“All right,” rejoined Quincy, “I should have no feeling if you took the money, but I can appreciate your sentiments, and will have no feeling because you do not take it.  One of these days I may be able to do as great a service for you, as you are willing to do for me between now and next Monday.”

They shook hands and parted, and Quincy made his way to the Eagle Hotel, of which Mr. Seth Parsons was the proprietor.  Mr. Parsons greeted him heartily and invited him into his private room.  Here Quincy told the arrangement that he had made with young Chisholm, and gave him the password.

“Don’t stint them,” said Quincy, “let them have a good time; but don’t let anybody know who pays for it.  I shall be down on the half-past seven express, Monday night, and I would like to have a nice little dinner for eight or nine people ready in your private dining-room at eight o’clock.  Mr. Tobias Smith knows who my guests are to be, and if I am delayed from any cause, he will tell you who are entitled to go in and eat the dinner.”

The next train to Boston was due in ten minutes, and shaking hands with the hotel proprietor, he made his way quickly to the station.  As he reached the platform he noticed that Abner Stiles was just driving away; the thought flashed through his mind that somebody from Mason’s Corner was going to the city; but that was no uncommon event, and the thought passed from him.

He entered the car, and, to his surprise, found that it was filled; every seat in sight was taken.  He walked forward and espied a seat near the farther end of the car.  He noticed that a lady sat near the window; when he reached it he raised his hat, and leaning forward, said politely, “Is this seat taken?”

“No, sir,” replied a pleasant, but somewhat sad voice, and he sank into the seat without further thought as to its other occupant.

When they reached the first station beyond Eastborough Centre he glanced out of the window, and as he did so, noticed that his companion was Miss Lindy Putnam.

“Why, Miss Putnam,” cried he, turning towards her, “how could I be so ungallant as not to recognize you?”

“Well,” replied Lindy, “perhaps it’s just as well that you didn’t; my thoughts were not very pleasant, and I should not have been a very entertaining companion.”

“More trouble at home?” he inquired in a low voice.

“Yes,” answered Lindy, in a choked voice, “since Mr. Putnam died it has been worse than ever.  While he lived she had him to talk to; but now she insists on talking to me, and sends for me several times a day, ostensibly to do something for her, but really simply to get me in the room so she can talk over the old, old story, and say spiteful and hateful things to me.  May Heaven pardon me for saying so, Mr. Sawyer, but I am thankful that it’s nearly at an end.”

“Why, what do you mean,” asked Quincy, “is she worse?”