f that most
beautiful of God's creations, a lovely woman.

Monday morning Quincy made another trip to Boston. He had obtained the
measurements for a large sign, upon which, on a blue ground, the words
"Strout & Maxwell" were to appear in large gold letters. He paid another
visit to the carriage factory, and ordered two leather covered wagon
tops, to be used in stormy weather, and picked out two sets of harness
resplendent with brass buckles and bosses and having "S. & M." in brass
letters on the blinders.

He reached Aunt Ella's in time for lunch. He told her of the approaching
wedding of Ezekiel and Huldy; then, leaning over, he whispered something
in her ear, which made her face beam with delight.

"What a joke it will be," cried she, "and how the country folks will
enjoy it. Can't I come down to the wedding, Quincy, and bring my landau,
my double span of cream-colored horses, and my driver and footman in the
Chessman livery? I'll take you and your lady love to the church."

"Why, certainly," said Quincy. "I'll ask Miss Mason to send you an
invitation."

"Let me do something to help," begged the impetuous but good-hearted
Aunt Ella. "Bring the girls up some morning early. We will go shopping,
then we'll lunch here. We will have to go without our wine and cigars
that day, you know, and then we'll go to the modiste's and the
milliner's in the afternoon. We'll make a day of it, young man."

Quincy leaned back in his easy-chair and blew a ring of blue smoke from
one of Uncle Robert's cigars.

"Excuse me, Aunt Ella," said he, "but do you ever intend to get married
again?"

"Quincy Adams Sawyer!" cried Aunt Ella, with an astonished look on her
face, "are you joking?"

"Certainly not," replied Quincy. "My question was intended to be a
serious and respectful inquiry. You are only forty, fine looking, well
educated, well connected and wealthy. Why should you not?"

"I will answer you seriously then, Quincy. I could not marry again. Ten
years' life with Robert Chessman was a greater pleasure than a lifetime
with an ordinary man. I was twenty-five when I married him; we lived
together ten years; he has been dead for five. How often I have wished
that Robert had lived to enjoy his fortune with me.

"But he was satisfied," she continued. "'Better be a success at the
end,' he used to say, 'than be a success in middle life and fall from
your greatness. Look at Wolsey, look at Richelieu, look at Napoleon
Bonaparte.' He