“Our headquarters are at the Hawkins House,” said Quincy. “We have been in town but a few hours and you have the first visit.”
“I am so disappointed you aren't to be with us,” and Huldah's face showed the feeling she had expressed.
“You won't be when I give you our reasons,” Quincy replied. “Mrs. Putnam died in this house, and Alice has such a vivid recollection of her last day on earth—”
“I understand,” said Huldah, “but you must come and see us every day.”
“Where's Ezekiel?” asked Alice.
“Getting in his last load of hay—about sixty tons this year. We only had thirty a year ago.”
“Where's my namesake—Quincy Adams Pettingill?”
“He goes every day to see his grandpa and grandma. Abner will be here with him soon.”
When they reached the piazza, Quincy took a good view of the farm. What a contrast to the condition it had been in, when occupied by the Putnams! Then everything had been neglected—now garden, field, and orchard showed a high state of cultivation, and the house and outbuildings were in good repair and freshly painted. Inside, the careful attention of a competent housekeeper was apparent. Huldah Pettingill was a finer looking woman than Huldah Mason had been, but Quincy had never forgotten how pretty she looked the day she lay in bed with the plaster cast on her broken arm—the result of the accident for which he had taken the blame belonging to another.
They had just sat down in the little parlour when cries of “Mamma” were heard outside and four year old Quincy Adams Pettingill burst into the room followed closely by Abner Stiles.