The converting of Mrs. Hawkins' boarding house into a hotel had been due to two causes: First, the thrift and economy of the lady herself, which had enabled her to put by a good sum in the bank. This she expended in building an ell with extra sleeping rooms, painting the structure cream colour with brown trimmings, and replacing old furniture with that of modern make. This latter, she confessed within a year, was a great mistake, for the new chairs became rickety, the castors would not hold in the bed posts, the bureau drawers became unmanageable, and the rooms, as she expressed it, had a “second-hand” appearance. Then it was that the old mahogany furniture, that had been relegated to the attic, was brought down, furbished up, and restored to its original place. When Quincy entered the room which he had formerly occupied, it did not seem possible that five years had elapsed.
The second cause that had led Mrs. Hawkins to change the small and modest sign—“Rooms and Board”—which had been in the front window for years, for a large swinging sign over the front door—“Hawkins House”—having large gold letters on a blue ground—was the rapid growth of the town. Many new mills had been erected in the neighbouring city of Cottonton. The operatives being unable to obtain suitable accommodations in the city, had come to Fernborough to live, where they could have gardens, fresh air, and playgrounds for their children. Fernborough became to Cottonton what Methuen is to Lawrence. Mrs. Hawkins was democratic, but shirt-sleeves and Prince Albert coats did not look well together, so she had turned what had been her sitting room into a private dining room, and it was here that what she called her “star boarders” were served.
By the time Quincy and Alice had opened their trunks, and distributed the contents in the capacious closet and deep, roomy bureau drawers, the cheerful tones of the dinner bell were heard, and they descended to the private room.
They were its only occupants.
“I thought as how you might be hungry after so long a ride an' so I just hurried Jonas up so you could begin afore the crowd came in. I don't introduce folks now I run a hotel. If they gets acquainted it's their lookout not mine,” and Mrs. Hawkins and Olive brought in the fare from the adjoining kitchen.
Such a meal for hungry people! Lamb broth, roast chicken, yeast biscuit, potatoes, string beans, cucumbers, lettuce, berry pie, blackberries, currants, frosted cake, with tea, coffee, or cocoa.
“What does she charge?” asked Alice in a whisper when they were alone.
“A dollar a day for room and board—three square meals for board.”
After dinner they went into the parlour, where Mrs. Hawkins joined them.
“I jest told Jonas he must help Olive wash the dishes to-day, for I hain't seen ye for so long I'm just dyin' to have a talk with yer, 'cause I s'pose you'll eat and run while yer here, you know so many folks.”
“We haven't much to tell about ourselves,” said Quincy. “What we want to know is how Fernborough folks are getting along.”
“Wall, I s'pos'd you'd like to hear what's goin' on 'round here, an' p'raps I can tell yer some things that other folks mightn't mention, 'cause they'd forgot it, or p'raps wouldn't want to tell. Is that cheer comfortable, Alice? I s'pose I ought to say Misses Guv'nor Sawyer, but it don't come nat'ral, I've known yer so long.”
“I shall always be Alice to my good friend Mrs. Hawkins and her daughter Mandy.”
“Speakin' o' Mandy, you know she's got two little boys—twins, one named after Deacon Mason, and t'other after your husband's friend Obadiah Strout, ther perfesser—and she's got a little girl, nigh on ter two years old named Marthy after me—but they don't call her Marthy—it's allus Mattie. These new-fangled names fuss me all up. If Mary and Marthy were good enough for the Lord's friends, I don't know what he'd think to hear 'em called Mamie and Mattie.
“Speakin' o' names, there's my Jonas, which is same as Jonah I s'pose. Anyway it fits him to a T, for he's a reg'lar Jonah if there ever was one, which our minister, Mr. Gay, you'll meet him at dinner-time to-morrow, says he's doubtful about.
“If a whale swallowed my Jonas it couldn't keep him down, for he's justsatiratedwith tobacco smoke—he says he has to puff it on the hens and chickens to kill the varmints, and I should think it would. Do you smoke, Mr. Sawyer?”
“Cigars, occasionally. I am not an habitual smoker.”
“Well, old Mr. Trask told me as how pipe smoke wouldn't colour lace curtains same as cigars do. Now you jes' smoke all you want to up in your room an' I'll see if it washes out.”
“Alice dislikes smoke, and I never use tobacco in her presence—so your lace curtains won't suffer.”
“Wall, I'm kinder sorry for I wanted to see if Doctor Trask knew what he was talkin' about. When I'm rich I'll have three doctors and two on 'em will have to agree afore I'll take any of their pizen. I jes' remembered that the new minister, Mr. Gay, smokes. I'll put some lace curtains up in his room. You ain't seen him yet. He parts his hair in the middle. The gals are all crazy 'bout him. I like his preachin' putty well, but he don't use near as much brimstone as old Mr. Howe does.”
“Is Mr. Howe's son going to be a clergyman?” Alice asked.
Mrs. Hawkins laughed raucously.
“The Lord save us, I guess not! Why Emmanuel has gone and married a play actress—and isn't she some? She rides a hoss just like a man does, and the way she jumps fences and rides hur-rah-ti-cut down the street would jes' make your hair stand on end. She's away now—I wish you could see her. Of course you're goin' over to the store.”
“Why, certainly,” said Quincy. “I'm a special partner, you know. I shall call on Mrs. Strout. You remember the party at Deacon Mason's, Alice—I danced with Miss Bessie Chisholm—”
Mrs. Hawkins couldn't wait, “Yes, an' she made the perfesser just the kind of wife he needed. She bosses the house... for I heard her tell him one day that if he didn't like her cookin' he might have his meals at the store—an' she goes to dances with her brother Sylvester. Some folks think she's a high-flyer—but I don't blame her seein' as how she has that old blowhard for a husband—which is true, if he is your pardner.”
Alice asked if the Strouts had any children.
“Yes, they've got a little boy, an' he's a chip of the old block. His father brought him here one day and he pulled the cloth of'n that table there and broke a chiny vase that I paid fifty cents for, and his father never said a word about buyin' me another.”
“I hope that Mr. Strout and Hiram get along together well,” said Quincy.
“Hiram's a good feller. Mandy did well when she got him, but she has you to thank for it, Mr. Sawyer. If you hadn't set him up in that grocery store I'm afraid he'd be chorin' now. You remember Mrs. Crowley? She jes' loves them children, but Mandy's afeerd she's going to lose her. She's got a beau—a feller named Dan Sweeney, and his hair is so red you could light a match by techin' it. He works for your brother 'Zeke. He's a good enuf feller, but he and Strout don't hitch horses. You see he was in the same regiment with the Perfesser an' he knows all about him, same as you found out, and Strout don't talk big afore him. The fact is, the Perfesser hain't many friends. There was Abner Stiles. They two used to be as thick as molasses, but since Strout wouldn't give him the job in the grocery that he'd promised him, Abner's gone back on him.”
“Does Uncle Ike board with Mandy now?” Alice knew that he did, but wished Mrs. Hawkins' view of the strange doings of her uncle.
“Yes, he's there—goin' on eighty-two and chipper as a squirrel. He's got religion Mandy says, and so many kinds that she don't know which one he's got the most of.”
Quincy looked at his watch. “Mrs. Hawkins, we're going up to Ezekiel's house. We shall stay to supper, but will get back before you lock up—ten o'clock, isn't it?”
“No such hours in a hotel. We're allus open till twelve, and sometimes all night—when it pays. It's a hard life, but you know what's goin' on an' that's considruble for a woman who's tied up in the house as I am.”
Quincy had intended to drive to his brother-in-law's house, but Alice preferred to walk as the distance was so short. The Hawkins House was on Mason Street. A short walk brought them to Mason Square. In plain view were the Town Hall and the Chessman Free Public Library.
“I always thought it was foolishness to name these streets after me,” said Quincy, as they stood on the corner of Sawyer Street. “There's Adams Street back of the Town Hall and Quincy Street on the other side.”
“I don't agree with you,” said Alice. “I would rather have a street named after me than a monument erected to my memory.”
At Putnam Square they turned to the left into Pettingill Street and soon reached her brother's house. Huldah saw them coming and ran down the path to meet them.
“Why, when did you come, and where are your things? You are surely going to stay with us.”
“Our headquarters are at the Hawkins House,” said Quincy. “We have been in town but a few hours and you have the first visit.”
“I am so disappointed you aren't to be with us,” and Huldah's face showed the feeling she had expressed.
“You won't be when I give you our reasons,” Quincy replied. “Mrs. Putnam died in this house, and Alice has such a vivid recollection of her last day on earth—”
“I understand,” said Huldah, “but you must come and see us every day.”
“Where's Ezekiel?” asked Alice.
“Getting in his last load of hay—about sixty tons this year. We only had thirty a year ago.”
“Where's my namesake—Quincy Adams Pettingill?”
“He goes every day to see his grandpa and grandma. Abner will be here with him soon.”
When they reached the piazza, Quincy took a good view of the farm. What a contrast to the condition it had been in, when occupied by the Putnams! Then everything had been neglected—now garden, field, and orchard showed a high state of cultivation, and the house and outbuildings were in good repair and freshly painted. Inside, the careful attention of a competent housekeeper was apparent. Huldah Pettingill was a finer looking woman than Huldah Mason had been, but Quincy had never forgotten how pretty she looked the day she lay in bed with the plaster cast on her broken arm—the result of the accident for which he had taken the blame belonging to another.
They had just sat down in the little parlour when cries of “Mamma” were heard outside and four year old Quincy Adams Pettingill burst into the room followed closely by Abner Stiles.
“He don't mind me no more'n a woodchuck would,” said Abner—then his eyes fell on Quincy, who rose to greet him.
“Why, if it ain't”—but words failed him as Quincy gave his hand a hearty grasp.
“This is the first time I ever shook hands with a guv'nor,” said Abner. “I didn't know you was going to shake hands all round the night of the show an' I went home.” He looked at his right hand, rubbed it softly with his left, and then remarked: “I sha'n't wash that hand for a couple o' days if I can help it.”
His hearers laughed, for his words were accentuated by the old-time grin that had pleased Obadiah Strout on some occasions, but on others had raised his ire to an explosive point.
“Are father and mother at home?” asked Huldah.
“Yes, both on 'em. Susie Barker's been helpin' her to-day, and the Dekin's wife thinks o' keepin' her reg'lar.”
“I'll have them come to supper,” said Huldah. “Abner, hitch up the black mare into the low phaeton and bring them up here. Don't tell them who's here, but tell them that I say they must come.”
“Well, I declare!” All looked up and saw Ezekiel standing in the doorway. He wore overalls and thick boots, his sleeves were rolled up, showing his brawny arms with muscles like whip-cords. His face was brown, but his beard was neatly trimmed, and his eyes bright. He was a picture of robust, healthy manhood, and showed what he was,—a hard-working, independent New England farmer. Alice sprang into his arms and received a resounding smack. One hand grasped Quincy's while the other encircled his dainty wife's waist, and he drew her towards him.
“You have a fine farm,” said Quincy.
“About as good as they make them,” 'Zeke replied. “I've a good market for all I can raise. Strout and Maxwell buy a great deal of garden truck, and I sell considerable to Mrs. Hawkins direct. What I have left we eat or give away.”
Alice had taken young Quincy on her lap. He became communicative. “I've got a grandpa and grandma and Uncle Abner.”
“Abner isn't your uncle,” said Alice. “I'm your Aunt Alice, and that is your Uncle Quincy.”
Ezekiel laughed. “You can't convince him but that Abner's his uncle. Abner comes after him every afternoon and takes him down to the Deacon's house and that gives Huldy a good chance to do my mending.”
The sound of carriage wheels indicated new arrivals, and Huldah went to the door to meet her father and mother.
“Have you got callers?” asked Mrs. Mason. “I don't think I'll go in. I didn't dress up, but came just as I was.”
“And I never saw you looking better,” said Quincy, stepping into the entry to meet them.
“I'm glad to see you again, Mr. Sawyer,” and the Deacon's grasp was a firm one. “I didn't get up to the Town Hall that night, for I didn't feel first-rate and Sophia didn't want to go alone, but Abner told me what you did and said, and I reckon added a little on his own account.”
Abner appeared in the doorway. “I've put up the mare, Mr. Pettingill. Want me for anything more, Dekin?”
“You can go home and help Susie,” said Mrs. Mason.
When Abner had gone, the Deacon chuckled and said, “Nothing could please Abner better than to take supper with Susie and pass the evening in her company. He's more'n forty and she's only twenty, but such hitch-ups ain't uncommon nowadays.”
“That is what they call a December and May marriage,” remarked Alice.
“Not quite as bad as that,” said the Deacon. “I should say about October and March.”
It was a jolly company that sat down to a well-filled table that evening. Quincy's first coming to town, and his exciting experiences during his four months' residence at Mason's Corner, formed the principal topics of conversation, and Alice appreciated more fully than ever her husband's persistency, which had shown itself as strongly in doing good to others as it had in manifesting love for herself.
When they reached the Hawkins House Mrs. Hawkins was on the watch for them.
“There's a young man here to see you, Mr. Sawyer. He came on the train to Cottonton and my man Andrew brought him over. I told him you wouldn't be home till late and I sent him off to bed. Was that all right?”
“I can tell better,” said Quincy, “when I find out who he is and what he wants.”
“He said his name was Gerry or Ferry or something like that. He's kind of bashful, I 'magine.”
“It's Merry,” Quincy exclaimed. “Something has turned up at the State House, but it will keep till morning.”
As they were ascending the stairs, Mrs. Hawkins called out, “Oh, Mr. Sawyer, there was a letter came for you. It's up in your room.”
It was from Maude. “Let us see what that volatile sister of mine has to say. Something very important or she wouldn't write.” As he opened the note sheet, he turned to his wife. “Shall I read it aloud?”
“I should love to hear it.”
Quincy read:
* * * * * * *
“MY ABSENT RELATIVE: You will be delighted to hear that I have found Captain Hornaby's missing coat and wallet. I was out in the new boat when I saw something on the bottom of the pond. You know the water is as clear as glass. It wasn't very deep and I fished the coat up with an oar. I gave it to father and he examined the wallet with apparently great interest. Perhaps he thought there was some money in it, but there wasn't. There were some visiting cards bearing the name Col. Arthur Spencer, but nary a red. Father is trying to find out who the Colonel is. I think father loaned the Captain some money—don't you? Now that we have a real live boat, no more slippery canoes for me. I hope you and Alice are having a fine time—of course you will on your old stamping ground.
“I don't find any fault, because I'm so young and of so little importance, but it seems funny that nobody ever invited me to visit Fernborough. Please don't consider this a bid for an invite, for I won't come. Your neglected sister,
* * * * * * *
“Is it possible?” cried Alice, “that Maude has never been here?”
“It is a lamentable fact.”
“She won't come now.”
“I'll fetch her,—hand-cuffed, if necessary.”
Quincy was up early to learn Merry's errand. A request had come from the Governor of Colorado for the extradition of a Pole named Ivan Wolaski, who was accused of being concerned in a dynamite explosion in a Colorado mine.
“Have you looked into the case, Harry?”
“Somewhat. I think it is part of a political feud.”
Quincy made preparation for an immediate departure.
“Mrs. Hawkins, I must go to Boston at once with Mr. Merry. Will you have Andrew get a team ready for me? I will leave it at the Eagle Hotel. I know the way home.”
“You ought to,” said she. “You've druv it times enough.”
“What will you do with yourself all day, Alice? I must go to the State House on business, but I'll be back by six o'clock.”
“If I were home I'd have my horse saddled and have a ride out to the Arboretum or Chestnut Hill.”
“They've no saddle horses here, unfortunately. I'll tell you what to do. After dinner go down to Mandy Maxwell's and see her and the children, and have a talk with Uncle Ike. I'll be there in time for supper, tell Mandy.”
When Quincy went down stairs he found that Mrs. Hawkins had gone out to the stable to give Andrew directions about the team.
Quincy said in a low tone: “Mrs. Hawkins, have you some spare stalls in your stable that I can use while here?”
“You can have the old barn all to yourself. It's a leetle further from the house, but it's in first-rate order.”
As they drove towards Eastborough Centre, Quincy pointed out the objects of interest to Mr. Merry, who thought Fernborough a beautiful town.
“Come down next Saturday afternoon, Harry, and stay over Sunday. Bring down any important letters. Perhaps my sister Maude will come back with me.”
Mr. Merry accepted the invitation with polite outward thanks, but with an inward sense of intense gratification. Love is blind. If he had reflected, he would have come to the conclusion that the daughter of the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer, the millionaire, was not for him, an unfledged lawyer with a mother to support.
When they reached Eastborough Centre, Quincy found he was too late for the train. He had nearly an hour at his disposal. His first visit was to the Eagle Hotel, where he put up the horse. Mr. Parsons, the proprietor, was greatly pleased to meet him.
“You haven't forgotten how we railroaded Strout out of office, have you?”
“That was long ago,” said Quincy. “Strout and I are good friends now. He's one of my partners in the Fernborough store.'
“So I've been told.”
Quincy took Mr. Parsons aside and had an animated conversation with him.
“I can get you just what you want, Guv'nor. Kind and gentle but some go in them when needed.”
“Send them to the Hawkins House and don't forget the saddles.”
They crossed the square to the telegraph office, where Quincy sent this message.
“Miss MAUDE SAWYER,
“Wideview, Redford, Mass.
“Meet me at State House by two o'clock. Leave your trunk at station. Something important.
As they were leaving the office Quincy met Tobias Smith, father of Abbott and Ellis Smith, and Wallace Stackpole.
“Glad to see you, Guv'nor,” said 'Bias. “You remember Mr. Stackpole that we gave Strout's job of tax-collector to—he's held it ever since. We're mighty glad Strout lives in Fernborough. We don't have circuses at town meetings now he's gone.”
Quincy's next visit was to the office of theFernborough Gazette, which was published in Eastborough, as the editor and proprietor, Mr. Sylvester Chisholm, Mr. Strout's brother-in-law, could not get printers in Fernborough, and, being an Eastborough-born boy, his paper had a large circulation in that town and in Westvale, its principal village.
Quincy obtained some copies of the paper containing his speech at the Town Hall. On looking it over he was astonished to find it reportedverbatim.
“How did you manage it, Mr. Chisholm? My address was extemporaneous.”
Sylvester smiled. “Well, the fact is, Mr. Sawyer, while I was working on theEastborough 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 constitutionality.”
“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 hereon 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 Saturday 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.”
Alice had a delightful day at Mandy Maxwell's. The twins, Abraham Mason and Obadiah Strout, sturdy 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 substitutes, 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 God 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 thatmandeserves 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 substituted 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.”
To Alice, the case seemed almost hopeless. Here was a man who, owning his past life had been self-reliant, independent, impatient as regarded advice and control—was now weaker than a child, for, in youth, Faith is triumphant.
“You must have a talk with Quincy, Uncle. Perhaps he can help you.” She went down stairs with a sinking heart. She loved her uncle, but love, powerful as it is, cannot always cast out unbelief.
“Where can your husband be, Alice?” asked Mandy. “Half-past six, and supper's ready. I remember how I used to call out 'supper's ready' when you and he were in the parlour singing. I hope you'll sing some to-night.”
Mrs. Crowley rushed into the dining room. “He's coming, but he's got a woman with him.”
“Who can she be?” thought Alice as they followed Mrs. Crowley to the front door.
“Hello, Alice,” cried Maude. “I've brought him back with me.”
Quincy told Ambrose, Mandy's boy-of-all-work, to drive the team to the Hawkins' House and tell Mrs. Hawkins that he wished a room that night for his sister. Ambrose's hand clutched the half-dollar tightly as he repeated the message to Quincy's satisfaction. Mrs. Crowley gazed admiringly at the Governor until he disappeared from view. Alone, in the kitchen, she gave vent to her feelings.
“The foine gintleman that he is. 'How do you do, Mrs. Crowley.' sez he, and he shakes me hand as jintly as if I was a born lady. And the pretty sister that he has, an' the beautiful wife. An' he's the President of the State, an' sez he, 'Mrs. Crowley, how do you do, an' it's delighted I am to see you again.'”
Mrs. Crowley wiped her eyes with her apron and resumed her household duties, occasionally repeating, “'How do you do, Mrs. Crowley.' When Dan comes to-night I'll tell him what the Governor said.”
Hiram soon joined the party, it being his night off. As of old, he stammered, or stuttered, when excited, and the sight of Quincy and Alice was enough to entirely disorganize his speaking apparatus.
“Ain't this jolly?” said he. “Just like old times. I heerd you was at Miss Hawkinses, but I didn't think as how you'd git round here so quick. But we're mighty glad to see 'em, ain't we, Mandy? I hope you're all as hungry as I am.” He went to the kitchen door and called, “Mrs. Crowley, we're waiting for the supper.”
“How I wish Uncle Ike could be with us,” said Alice.
“Why can't you call him?” asked Quincy.
“He's too weak in his legs to come down,” said Mandy.
“I'll fetch him,” and Quincy bounded up stairs, while Mandy got a place ready for him.
Quincy soon returned with Uncle Ike in his arms and placed him in a big arm-chair at the head of the table.
Alice looked up and smiled at her husband.
“Now it is much more like old times,” she said, softly.
Maude, who had been an interested listener and spectator, finally exclaimed, “I'm not surprised that you stayed down here four months, Quincy, but we used to wonder, until we saw Alice, what the great attraction was.”
Maude's explosive remark caused a general laugh in which Uncle Ike joined. Alice, feeling that all eyes were fixed upon her, blushed prettily, “As my husband's residence here brought good to others as well as to myself, I am glad that a poor, blind girl, such as I was, proved an attraction strong enough to keep him here.”
She stopped, somewhat abashed at making so long a speech, which Maude might think indicated that she was offended at her sister-in-law's reference to herself.
“Bravo, Alice,” cried Uncle Ike, “so say we all of us.”
After supper all adjourned to the parlour. Quincy offered to carry Uncle Ike.
“No, young man. I'm all right on an even floor. It's these up and down stairs that tire my loose joints”—and he made his way, without assistance, to an easy chair in a farther corner. Quincy looked about the room. Five years had made little change. The old square piano was in its accustomed place, as well as the music stand. He looked over the pieces—the same ones that he and Alice had sung together years ago.
“Let's have some music,” said Hiram. “We haven't heard any singers, except Dan, since you folks went away. Guess that pianner's out of tune by this time.”
It certainly was, but their hearts were in tune, and it mattered little if some of the keys refused to move, or the sounds emitted were more discordant than melodious.
“Is this Dan a good singer?” asked Quincy.
“Fine!” exclaimed Hiram. “He's great on Irish songs.”
“They are always humourous or pathetic,” remarked Alice. “Some of them remind me of a person trying to laugh with a heart full of sorrow, and their love songs are so sweet.”
“Can't we have him in?” asked Maude.
“I'll go and see if he's come,” said Mandy. “He often drops in and helps Mrs. Crowley clear up after supper.”
Maude laughed. “A sure sign he's in love. I hope I'll get such a helpful husband.”
“Your life will be on different lines,” remarked Uncle Ike. “You will not be obliged to do your own housework.”
“I don't know about that. I've loafed all my life and I'd really like to know what work is.”
Mandy came back with smiling face. “Yes, he's there, and they're putting the dishes in the closet. He's coming in, and, of course, Mrs. Crowley will come too.”
“While we are waiting, play something, Maude,” said Quincy.
“I only took three quarters,” she said roguishly, as she seated herself and dashed off “Waves of Ocean” in strident style.
“I always liked that,” said Hiram.
“So do I, with my bathing-dress on,” and Maude acknowledged the applause that greeted her efforts with a low bow.
The door was opened, and Mrs. Crowley entered followed by Mr. Daniel Sweeney. Mrs. Crowley with her neat calico dress and white apron, did not look her forty-five years, and Mr. Sweeney, although five years her senior, was a young appearing man.
“I haven't the music with me,” said Mr. Sweeney to Maude, who offered to play the accompaniment.
“Give me the key—I guess I can vamp it.”
Mr. Sweeney struck a note.
“What's the title?” asked Maude.
“Widow Mahan's Pig.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Maude. “It's one of my favourites. I often sing it to my sister Florence. She just adores it.”
“Why, Maude,” cried Alice, “how can you tell such stories?” But Quincy was laughing quietly. But few people understood Maude as he did.
Mr. Sweeney had a fine baritone voice; he sang with great expression, and, what is particularly desirable in a comic song, the words could be heard and understood.
Young Widow Mahan had an iligant pig,In the garden it loved for to wallow and dig;On potatoes it lived, and on fresh buttermilk,And its back was as smooth as fine satin or silk.Now Peter McCarthy, a graceless young scamp,Who niver would work, such a lazy young tramp,He laid eye on the pig, as he passed by one day,And the thafe of the world, he stole it away!ChorusAn iligant pig in every way,Young Widow Mahan used often to say:“Faith, when it's full grown, I'll go to the fair,A mighty foine price I'll get for it there.”
As Mr. Sweeney started to repeat the four lines of the chorus, a soprano voice rose above his own, and, as the last note died away, Maude came in for her share of the applause. Mrs. Crowley was delighted, and showed her appreciation by laughing until she cried.
II. — He drove the poor piggy to Ballyporeen,And the price of it soon he did spend in poteen,He got into a fight and was cracked on the head,Then to jail he was carried and taken for dead.The constable then for the Father did send,For he thought that McCarthy was quite near his end;He confessed to the priest, did this penitent youth,About the pig stealing he told the whole truth.
Maude improvised a short symphony before the third and last stanza.