As Quincy laid his head upon his pillow that night, his mind reverted to his first arrival at Mason's Corner, and the events that had taken place since.
“Alice, five years ago, could your wildest imagination have conjured up such an evening as this?”
“No, Quincy. What has taken place in our lives is truly wonderful. My daily prayer is that these happy days may last.”
CHAPTER II. — A DAY WITH THE GOVERNOR
Governor Sawyer sat in the Executive Chamber at the State House. It was eleven o'clock on the morning following the festivities at Fernborough. Quincy and Alice had staid over night at the Hawkins' House, and Ezekiel in the morning urged them strongly to wait a day and see what great improvements he had made on the old farm which had been so neglected during the last years of Mrs. Putnam's life. But Quincy said his presence in Boston was imperative, that certain matters required his attention, and so the earliest train brought him and his wife to the city. Quincy left the carriage under the arch at the State House.
Alice was driven to the well-known house on Mount Vernon Street, in which Aunt Ella had lived so long, but which had lost much of its cheerfulness, and all of its Bohemianism since that lady had gone to England and become Lady Fernborough.
The Executive Chamber was a large room, and simply furnished with a flat top desk of wine-red mahogany, a bookcase, and a few chairs. A door to the left led to the office of the private secretary; the one to the right to a short and narrow corridor across which was the door of the Council Chamber—a room occupied by that last link between democratic and aristocratic government. It must not be inferred that the members of the Council are aristocrats—far from it, but with the lieutenant-governor they form a “house of lords” which may or may not agree with the policies of the chief magistrate. They can aid him greatly, or they can “clip his wings” and materially curb his freedom of action. The Council is a relic of the old provincial and colonial days, its inherited aristocratic body clothed in democratic garments. As its duties could be performed by the Senate without loss of dignity, and with pecuniary saving, its retention as a part of the body politic is due to the “let well enough alone” policy of the American citizen which has supplanted the militant, progressive democracy of his forefathers.
At the end of the short corridor was the office of the Executive Secretary and his stenographer from which, through an opening hung with portières, one passed into the general reception room where the faithful messenger stood guard, authorized to learn the business of each new-comer.