When they were gathered in the parlor, Alice began her story. Every word said by the dead woman had burned itself deep into her memory, and from the time she entered the sick room until she fell exhausted upon the stairway, after calling loudly for Samanthy and Lindy, not a word was missing from the thrilling narrative. Her audience, including even Quincy, listened intently to the dramatically told story, and they could almost see the frenzied face, the pointed finger, and hear the wild, mocking laugh. For a few moments nothing was said. Finally, Ezekiel broke the silence. "Well, I guess," said he, "that will of her'n will stand, all right. Lindy's got enough of her own; she won't be likely to interfere; and I never he'rd of their havin' any other relatives." Then Uncle Ike spoke up. "I shall go to the funeral, of course, next Friday, and I shall expect to hear the Rev. Mr. Howe stand up in his pulpit and tell us what a good Christian woman Hepsy was; she was so kind and so benevolent, and so regardful of the feelings of others, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference if you went and told him what you've told us, Alice; he'd say just the same thing." "Oh, hush! Uncle Ike," cried Alice, pleadingly; "she was a good woman, excepting on that one point, and you must own that she had some provocation. Let me ask you a question, Uncle Ike. How far should promises made to the dead be kept?" "Just so far," replied Uncle Ike, "as they do not interfere with the just rights of the living. Where is that letter that she wanted you to destroy?" he asked. "Here it is," said Alice, and she took it from the bosom of her dress. "Well," said Uncle Ike, "if I were in your place I'd open that letter, read it, and if it was likely to be of any value to Miss Putnam in finding her parents or relatives, I'd hunt her up and give it to her. Mrs. Putnam owned up that she lied about it, and the whole thing, any way, may be a bluff. Perhaps it's only blank paper, after all." "No," said Alice, "I could never open it or read it. I laid awake all night, thinking about my promise, and I finally made up my mind that I would go to see Lindy this morning, and let her read it; but now she has gone away, and we do not know where to find her. What shall I do with this dreadful thing?" she cried, as she held the letter up in her hand. Quincy felt called upon to speak. "Miss Pettengill," said he, "I think I could find Miss Putnam for you." A slight flush arose to Alice's cheek which did not escape Quincy's notice. He continued, "When I went to Boston, last Saturday, I happened to meet her on the train. She told me then something of her story, and said she was going to leave the house forever, as soon as Mrs. Putnam died. She also told me that if I ever learned anything about her parents I could reach her by advertising in the Personal Column of the New York 'Herald,' addressing 'Linda,' and signing it 'Eastborough.'"