"If you do not intend to come back at all," continued the father, "that would simplify matters. I could then make room for a Harvard graduate to study with us."

Quincy reflected. He had been taught by his father not to give a positive answer to any question on the spur of the moment, if more time could be taken, as well as not, for consideration. So, after a few moments of thought, Quincy said, "I will write you in the course of ten days or a fortnight, and give you a positive answer."

"That will be entirely satisfactory," answered his father. "As you are going out, will you kindly tell Mr. Crowninshield that I wish to consult with him?"

Quincy knew that the interview had expired by limitation. He went home, but found that his mother and sisters were out riding.

"They will return in time for dinner," said Delia, the parlor maid.

Quincy went into the parlor and opened the grand piano. He sat down before it, touched a few of the keys casually, then sang, with great expression, the song by J.R. Thomas ent.i.tled "Pleasant Memories." He next wandered into the library, and took down and glanced at several books that he had devoured with avidity when a boy of sixteen. Then he went upstairs to his own room, which he had occupied since he was eight years old. It looked familiar, everything was in its accustomed place; still, the room did not look homelike. Strange as it may seem, Quincy had been happier in the large west chamber, with its old-fashioned bureau and carpet and bed, than he had ever been in this handsomely furnished apartment in the Beacon Street mansion. There was no wide fireplace here, with ruddy embers, into whose burning face he could look and weave fanciful dreams of the fortune and happiness to be his in the future.

He spent a pleasant evening with the family. His father was present, but pa.s.sed the time in reading the newspapers and a legal brief that he wished to more closely examine. His mother was engrossed in a new novel, but no approving smile or sympathetic tear demonstrated any particular interest in the fates of the struggling hero or suffering heroine.

Florence sat at the piano, and, in response to Quincy's request that she would give him some music, played over some chromatic scales and arpeggios. He declared that they reminded him of grand opera, which remark sent Maude into a fit of satirical laughter, and Florence up to her room in a pout.

Then Maude fell to asking Quincy questions about himself, to which he returned evasive and untruthful answers, until she was, as she said, completely disgusted. Then she dropped her head upon his shoulder, and with the arms of the brother whom she dearly loved clasped around her, she went to sleep. He looked at the sweet girlish face and thought, not of her, but of Alice.

Next morning he was up early, for he knew that a busy day was before him. The last thing before retiring, and the first thing upon getting up, he examined his inside vest pocket, to see if that precious letter, that priceless trust that he had given his knightly word to deliver, was safe.

He breakfasted early, and eight o'clock found him in Bowdoin Square, at the corner of Green and Chardon Streets. His first visit was to a safe manufactory, a few doors from the corner, where he purchased one for the firm of Strout & Maxwell.

After traversing both sides of Friend Street, he finally settled upon two horses, stout country roadsters, and left an order for their shipment to Eastborough Centre, when they were notified that the wagons were ready. He bought the wagons in Sudbury Street. They had red bodies and yellow wheels, and the words, "Strout & Maxwell, Mason's Corner, Ma.s.s.," were to be placed on them in gold letters.

These tasks completed, Quincy walked up Tremont Row by Scollay's Building. Crossing Pemberton Square, he continued up Tremont Street until he came to the building in which was the law office of Curtis Carter, one of his law school chums.

"h.e.l.lo, Curt!" said he, as he entered the somewhat dingy office.

"Well, 'pon honor, Quincy," cried Curtis, "the sight of you is good for sore eyes, and I've got such a beastly cold that I can't see with one eye and can't read with the other."

"Well," said Quincy, "I came in here intending to consult you professionally, but I don't think a blind lawyer will answer my purpose."

"Oh, I shall be all right in a few minutes," replied Curtis. "I dropped into Young's as I came up and took an eye-opener. What's the matter, old fellow, breach of promise?"

Quincy took a seat near Curtis's desk.

"No," said he, "it's a case of animosity carried beyond the grave."

"Oh! I see," said Curtis, "party cut off with a shilling, going to try and break the will?"

"Have a cigar?" asked Quincy. "While you are lighting it and getting it under way I may slide in and get a chance to state my business."

"Oh! you want to do the talking?" said Curtis good humoredly. "Well, go ahead, old man;" and he leaned back and smoked complacently.

Quincy then related as much as he thought necessary of the story of the sealed letter, and as he concluded he took the package from his pocket and placed it on the corner of the lawyer's desk.

"You are doing just right," said Curtis; "the probate judges nowadays are looking more carefully at wills, especially when their provisions indicate that the signer was more red Indian than white Christian. I understand you perfectly," he continued; "what you wish me to do is to put this letter in an envelope, seal it securely, and endorse upon it these words, 'To be delivered only to Miss Lindy Putnam upon the written order of Miss Alice Pettengill.'"

"That's it exactly," said Quincy; "only I wish a receipt from you for the doc.u.ment."

"Certainly," replied Curtis. As he raised the lid of his old-fashioned desk the letter fell to the floor. The envelope had received rough treatment in its progress from hand to hand, and it was not strange that when it struck the floor one corner was split open by the fall.

As Quincy stooped to pick it up, he noticed that something that resembled a small piece of white cloth dropped from the broken corner of the envelope. When he picked it up to replace it, he saw that it was a small piece of white cotton cloth, and his quick eye caught the name "Linda Fernborough" stamped thereon with indelible ink. He said nothing, but replacing the piece of cloth pa.s.sed the package to Curtis, who enclosed, sealed, and endorsed it, and gave a receipt therefor to Quincy.

"I will put this in my big steel vault," said he, as he went into another room.

Quincy knew that Curtis would accept no fee for such a slight service, so placing a five dollar greenback under a paperweight, he quietly left the office and was out of sight long before Curtis, with the bill in his hand, ran down stairs, bareheaded, and looked up and down the street in search of him.

Five minutes later Quincy reached his aunt's house. A "b.u.t.tons," dressed in blue livery, opened the door, and Quincy was ushered into the long parlor, which ran the full depth of the house, some sixty feet, in which he had pa.s.sed many pleasant evenings. He sent up his card, and in a few moments b.u.t.tons returned and delivered the speech which Mrs. Chessman had taught him and which he had learned by heart: "Mrs. Chessman desires that you will come up at once."

Quincy bounded upstairs, to the evident astonishment of b.u.t.tons, and made his way to the front chamber, which he knew was his aunt's room.

She loved the sunlight, and it was a constant visitor in that room, summer and winter. His aunt did not greet him with a "how do you do?"

and a hand-shake. Instead of such a formal reception, she gave him a hearty hug and kissed him three times, once on the forehead, then on the cheek, and finally on the lips, in which latter osculation Quincy took part.

His aunt led him to an easy-chair, then threw herself upon a lounge opposite to him. She eyed him attentively for a moment.

"Quincy," said she, "you are better looking than ever; you're almost as good looking as Robert was, and he was the handsomest man I ever saw.

How many different country girls have you kissed since you saw me last?"

"I kept the count," said Quincy, "till I went to a surprise party a week ago Monday, and then I lost it."

"Of all the kisses that you have had, whose do you prize the most?"

"Those from my beloved Aunt Ella," replied Quincy.

Aunt Ella smiled and said, "You know how to keep on the right side of an old woman who has got money."

"I didn't think of that until you called my attention to it," said Quincy gravely.

"And I didn't believe it when I said it," added Aunt Ella. A few moments later she rang and ordered a light lunch. When this was over she went to an old secretary with bra.s.s handles, opened a drawer, and took out a cigar box.

"I have a few of Robert's cigars left," she said.

Quincy took one and resumed his seat in the easy-chair.

Aunt Ella opened another drawer in the secretary and took out a pouch of tobacco, a package of rice paper and a box of wax tapers. She put these articles on a small diamond-shaped table and placed the table between Quincy and herself. She handed Quincy the match-box, then deftly rolling a cigarette, she lighted it, leaned back upon the lounge and blew rings of smoke into the air, which she watched until they broke.

"Do you think it's horribly unbecoming for me to smoke?" she asked, looking at Quincy.

"Do you wish me to express my real thoughts?" replied Quincy, "or flatter you because you have money?"

Aunt Ella reddened a little, then said, "A good shot, Quincy, but I deserve it. Go on."

"Well, Aunt Ella," said he, "you are the only woman whom I ever saw smoke who, in my opinion, knew how to do it gracefully."

"I think you are sincere," she rejoined, "and I beg pardon for wounding your feelings as I did before. Give me your hand on it."

They shook hands as two men would have done after settling differences.

Then she said, "Now draw your chair up closer, Quincy, and tell me what you've been doing, and what other people have been doing to you since the day before Christmas, the last time I set eyes on you until to-day.