In the evening Maude and Mr. Merry walked to the Willows and back.
“Have you become a matchmaker?” Alice asked her husband.
“What prompts the question?”
“Maude and Mr. Merry have been thrown together very much. You approve of you would prevent their intimacy.”
Quincy laughed. “Maude undoubtedly has a heart, but she doesn't know where it is. Mr. Merry is too sensible a fellow to imagine Maude will fall in love with him, or that he could support her if she did.”
“Poor logic, Quincy. Such marriages take place often, but unless they are followed with parental blessings,—and financial backing,—seldom prove successful.
“Well, the intimacy will end to-morrow morning. He will return to the city, and, probably, never see her again.”
“I've no objection to Mr. Merry. I consider him a very fine young man. I was thinking of Maude's happiness.”
Mr. Merry did return to Boston early the next morning, and, to all appearances, Miss Sawyer looked upon his action as a very natural one, and one in which she was not particularly interested. If she had any secret thoughts concerning him they were driven from her mind by the receipt of a telegram just as they sat down to dinner.
“REDFORD, MASS., July 2, 187—.
“MAUDE SAWYER, Care of Q. A. Sawyer,
“Fernborough, via Cottonton.
“Do please come home at once. Something terrible
has happened. FLORENCE.”