Mandy said, “Oh, he was telling me about a girl that invited all her fellers to come and see her the same evening, and only one of them got there because he greased the log over the mill race, and all the rest of them fell into the water.”

“It was a mane trick,” said Mrs. Crowley.  “Now, when all the boys were after me, for I was a good lookin’ girl once, Pat Crowley, he was me husband, had a fight on hand every night for a fortnight and all on account of me; and they do say there were never so many heads broken in the County of Tipperary on account of one girl since the days of St. Patrick.”

Mandy had paid but little attention to Mrs. Crowley’s speech.  She was too busy watching the travellers.  Mrs. Crowley filled and emptied the mug once more.

The last potation was too much for her equilibrium, and forgetting the step that led from the kitchen to the side room, she lost her balance and fell prone upon the floor.  Her loud cries obliged Mandy to turn from the window, but not until she had seen that the travellers had reached the fence before Deacon Mason’s house, and she knew they were safe for the present.  Mrs. Crowley was lifted to her feet by Mandy.  The old woman declared that she was “kilt intirely,” but Mandy soon learned the cause of the accident, and returning to the kitchen closed the door and continued her morning duties.

Before Ezekiel left the house he had interrupted Quincy’s meditations by knocking on his door, and when admitted told him that he had had a letter from Huldy.

“She is kind of lonesome,” he said, “and wants me to come over to see her.”

“But it is a terrible storm,” said Quincy, looking out of the window.

“Oh,” said Ezekiel, “we’ll be all right!  Hiram is going with me, and we are going to take Swiss along with us.  Now, Mr. Sawyer, I am going to ask you to do me and Alice a favor.  Uncle Ike is upstairs busy reading, and if you will kinder look out for Alice till I get back I shall be greatly obliged.”

Quincy promised and Ezekiel departed.

Quincy thought the fates had favored him in imposing upon him such a pleasant task.  But where was she, and what could he do to amuse her?  Then he thought, “We can sing together as we did yesterday.”

He went down stairs to the parlor, thinking she might be there, but the room was empty.  The fire was low, but the supply of wood was ample, and in a short time the great room was warm and comfortable.  Quincy seated himself at the piano, played a couple of pieces and then sang a couple; he did not think while singing the second song that he had possibly transcended propriety, but when he sang the closing lines of “Alice, Where Art Thou?” it suddenly dawned upon him, and, full of vexation, he arose and walked to the window and looked out upon the howling storm.

Suddenly he heard a sweet voice say, “I am here.”  And then a low laugh reached his ear.