The question remained unsettled that day, but the next morning Aunt Ella burst into Alice's room with a loud cry-- “Eureka! I have it! Why didn't we think of it before?” “You say you have it,” said Alice, “but what is it? That pattern that you were looking for?” “No, a happy home for this youngster,” as she patted his curly head lovingly. “Now, can't you guess?” Alice shook her head. “Well, I must say, you are not a very thoughtful _sister_,” and the last word was strongly emphasized. “What, do you mean--'Zekiel?” cried Alice. “The very man, and Fernborough is the place. You must write to your brother at once.” As Alice was writing the thought came to her, “Perhaps if my boy goes to Fernborough, some day I may go to see him, and the old town, and the people there, once more.” In due time a reply came from 'Zekiel. It was short, but to the point. “Huldy will be delighted to have him. Our boy Quincy is nearly fourteen years old now and he'll take good care of his little cousin. I'll try and be a father to him until you come for him.” The important question, “How was the boy to reach America?” was answered by one of those happy coincidences which happen often in books and occasionally in real life, such as is being depicted. The Rev. Mr. Gay, who had been a constant visitor to Uncle Ike during his last days, paid a visit to Fernborough Hall on his return from a trip to the Holy Land. “Heaven must have sent you,” said Alice, and she told him of her desire to have her boy go to Fernborough. Mr. Gay consented to take charge of young Quincy. In a few days the parting came. The mother's heart was sorely tried. But mother-love is unselfish, and Alice's only consolation came from the conviction that her temporary loss was for her son's permanent good. Her nights were sleepless, filled with thoughts of accidents, and storms and collisions at sea, until a welcome letter dispelled her imaginings, for it brought the intelligence that young Quincy was safe with his father's friends. CHAPTER XVII HIS FATHER'S FRIENDS It is the good fortune of some fatherless or motherless children to be adopted into good families where the natural love and care that have been denied them are supplied, as it were, by proxy. With young Quincy it was so, only much more so. It fell to his lot to be adopted by an entire town. Its residents had been, with few exceptions, his father's friends. The sad story of his father's loss at sea was known to all, and the town's heart warmed towards him; the town's arms were open to embrace him, and care for him.