For hours, it seemed ages to Alice, she remained by the bedside of the dying woman, seeing nothing, but listening intently, and hoping that she would revive, hear her words, and release her from that horrid oath.

Suddenly, Alice started; the poor old wrinkled, wasted hand that she held in hers, was cold—­so cold—­she leaned over and put her ear above the old woman’s lips.  There was no sound of breathing.  She pulled down the bed-clothes and placed her hand upon her heart.  It was still.  Mrs. Putnam had gone to meet the boy she had loved and lost.

Feeling her way along the wall, she reached the door.  Flinging it wide open, she cried, “Samantha!  Lindy!”

Samanthy came to the foot of the stairs.

“What is it, Miss Pettengill?” asked she.

“She’s dead,” said Alice, and she sank down upon the stairway.

Samanthy ran quickly upstairs.  She went first to Miss Lindy’s room and told her that all was over; then she came back, went into Mrs. Putnam’s room, pulled down the curtains, went to the bed and laid the sheet over Mrs. Putnam’s face.  She looked at the fire to see that it was safe, came out and closed the door.  Then she helped Alice down stairs, led her into the parlor and seated her in an easy-chair.

“I’ll bring you a nice cup of hot tea,” said she; “I’ve just made some for dinner.”

Lindy came down stairs and went to the front door.  Hiram was there, smoking a cigar, and beating his arms to keep warm.  He had been waiting outside for a couple of hours, and he was nearly frozen.

“Mr. Maxwell,” said Lindy; and Hiram came up the steps.  “Mrs. Putnam is dead,” said she.  “She expired just a few moments ago, about one o’clock,” she continued, looking at her watch.  “I want you to go right down to Mrs. Hawkins’s and bring Betsy Green back to stay with her sister; then tell Mr. Stiles to come up at once with the buggy and a wagon to carry my trunks to the station.  Tell Mr. Stiles I am going to Boston on the next train.  When you come back you can take Miss Pettengill home.  She will be through her lunch by the time you get back.  After you’ve taken her home, I want you to go and get Mrs. Pinkham, the nurse; tell her Mrs. Putnam, is dead, and that I want her to come and lay her out.  Then drive over to Montrose and tell Mr. Tilton, the undertaker, that I want him to make all the arrangements for the funeral And take this for your trouble,” said she, as she passed him a five dollar bill.

“Oh, that’s too much,” cried Hiram, drawing back.

“Take it,” said Lindy, with a smile; “I have plenty more—­more than I need—­more than I know what to do with.”

As Hiram drove off he said to himself, “Lucky girl; she’s mighty putty, too.  I wonder that city feller didn’t shine up to her.  I s’pose she’s comin’ back to the funeral.”

As Lindy turned to go upstairs she looked into the parlor, and saw Alice sitting with her head bowed upon her hand.  Her first impulse was to go in and try to justify herself in the eyes of this girl, with whom she knew that Mr. Sawyer was in love; but no, she was but a waif, with no name, no birthright, no heritage; that woman had cut her off from her people.  Truly, she had avenged her fancied wrongs.