkind to me but once, but Mrs. Putnam seemed to take delight in blaming me, and tormenting me, and nagging me, until it is a wonder that my disposition is as good as it is, and you know it is not very good," said she to Quincy with a little smile. She resumed her story: "I loved the little boy, Jones I always called him, and as we grew up together he learned to love me and took my part, although he was three years younger than myself. This fact made Mrs. Putnam hate me more than ever. He stayed at home until he was twenty-two, then he went to his father and mother and told them that he loved me and wished to marry me. Both Mr. and Mrs. Putnam flew into a great rage at this. The idea of a brother marrying his sister! They said it was a crime and a sacrilege, and the vengeance of G.o.d would surely fall upon us both. Jones told them he had written to a lawyer in Boston, and he had replied that there was no law prohibiting such a marriage. 'But the law of G.o.d shines before you like a flaming sword,' said Mrs. Putnam; and Mr. Putnam agreed with her, for she had all his property in her possession." Quincy smiled.

"They packed Jones off to the city at once," said Lindy, "and his mother gave him five thousand dollars to go into business with. Jones began speculating, and he was successful from first to last. In three months he paid back the five thousand dollars his mother had given him, and he never took a dollar from them after that day. At twenty-six he was worth one hundred thousand dollars. When I went to Boston I always saw him, and he at last told me he could stand it no longer. Be wanted me to marry him and go to Europe with him. I told him I must have a week to think it over. If I decided to go I would be in Boston on a certain day. I would bring my trunk and would stop at a certain hotel and send word for him to come to me. I used all possible secrecy in getting my clothes ready, and packed them away, as I thought, unnoticed, in my trunk, which was in the attic. Mrs. Putnam must have suspected that I intended to leave home, and she knew that I would not go unless to meet her son. The day before I planned going to Boston, or rather the night before, she entered my room while I was asleep, took every particle of my clothing, with the exception of one house dress and a pair of slippers, and locked me in. They kept me there for a week, and I wished that I had died there, for when they came to me it was to tell me that Jones was dead, and I was the cause of it. I who loved him so!" And the girl's eyes filled with tears.

"What was the cause of his death?" asked Quincy.

"He was young, healthy, and careless," answered Lindy. "He took a bad cold and it developed into lung fever. Even then he claimed it was nothing and would not see a doctor. One morning he did not come to the office, his clerk went to his room, but when the doctor was called it was too late. It was very sad that he should die so, believing that I had refused to go with him, when I would have given my life for him. He loved me till death. He left me all his money, but in his will he expressed the wish that I would never accept a dollar from his parents.

So now you see why Mrs. Putnam does not make me her heiress. You think I hate Miss Pettengill because she is going to give it to her, but truly I do not, Mr. Sawyer. What I said when you came in I really meant, and I hope you will be happy, Mr. Sawyer, even as I hoped to be years ago."