As Quincy walked down the road towards the Pettengill house his mind was busy with his thoughts.
"To think," said he to himself, "that while I was listening to those stories, to call them by no worse name, at the dinner table, the woman I love was witnessing the death agony and listening to the last words of a dear friend—the woman who's going to leave her a fortune. Now that she knows that she's an heiress, I can speak; she never would have listened to me, knowing that she was poor and I was rich, and I never could have spoken to her with that secret in my mind that Mrs. Putnam told me—that she was going to leave her all her money. I am so glad for Alice's sake, even if she does not love me. She can have the best medical attendance now, and she will be able to give all her time to her literary work, for which she has a decided genius. Won't she be delighted when I tell her that Leopold has placed all her stories and wants her to write a book?"
As he reached the front gate he saw Hiram driving up the road and Alice was with him. As Hiram stopped, Quincy stepped forward and took Alice's hand to assist her in alighting from the buggy.
"Oh, Mr. Sawyer," said she, "have you heard that Mrs. Putnam is dead, and I've had such a terrible day with her?"
Her nervous system had been wrought to its highest tension by what she had undergone during the past six hours. She burst into a flood of tears. Then she tottered and would have fallen if Quincy had not grasped her.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
She took a step forward, but he saw at a glance that she had not sufficient strength to reach her room.
"Open the gate, Hiram. Then give the door-bell a good sharp ring, so that Mandy will come quickly."
He took her in his arms and went up the path, by the astonished Mandy, and upstairs to Alice's room, where he laid her tenderly upon her bed. Turning to Mandy, who had followed close at his heels, he said:
"She is not sick, only nervous and worn out. If you need me, call me."