“My dear May:—­How are you getting along in that dismal country town, and how are your poor eyes?  I know you can’t write to me, but I want you to know that I have not forgotten you.  Every time I see my sister, Stella, she waves your photograph before my eyes.  You know you promised me one before you were sick.  Just send it to me, and it will be just as nice as a good, long letter.  As somebody else will probably read this to you, in order to keep them from committing a robbery I send you only one kiss.

From your loving,
Emma Farnum.”

“Are you smiling, Mr. Sawyer?” asked Alice.

“Not at all,” he answered.  “I am looking grieved because Miss Farnum has such a poor opinion of me.”

Alice laughed merrily.  “Emma is a very bright, pretty girl,” said Alice.  “She boarded at the same house that I did.  Her sister Stella is married to a Mr. Dwight.  I will answer her letter as she suggests by sending her the promised photograph.  On the bureau in my room, Mr. Sawyer, you will find an envelope containing six photographs.  I had them taken about a month before I was sick.  Underneath you will find some heavy envelopes that the photographer gave me to mail them in.”

Quincy went upstairs three steps at a time.  He found the package, and impelled by an inexplicable curiosity he counted the pictures and found there were seven.  “She said six,” he thought to himself.  “I am positive she said there were only six.”  He took one of the pictures and put it in one of the mailing envelopes.  He took another picture, and after giving it a long, loving look he placed it in the inside pocket of his coat, and with a guilty flush upon his face he fled from the room.

Just as he reached the open parlor door a second thought, which is said to be the best, came to him, and he was about turning to go upstairs and replace the picture when Alice’s acute ear heard him and she asked, “Did you find them?”

Quincy, seeing that retreat was now impossible, said, “Yes,” and resumed his seat beside her.

“Did you find six?” said Alice.

“There are five upstairs in the envelope and one here ready to address,” replied Quincy.

“Her address,” continued Alice, “is Miss Emma Farnum, care Cotton & Co., Real Estate Brokers, Tremont Row.”

Quincy went to the table, wrote the address as directed, and tied the envelope with the string attached.

“I am afraid the other letter cannot be so easily answered,” said Alice.  “Look at the signature, please, and see if it is not from Bessie White.”

“It is signed Bessie,” said Quincy.

“I thought so,” exclaimed Alice.  “She works for the same firm that I did.”

Quincy read the following: 

“My Dear May:—­I know that you will be glad to learn what is going on at the great dry goods house of Borden, Waitt, & Fisher.  Business is good, and we girls are all tired out when night comes and have to go to a party or the theatre to get rested.  Mr. Ringgold, the head bookkeeper, is disconsolate over your absence, and asks done or more of us every morning if we have heard from Miss Pettengill.  Then, every afternoon, he says, ’Did I ask you this morning how Miss Pettengill was getting along?’ Of course it is this devotion to the interest of the firm that leads him to ask these questions.”