“Well,” said Quincy in an undertone, “rebellious young woman, do as you will, and bear the consequences. I will turn the team around so that you won’t have any trouble, and Hiram can take it down to Mr. Pettengill’s and deliver my message. Good-by,” and he shook hands with her.
“We will get out here, Miss Miller,” said he, and he helped the nurse to alight. Grasping the heavy valise, he started at a brisk pace for the station, and Miss Miller was obliged to run in order to keep up with him. They boarded the train and took their seats. The train was ahead of time and waited for a few minutes at the station.
Quincy did not know as he sped towards Boston on his sad errand that Miss Lindy Putnam was in the second car behind him, bound to the same place. Nor did he know for several days that Abner Stiles, who drove her to the station, had seen Huldy driving towards Mason’s Corner. Nor did he know that Strout had told Abner of his seeing Huldy and Sawyer together. Nor did he know that Abner whipped up his horse in a vain attempt to overtake Huldy on her return to Mason’s Corner. She, too, had whipped up her horse and had reached home, and was in the house, calling for Hiram, just as Abner turned into the square by Hill’s grocery.
Quincy made the necessary purchases, and with the city, undertaker returned to Eastborough Centre by the noon train. The body was placed in a leaden casket and Quincy and the undertaker with their sad burden returned to Boston by the five o’clock express.
His mother and sisters were still in New York, but he passed the evening with his father, who approved of all he had done and what he proposed doing.
Quincy went to Amesbury and purchased a small lot in the cemetery. After a day’s search he discovered the place of burial of his uncle’s wife and children. They were disinterred, and the four bodies were placed in the little lot.
On his return to Boston he made arrangements for two plain marble stones for his uncle and aunt, and two smaller ones for his little cousins, whom he had never seen.
The directions that he left with the monument maker and the undertaker at Amesbury were followed to the letter. If one should pass by that little lot he would see on one marble slab these words:
Eunice Raymond Sawyer,
Aged 29 yrs., 6 mos.
On the little slab at her feet the simple words:
Mary, Aged 4 yrs., 2 mos.
At its side another little stone bearing only these words:
Ray, Aged 6 yrs., 8 mos.
Adhering strictly to his uncle’s request, the other large stone bore no name, but on it were engraved these words:
In Heaven we Know our Own.
A wet day.
When Quincy alighted from the train at Eastborough Centre, after attending his uncle’s funeral, he found the rain descending in torrents. He hired a closed carriage and was driven to Mason’s Corner, arriving there about ten o’clock. He had taken his breakfast in Boston.