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.

Turning, he saw Alice standing in the middle of the room, while Mandy's
retreating figure showed who had been her escort. Her brother Ezekiel
had rigged a bell wire from her room to the kitchen, so that she could
call Mandy when she needed her assistance.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Pettengill," said Quincy, advancing towards
her. "The song has always been a favorite of mine, but I never thought
of its personal application until I reached the closing words. I trust
you do not think I was so presuming as to--"

Alice smiled and said, "The song is also a favorite one of mine, Mr.
Sawyer, and you sang it beautifully. No apologies are needed, for the
fact is I was just saying to myself, 'Mr. Sawyer, where are you?' for
'Zekiel told me that he was going to speak to you and ask you to help me
drive away those lonesome feelings that always come to me on a day like
this. I cannot see the storm, but I can hear it and feel it."

As Quincy advanced towards her he saw she held several sheets of paper
in her hand.

"I am at your service," said he. "I am only afraid that your
requirements will exceed my ability."

"Very prettily spoken," said Alice, as Quincy led her to a seat by the
fire, and took one himself. "I am going to confess to you," said she,
"one of my criminal acts. I am going to ask you to sit as judge and mete
out what you consider a suitable punishment for my offence."

"What crime have you committed?" asked Quincy gravely.

Alice laughed, shook the papers she held in her hand, and said, "I have
written poetry."

"The crime is a great one," said Quincy. "But if the poetry be good it
may serve to mitigate your sentence. Are those