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[Illustration: "Good-bye, Baltie, dear"]


THREE LITTLE WOMEN, A STORY FOR GIRLS

by

GABRIELLE E. JACKSON

1913



CONTENTS
    CHAPTER I--The Carruths
    CHAPTER II--"Baltie"
    CHAPTER III--The Spirit of Mad Anthony
    CHAPTER IV--Baltie is Rescued
    CHAPTER V--A New Member of the Family
    CHAPTER VI--Blue Monday
    CHAPTER VII--Mammy Generalissimo
    CHAPTER VIII--Chemical Experiments
    CHAPTER IX--Spontaneous Combustion
    CHAPTER X--Readjustment
    CHAPTER XI--First Ventures
    CHAPTER XII--Another Shoulder is Added
    CHAPTER XIII--The Battle of Town and Gown
    CHAPTER XIV--The Candy Enterprise Grows
    CHAPTER XV--The Reckoning
    CHAPTER XVI--United We Stand, Divided We Fall
    CHAPTER XVII--A Family Council
    CHAPTER XVIII--"Save Me From My Friends"
    CHAPTER XIX--"An Auction Extraordinary"
    CHAPTER XX--Constance B.'s Venture
    CHAPTER XXI--Constance B.'s Candies
    CHAPTER XXII--First Steps
    CHAPTER XXIII--Opening Day
    CHAPTER XXIV--One Month Later




CHAPTER I

The Carruths


The afternoon was a wild one. All day driving sheets of rain had swept
along the streets of Riveredge, hurled against windowpanes by fierce
gusts of wind, or dashed in miniature rivers across piazzas. At noon
it seemed as though the wind meant to change to the westward and the
clouds break, but the promise of better weather had failed, and
although the rain now fell only fitfully in drenching showers, and one
could "run between the drops" the wind still blustered and fumed,
tossing the wayfarers about, and tearing from the trees what foliage
the rain had spared, to hurl it to the ground in sodden masses. It was
more like a late November than a late September day, and had a
depressing effect upon everybody.

"I want to go out; I want to go out; I want to go out, _out_, OUT!"
cried little Jean Carruth, pressing her face against the window-pane
until from the outside her nose appeared like a bit of white paper
stuck fast to the glass.

"If you do you'll get wet, _wet_, WET, as sop, _sop_, SOP, and then
mother'll ask what _we_ were about to let you," said a laughing voice
from the farther side of the room, where Constance, her sister, nearly
five years her senior, was busily engaged in trimming a hat, holding
it from her to get the effect of a fascinating bow she had just pinned
upon one side.

"But I haven't a single thing to do. All my lessons for Monday are
finished; I'm tired of stories; I'm tired of fancy work, and I'm tired
of--_everything_ and I want to go _out_," ended the woe-begone voice in
rapid crescendo.

"Do you think it would hurt her to go, Eleanor?" asked Constance,
turning toward a girl who sat at a pretty desk, her elbows resting
upon it and her hands propping her chin as she pored over a copy of
the French Revolution, but who failed to take the least notice of the
question.

Constance made a funny face and repeated it. She might as well have
kept silent for all the impression it made, and with a resigned nod
toward Jean she resumed her millinery work.

But too much depended upon the reply for Jean Carruth to accept the
situation so mildly. Murmuring softly, "You wait a minute," she
slipped noiselessly across the room and out into the broad hall
beyond. Upon a deep window-seat stood a papier-mache megaphone.
Placing it to her lips, her eyes dancing with mischief above its rim,
she bellowed:

"Eleanor Maxwell Carruth, do you think it would hurt me to go out
now?"

The effect was electrical. Bounding from her chair with sufficient
alacrity to send the French Revolution crashing upon the floor,
Eleanor Carruth clapped both hands over her ears, as she cried:

"Jean, you little imp of mischief!"

"Well, I wanted to make you hear me," answered that young lady
complacently. "Constance had spoken to you twice but you'd gone to
France and couldn't hear her, so I thought maybe the megaphone would
reach across the Atlantic Ocean, and it _did_. Now can I go out?"

"_Can_ you or may you? which do you mean," asked the eldest sister
somewhat sententiously.

Constance laughed softly in her corner.

"O, fiddlesticks on your old English! I get enough of it five days in
a week without having to take a dose of it Saturday afternoon too. I
know well enough that I _can_ go out, but whether you'll say yes is
another question, and I want to," and Jean puckered up her small
pug-nose at her sister.

"What a spunky little body it is," said the latter, laughing in spite
of herself, for Jean, the ten-year-old baby of the family was already
proving that she was likely to be a very lively offspring of the
Carruth stock.

"And where are you minded to stroll on this charming afternoon when
everybody else is glad to sit in a snug room and take a Saturday
rest?"

"Mother isn't taking hers," was the prompt retort. "She's down helping
pack the boxes that are to go to that girls' college out in Iowa. She
went in all the rain right after luncheon, and I guess if _she_ can go
out while it poured 'cats and dogs,' I can when--when--when--well it
doesn't even pour _cats_. It's almost stopped raining."

"Where _do_ you get hold of those awful expressions, Jean? Whoever
heard of 'cats and dogs' pouring down? What _am_ I to do with you? I
declare I feel responsible for your development and--"

"Then let me go _out_. I need some fresh air to develop in: my lungs
don't pump worth a cent in this stuffy place. It's hot enough to roast
a pig with those logs blazing in the fire-place. I don't see how you
stand it."

"Go get your rubber boots and rain coat," said Eleanor resignedly.
"You're half duck, I firmly believe, and never so happy as when you're
splashing through puddles. Thank goodness your skirts are still short,
and you can't very well get _them_ sloppy; and your boots will keep
your legs dry unless you try wading up to your hips. But where are you
going?"

"I'm going down to Amy Fletcher's to see how Bunny is. He got hurt
yesterday and it's made him dreadfully sick," answered Jean, as she
struggled with her rubber boots, growing red in the face as she tugged
at them. In five minutes she was equipped to do battle with almost any
storm, and with a "Good bye! I'll be back pretty soon, and then I'll
have enough fresh air to keep me in fine shape for the night," out she
flew, banging the front door behind her.

Eleanor watched the lively little figure as it went skipping down the
street, a street which was always called a beautiful one, although now
wet and sodden with the rain, for Mr. Carruth had built his home in a
most attractive part of the delightful town of Riveredge. Maybe you
won't find it on the map by that name, but it's _there_ just the same,
and quite as attractive to-day as it was several years ago.

Bernard Carruth had been a man of refined taste and possessed a keen
appreciation of all that was beautiful, so it was not surprising that
he should have chosen Riveredge when deciding upon a place for his
home. Situated as it was on the banks of the splendid stream which had
suggested its name, the town boasted unusual attractions, and drew to
it an element which soon assured its development in the most
satisfactory manner. It became noted for its beautiful homes, its
cultured people and its delightful social life.

Among the prettiest of its homes was Bernard Carruth's. It stood but a
short way from the river's bank, was built almost entirely of
cobble-stones, oiled shingles being used where the stones were not
practicable.

It was made up of quaint turns and unexpected corners, although not a
single inch of space, or the shape of a room was sacrificed to the
oddity of the architecture. It was not a very large house nor yet a
very small one, but as Mr. Carruth said when all was completed, the
house sensibly and artistically furnished, and his family comfortably
installed therein:

"It is big enough for the big girl, our three little girls and their
old daddy, and so what more can be asked? Only that the good Lord will
spare us to each other to enjoy it."

This was when Jean was but a little more than two years of age, and
for five years they _did_ enjoy it as only a closely united family can
enjoy a charming home. Then one of Mr. Carruth's college chums got
into serious financial difficulties and Bernard Carruth indorsed
heavily for him.

The sequel was the same wretched old story repeated: Ruin overtook the
friend, and Bernard Carruth's substance was swept into the maelstrom
which swallowed up everything. He never recovered from the blow, or
false representations which led to it, learning unhappily, when the
mischief was done, how sorely he had been betrayed, and within
eighteen months from the date of indorsing his friend's paper he was
laid away in pretty Brookside Cemetery, leaving his wife and three
daughters to face the world upon a very limited income. This was a
little more than two years before the opening of this story. Little
Jean was now ten and a half, Constance fifteen and Eleanor, the
eldest, nearly seventeen, although many judged her to be older, owing
to her quiet, reserved manner and studious habits, for Eleanor was,
undoubtedly, "the brainy member of the family," as Constance put it.

She was a pupil in the Riveredge Seminary, and would graduate the
following June; a privilege made possible by an aunt's generosity,
since Mrs. Carruth had been left with little more than her home, which
Mr. Carruth had given her as soon as it was completed, and the
interest upon his life insurance which amounted to less than fifteen
hundred a year; a small sum upon which to keep up the home, provide
for and educate three daughters.

Constance was now a pupil at the Riveredge High School and Jean at the
grammar school. Both had been seminary pupils prior to Mr. Carruth's
death, but expenses had to be curtailed at once.

Constance was the domestic body of the household; prettiest of the
three, sunshiny, happy, resourceful, she faced the family's altered
position bravely, giving up the advantages and delights of the
seminary without a murmur and contributing to her mother's peace of
mind to a degree she little guessed by taking the most optimistic view
of the situation and meeting altered conditions with a laugh and a
song, and the assurance that "_some_ day she was going to make her
fortune and set 'em all up in fine shape once more." She got her
sanguine disposition from her mother who never looked upon the dull
side of the clouds, although it was often a hard matter to win around
to their shiny side.

Eleanor was quite unlike her; indeed, Eleanor did not resemble either
her father or mother, for Mr. Carruth had been a most genial,
warm-hearted man, and unselfish to the last degree. Eleanor was very
reserved, inclined to keep her affairs to herself, and extremely
matured for her years, finding her relaxation and recreation in a
manner which the average girl of her age would have considered tasks.

Jean was a bunch of nervous impulses, and no one ever knew where the
madcap would bounce up next. She was a beautiful child with a mop of
wavy reddish-brown hair falling in the softest curls about face and
shoulders; eyes that shone lustrous and lambent as twin stars beneath
their delicately arched brows, and regarded you with a steadfast
interest as though they meant to look straight through you, and
separate truth from falsehood. A mouth that was a whimsical
combination of fun and resolution. A nose that could pucker
disdainfully on provocation, and it never needed a greater than its
owner's doubt of the sincerity of the person addressing her.

This is the small person skipping along the pretty Riveredge street
toward the more sparsely settled northern end of the town, hopping
_not from_ dry spot to dry spot _between_ the puddles, but _into_ and
_into_ the deepest to be found. Amy Fletcher's home was one of the
largest in the outskirts of Riveredge and its grounds the most
beautiful. Between it and Riveredge stood an old stone house owned and
occupied by a family named Raulsbury; a family noted for its parsimony
and narrow outlook upon life in general. Broad open fields lay between
this house and the Fletcher place which was some distance beyond. In
many places the fences were broken; at one point the field was a good
deal higher than the road it bordered and a deep gully lay between it
and the sidewalk.

When Jean reached that point of her moist, breezy walk she stopped
short. In the mud of the gully, drenched, cold and shivering lay an
old, blind bay horse. He had stumbled into it, and was too feeble to
get out.




CHAPTER II

"Baltie"


  "When he's forsaken
  Withered and shaken
  What can an old _horse_
  Do but die?"

  (With apologies to Tom Hood.)

For one moment Jean stood petrified, too overcome by the sight to stir
or speak, then with a low, pitying cry of:

"Oh, Baltie, Baltie! How came you there?" the child tossed her
umbrella aside and scrambled down into the ditch, the water which
stood in it splashing and flying all over her, as she hastened toward
the prone horse.

At the sound of her voice the poor creature raised his head which had
been drooping forward upon his bent-up knees, turned his sightless
eyes toward her and tried to nicker, but succeeded only in making a
quavering, shivering sound.

"Oh, Baltie, dear, dear Baltie, how did you get out of your stable and
come way off here?" cried the girl taking the pathetic old head into
her arms, and drawing it to her breast regardless of the mud with
which it was thickly plastered. "You got out of the field through that
broken place in the fence up there didn't you dear? And you must have
tumbled right straight down the bank into this ditch, 'cause you're
all splashed over with mud, poor, poor Baltie. And your legs are all
cut and bleeding too. Oh, how long have you been here? You couldn't
see where you were going, could you? You poor, dear thing. Oh, what
shall I do for you? What shall I? If I could only help you up," and
the dauntless little body tugged with all her might and main to raise
the fallen animal. She might as well have striven to raise Gibraltar,
for, even though the horse strove to get upon his feet, he was far too
weak and exhausted to do so, and again dropped heavily to the ground,
nearly over-setting his intrepid little friend as he sank down.

Jean was in despair. What _should_ she do? To go on to her friend
Amy's and leave the old horse to the chance of someone else's tender
mercies never entered her head, and had any one been near at hand to
suggest that solution of the problem he would have promptly found
himself in the midst of a small tornado of righteous wrath. No, here
lay misery incarnate right before her eyes and, of course, she must
instantly set about relieving it. But how?

"Baltie," or Old Baltimore, as the horse was called, belonged to the
Raulsbury's. Everybody within a radius of twenty miles knew him; knew
also that the family had brought him to the place when they came there
from the suburbs of Baltimore more than twenty years ago. Brought him
a high-stepping, fiery, thoroughbred colt which was the admiration and
envy of all Riveredge. John Raulsbury, the grandfather, was his owner
then, and drove him until his death, when "Baltimore" was seventeen
years old; even that was an advanced age for a horse. From the moment
of Grandfather Raulsbury's death Baltimore began to fail and lose his
high spirits. Some people insisted that he was grieving for the friend
of his colt-hood and the heyday of life, but Jabe Raulsbury, the son,
said "the horse was gettin' played out. What could ye expect when he
was more'n seventeen years old?"

So Baltimore became "Old Baltie," and his fate the plow, the dirt
cart, the farm wagon. His box-stall, fine grooming, and fine harness
were things of the past. "The barn shed's good 'nough fer such an old
skate's he's gettin' ter be," said Jabe, and Jabe's son, a shiftless
nonentity, agreed with him.

So that was blue-blooded Baltie's fate, but even such misfortune
failed to break his spirit, and now and again, while plodding
hopelessly along the road, dragging the heavy farm wagon, he would
raise his head, prick up his ears, and plunge ahead, forgetful of his
twenty years, when he heard a speedy step behind him. But, alas! his
sudden sprint always came to a most humiliating end, for his strength
had failed rapidly during the past few years, and the eyes, once so
alert and full of fire, were sadly clouded, making steps very
uncertain. An ugly stumble usually ended in a cruel jerk upon the
still sensitive mouth and poor old Baltie was reduced to the
humiliating plod once more.

Yet, through it all he retained his sweet, high-bred disposition,
accepting his altered circumstances like the gentleman he was, and
never retaliating upon those who so misused him. During his
twenty-third year he became totally blind, and when rheumatism, the
outcome of the lack of proper stabling and care, added to his
miseries, poor Baltie was almost turned adrift; the shed was there, to
be sure, and when he had time to think about it, Jabe dumped some feed
into the manger and threw a bundle of straw upon the floor. But for
the greater part of the time Baltie had to shift for himself as best
he could.

During the past summer he had been the talk of an indignant town, and
more than one threatening word had been spoken regarding the man's
treatment of the poor old horse.

For a moment the little girl stood in deep, perplexing thought, then
suddenly her face lighted up and her expressive eyes sparkled with the
thoughts which lay behind them.

"I know what I'll do, Baltie: I'll go straight up to Jabe Raulsbury's
and _make_ him come down and take care of you. Good-bye, dear; I won't
be any time at all 'cause I'll go right across the fields," and giving
the horse a final encouraging stroke, she caught up her umbrella which
had meantime been resting handle uppermost up in a mud-puddle, and
scrambling up the bank which had been poor Baltie's undoing,
disappeared beneath the tumble-down fence and was off across the
pasture heedless of all obstacles.

Jabe Raulsbury's farm had once been part of Riveredge, but one by one
his broad acres had been sold so that now only a small section of the
original farmstead remained to him, and this was a constant eyesore to
his neighbors, owing to its neglected condition, for beautiful homes
had been erected all about it upon the acres he had sold at such a
large profit. Several good offers had been made him for his property
by those who would gladly have bought the land simply to have improved
their own places and thus add to the attraction of that section of
Riveredge. But no; not another foot of his farm would Jabe Raulsbury
sell, and if ever dog-in-the-manger was fully demonstrated it was by
this parsimonious irascible man whom no one respected and many
heartily despised.

This wild, wet afternoon he was seated upon a stool just within the
shelter of his barn sorting over a pile of turnips which lay upon the
floor near him. He was not an attractive figure, to say the least, as
he bent over the work. Cadaverous, simply because he was too
parsimonious to provide sufficient nourishing food to meet the demands
of such a huge body. Unkempt, grizzled auburn hair and grizzled auburn
beard, the latter sparse enough to disclose the sinister mouth. Eyes
about the color of green gooseberries and with about as much
expression.

As he sat there tossing into the baskets before him the sorted-out
turnips, he became aware of rapidly approaching footsteps, and raised
his head just as a small figure came hurrying around the corner of the
barn, for the scramble up the steep bank, and rapid walk across the
wet pastures, had set Jean's heart a-beating, and that, coupled with
her indignation, caused her to pant. She had gone first to the house,
but had there learned from Mrs. Raulsbury, a timid, nervous,
woefully-dominated individual, who looked and acted as though she
scarcely dared call her soul her own, that "Jabe was down yonder in
the far-barn sortin' turnips." So down to the "far-barn" went Jean.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Raulsbury," she began, her heart, it must be
confessed, adding, rather than lessening its number of beats, at
confronting the forbidding expression of the individual with whom she
was passing the time of day.

"Huh!" grunted Jabe Raulsbury, giving her one searching look from
between his narrowing eyelids, and then resuming his work. Most
children would have been discouraged and dropped the conversation then
and there. Jean's lips took on a firmer curve.

"I guess after all it _isn't_ a good afternoon, is it? It is a pretty
wet, horrid one, and not a very nice one to be out in, is it?"

"Wul, why don't ye go home then?" was the gruff retort.

"Because I have an important matter to 'tend to. I was on my way to
visit Amy Fletcher; her cat is sick! he was hurt dreadfully yesterday;
she thinks somebody must have tried to shoot him and missed him, for
his shoulder is all torn. If anybody _did_ do such a thing to Bunny
they'd ought to be ashamed of it, for he's a dear. If _I_ knew who had
done it I'd--I'd--."

"Wal, what _would_ ye do to 'em, heh?" and a wicked, tantalizing grin
overspread Jabe Raulsbury's face.

"Do? Do? I believe I'd scratch his eyes out; I'd hate him so, for
being so cruel!" was the fiery, unexpected reply.

"Do tell! Would ye now, really? Mebbe it's jist as well fer him that
ye don't know the feller that did it then," remarked Raulsbury,
although he gave a slight hitch to the stool upon which he was sitting
as he said it, thus widening the space between them.

"Well I believe I _would_, for I _despise_ a coward, and only a coward
could do such a thing."

"Huh," was the response to this statement. Then silence for a moment
was broken by the man who asked:

"Wal, why don't ye go along an' see if the cat's kilt. It aint
_here_."

"No, I know _that_, but I have found something more important to 'tend
to, and that's why I came up here, and it's something you ought to
know about too: Old Baltie has tumbled down the bank at the place in
the pasture where the fence is broken, and is in the ditch. I don't
know how long he's been there, but he's all wet, and muddy and shivery
and he can't get up. I came up to tell you, so's you could get a man
to help you and go right down and get him out. I tried, but I wasn't
strong enough, but he'll die if you don't go quick."

Jean's eyes shone and her cheeks were flushed from excitement as she
described Baltie's plight, and paused only because breath failed her.

"Wal, 'spose he does; what then? What good is he to anybody? He's most
twenty-five year old an' clear played-out. He'd better die; it's the
best thing could happen."

The shifty eyes had not rested upon the child while the man was
speaking, but some powerful magnetism drew and held them to her deep
blazing ones as the last word fell from his lips. He tried to withdraw
them, ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice at one particular spot which
from appearances had been so favored many times before, drew his hand
across his mouth and then gave a self-conscious, snickering laugh.

"I don't believe you understood what I said, did you?" asked Jean
quietly. "I'm sure you didn't."

"Oh yis I did. Ye said old Baltie was down in the ditch yonder and
like ter die if I didn't git him out. Wal, that's jist 'zactly what I
want him _to_ do, an' jest 'zactly what I turned him out inter that
field fer him ter do, an' jist 'zactly what I hope he _will_ do 'fore
morning. He's got the last ounce o' fodder I'm ever a'goin' ter give
him, an' I aint never a'goin' ter let him inter my barns agin. Now put
_that_ in yer pipe an' smoke it, an' then git out durned quick."

Jabe Raulsbury had partially risen from his stool as he concluded this
creditable tirade, and one hand was raised threateningly toward the
little figure standing with her dripping umbrella just within the
threshold of the barn door.

That the burly figure did not rise entirely, and that his hand
remained suspended without the threatened blow falling can perhaps
best be explained by the fact that the child before him never
flinched, and that the scorn upon her face was so intense that it
could be felt.




CHAPTER III

The Spirit of Mad Anthony


Jean Carruth stood thus for about one minute absolutely rigid, her
face the color of chalk and her eyes blazing. Then several things
happened with extreme expedition. The position of the closed umbrella
in her hands reversed with lightning-like rapidity; one quick step
_forward_, _not_ backward, was made, thus giving the intrepid little
body a firmer foothold, and then crash! down came the gun-metal handle
across Jabe Raulsbury's ample-sized nasal appendage.

The blow, with such small arms to launch it, was not of necessity a
very powerful one, but it was the suddenness of the onslaught which
rendered it effective, for not one sound had issued from the child's
set lips as she delivered it, and Jabe's position placed him at a
decided disadvantage.

He resumed his seat with considerable emphasis, and clapping his hand
to his injured feature, bellowed in the voice of an injured bull:

"You--you--you little devil! You--you, let me get hold of you!"

But Jean did not obey the command or pause to learn the result of her
deed. With a storm of the wildest sobs she turned and fled from the
barnyard, down the driveway leading to the road, and back to the spot
where she had left Baltie in his misery, her tears nearly blinding
her, and her indignation almost strangling her; back to the poor old
horse, so sorely in need of human pity and aid.

This, all unknown to his little champion, had already reached him, for
hardly had Jean disappeared beneath the tumble-down fence, than a
vehicle came bowling along the highway driven by no less a personage
than Hadyn Stuyvesant, lately elected president of the local branch of
the S. P. C. A. Poor old Baltie's days of misery had come to an end,
for here was the authority either to compel his care or to mercifully
release him from his sufferings.

Perhaps not more than twenty minutes had elapsed from the time Jean
started across the fields, to the moment of her return to the old
horse, but in those twenty minutes Mr. Stuyvesant had secured aid from
Mr. Fletcher's place, and when Jean came hurrying upon the scene, her
sobs still rendering breathing difficult, and her troubled little face
bathed in tears, she found three men standing near Baltie.

"Oh, Baltie, Baltie, Baltie, I'm so glad! So glad! So glad!" sobbed
the overwrought little girl, as she flew to the old horse's head.

Mr. Stuyvesant and the men stared at her in astonishment.

"Why little girl," cried the former. "Where in this world have _you_
sprung from? And what is the matter? Is this your horse?"

"Oh, no--no; he isn't mine. It's old Baltie; don't you know him? I went
to tell Jabe Raulsbury about him and he--he--" and Jean paused
embarrassed.

"Yes? Well? Is this his horse? Is he coming to get him? Did you find
him?"

"Yes, sir, I _found_ him," answered Jean, trembling from excitement
and her exertions.

"And is he coming right down?" persisted Mr. Stuyvesant, looking
keenly, although not unkindly, at the child.

"He--he--, oh, _please_ don't make me tell tales on anybody--it's so
mean--but he--"

"You might as well tell it right out an' done with it, little gal,"
broke in one of the men. "It ain't no state secret; everybody knows
that that old skinflint has been abusing this horse shameful, for
months past, an' I'll bet my month's wages he said he wouldn't come
down, an' he hoped the horse 'd die in the ditch. Come now, out with
it--_didn't_ he?"

Jean would not answer, but there was no need for words; her eyes told
the truth.

Just then the other man came up to her; he was one of Mr. Fletcher's
grooms.

"Aren't you Mrs. Carruth's little girl?" he asked.

But before Jean had time to answer Jabe Raulsbury came running along
the road, one hand holding a handkerchief to his nose, the other
waving wildly as he shouted:

"Just you wait 'till I lay my hands on you--you little wild cat!" He
was too blinded by his rage to realize the situation into which he was
hurrying.

Again Anthony Wayne's spirit leaped into Jean's eyes, as the dauntless
little creature whirled about to meet the enemy descending upon her.
With head erect, and nostrils quivering she stood as though rooted to
the ground.

"Great guns! How's _that_ for a little thoroughbred?" murmured the
groom, laughing softly.

Reaching out a protecting hand, Mr. Stuyvesant gently pushed the
little girl toward the man who stood behind him, and taking her place
let Jabe Raulsbury come head-on to his fate. Had the man been less
enraged he would have taken in the situation at once, but his nose
still pained severely from the well-aimed blow, and had also bled
pretty freely, so it is not surprising that he lost his presence of
mind.

"Go slow! Go slow! You are exactly the man I want to see," said Mr.
Stuyvesant, laying a detaining hand upon Jabe's arm.

"Who 'n thunder air you?" demanded the half-blinded man.

"Someone you would probably rather not meet at this moment, but since
you have appeared upon the scene so opportunely I think we might as
well come to an understanding at once, and settle some scores."

"I ain't got no scores to settle with you, but I have with _that_
little demon, an' by gosh she'll know it, when I've done with her! Why
that young 'un has just smashed me over the head with her umbril, I
tell ye. _There_ it is, if ye don't believe what I'm a tellin' ye. I'm
goin' ter have the _law_ on her and on her Ma, I tell ye, an' I call
you three men ter witness the state I'm in. I'll bring suit agin' her
fer big damages--that's what I'll do. Look at my _nose_!"

As he ceased his tirade Jabe removed his handkerchief from the injured
member. At the sight of it one of the men broke into a loud guffaw.
Certainly, for a "weaker vessel" Jean had compassed considerable. That
nose was about the size of two ordinary noses. Mr. Stuyvesant regarded
it for a moment, his face perfectly sober, then asked with apparent
concern:

"And this little girl hit you such a blow as that?"

Poor little Jean began to tremble in her boots. Were the tables about
to turn upon her? Even Anthony Wayne's spirit, when harbored in such a
tiny body could hardly brave _that_. The Fletcher's groom who stood
just behind her watched her closely. Now and again he gave a nod
indicative of his approval.

"Yes she did. She drew off and struck me slam in the face with her
umbril.," averred Jabe.

"Had _you_ struck her? Did she strike in self-defense?" Mr. Stuyvesant
gave a significant look over Jabe's head straight into the groom's
eyes when he asked this question. The response was the slightest nod
of comprehension.

"Strike her? _No_," roared Jabe. "I hadn't teched her. I was a-sittin'
there sortin' out my turnips 's peaceful 's any man in this town, when
that little rip comes 'long and tells me I must go get an old horse
out 'en a ditch: _that_ old skate there that's boun' ter die _any_
how, an' ought ter a-died long ago. I told her ter clear out an' mind
her own business that I hoped the horse _would_ die, an' that's what
I'd turned him out _to_ do. Then she drew off an' whacked me."

"Just because you stated in just so many words that you meant to get
rid of the old horse and had turned him out to die on the roadside. Is
_that_ why she struck you?"

Had Jabe been a little calmer he might have been aware of a change in
Hadyn Stuyvesant's expression and his tone of voice, but men wild with
rage are rarely close observers.

"Yis! Yis!" he snapped, sure now of his triumph.

"Well I'm only sorry the blow was such a light one. I wish it had been
struck by a man's arm and sufficiently powerful to have half killed
you! Even _that_ would have been _too_ good for you, you merciless
brute! I've had you under my eye for your treatment of that poor horse
for some time, and now I have you under my _hand_, and convicted by
your own words in the presence of two witnesses, of absolute cruelty.
I arrest you in the name of the S. P. C. A."

For one brief moment Jabe stood petrified with astonishment. Then the
brute in him broke loose and he started to lay about him right and
left. His aggressiveness was brought to a speedy termination, for at a
slight motion from Mr. Stuyvesant the two men sprang upon him, his
arms were held and the next second there was a slight click and Jabe
Raulsbury's wrists were in handcuffs. That snap was the signal for his
blustering to take flight for he was an arrant coward at heart.

"Now step into my wagon and sit there until I am ready to settle your
case, my man, and that will be when I have looked to this little girl
and the animal which, but for her pluck and courage, might have died
in this ditch," ordered Mr. Stuyvesant.

No whipped cur could have slunk toward the wagon more cowed.

"Now, little lassie, tell me your name and where you live," said Mr.
Stuyvesant lifting Jean bodily into his arms despite her mortification
at being "handled just like a baby," as she afterwards expressed it.

"I am Jean Carruth. I live on Linden Avenue. I'm--I'm terribly ashamed
to be here, and to have struck him," and she nodded toward the humbled
figure in the wagon.

"You need not be. You did not give him one-half he deserves," was the
somewhat comforting assurance.

"O, but what _will_ mother say? She'll be _so_ mortified when I tell
her about it all. It seems as if I just _couldn't_," was the
distressed reply.

"Must you tell her?" asked Mr. Stuyvesant, an odd expression
overspreading his kind, strong face as he looked into the little
girl's eyes.

Jean regarded him with undisguised amazement as she answered simply:

"Why of _course_! That would be deceit if I _didn't_. I'll have to be
punished, but I guess I _ought_ to be," was the naive conclusion.

The fine face before her was transfigured as Hadyn Stuyvesant
answered:

"Good! _Your_ principles are all right. Stick to them and I'll want to
know you when you are a woman. Now I must get you home for I've a word
to say to your mother, to whom I mean to introduce myself under the
circumstances," and carrying her to his two-seated depot wagon, he
placed her upon the front seat. Jabe glowered at him from the rear
one. His horse turned his head with an inquiring nicker.

"Yes, Comet, I'll be ready pretty soon," he replied, pausing a second
to give a stroke to the satiny neck. Then turning to the men he said:

"Now, my men, let's on with this job which has been delayed too long
already."

He did not spare himself, and presently old Baltie was out of the
ditch and upon his feet--a sufficiently pathetic object to touch any
heart.

"Shall I have the men lead him up to your barn?" asked Hadyn
Stuyvesant, giving the surly object in his wagon a last chance to
redeem himself.

"No! I'm done with him; do your worst," was the gruff answer.

"Very well," the words were ominously quiet, "then _I_ shall take him
in charge."

"Oh, _where_ are you going to take him, please?" asked Jean, her
concern for the horse overcoming her embarrassment at her novel
situation.

"I'm afraid he will have to be sent to the pound, little one, for no
one will claim him."

"Is that the place where they _kill_ them? _Must_ Baltie be killed?"
Her voice was full of tears.

"Unless someone can be found who will care for him for the rest of his
numbered days. I'm afraid it is the best and most merciful fate for
him," was the gentle answer.

"How long may he stay there without being killed? Until maybe somebody
can be found to take him."

"He may stay there one week. But now we must move along. Fasten the
horse's halter to the back of my wagon, men, and I'll see to it that
he is comfortable to-night anyway."

The halter rope was tied, and the strange procession started slowly
back toward Riveredge.




CHAPTER IV

Baltie is Rescued


"How old are you, little lassie?" asked Hadyn Stuyvesant, looking down
upon the little figure beside him, his fine eyes alive with interest
and the smile which none could resist lighting his face, and
displaying his white even teeth.

"I'm just a little over ten," answered Jean, looking up and answering
his smile with one equally frank and trustful, for little Jean Carruth
did not understand the meaning of embarrassment.

"Are you Mrs. Bernard Carruth's little daughter? I knew her nephew
well when at college, although I've been away from Riveredge so long
that I've lost track of her and her family."

"Yes, she is my mother. Mr. Bernard Carruth was my father," and a
little choke came into Jean's voice, for, although not yet eight years
of age when her father passed out of her life, Jean's memory of him
was a very tender one, and she sorely missed the kind, cheery,
sympathetic companionship he had given his children. Hadyn Stuyvesant
was quick to note the catch in the little girl's voice, and the tears
which welled up to her eyes, and a strong arm was placed about her
waist to draw her a little closer to his side, as, changing the
subject, he said very tenderly:

"You have had an exciting hour, little one. Sit close beside me and
don't try to talk; just rest, and let _me_ do the talking. We must go
slowly on Baltie's account; the poor old horse is badly knocked about
and stiffened up. Suppose we go right to Mr. Pringle's livery stable
and ask him to take care of him a few days any way. Don't you think
that would be a good plan?"

"But who will _pay_ for him? Don't you have to pay board for horses
just like people pay their board?" broke in Jean anxiously.

Hadyn Stuyvesant smiled at the practical little being his arm still so
comfortingly encircled.

"I guess the Society can stand the expense," he answered.

"Has it got _lots_ of money to do such things with?" asked Jean, bound
to get at the full facts.

"I'm afraid it hasn't got 'lots of money'--I wish it had,--but I think
it can pay a week's board for old Baltie in consideration of what you
have done for him. It will make you happier to know he will be
comfortable for a little while any way, won't it?"

"Oh, yes! yes! And, and--perhaps _I_ could pay the next week's if we
didn't find somebody the first week. I've got 'most five dollars in my
Christmas bank. I've been saving ever since last January; I always
begin to put in something on New Year's day, if it's only five cents,
and then I never, never take any out 'till it's time to buy our next
Christmas presents. And I really _have_ got 'most five dollars, and
would _that_ be enough for another week?" and the bonny little face
was raised eagerly to her companion's. Hadyn Stuyvesant then and there
lost his heart to the little creature at his side. It is given to very
few "grown-ups" to slip out of their own adult years and by some
magical power pick up the years of their childhood once more, with all
the experiences and view-points of that childhood, but Hadyn
Stuyvesant was one of those few. He felt all the eagerness of Jean's
words and his answer held all the confidence and enthusiasm of _her_
ten years rather than his own twenty-three.

"Fully enough. But we will hope that a home may be found for Baltie
before the first week has come to an end. And here we are at Mr.
Pringle's. Raulsbury I shall have to ask you to get out here," added
Mr. Stuyvesant, as he, himself, sprang from the depot wagon to the
sidewalk.

Raulsbury made no reply but stepped to the sidewalk, where, at a
slight signal from Hadyn Stuyvesant, an officer of the Society who had
his office in the livery stable came forward and motioned to Raulsbury
to follow him. As they disappeared within the stable, Mr. Stuyvesant
said to the proprietor:

"Pringle, I've got a boarder for you. Don't know just how long he will
stay, but remember, nothing is too good for him while he does, for he
is this little girl's protege, and I hold myself responsible for him."

"All right, Mr. Stuyvesant. All right, sir. He shall have the best the
stable affords. Come on, old stager; you look as if you wanted a
curry-comb and a feed pretty bad," said Pringle, as he untied Baltie's
halter. With all the gentleness of the blue-blooded old fellow he was,
Baltie raised his mud-splashed head, sniffed at Mr. Pringle's coat and
nickered softly, as though acknowledging his proffered hospitality.
The man stroked the muddy neck encouragingly, as he said:

"He don't look much as he did eighteen years ago, does he, Mr.
Stuyvesant?"

"I'm afraid I don't remember how he looked eighteen years ago,
Pringle; there wasn't much of me to remember _with_ about that time.
But I remember how he looked _eight_ years ago, before I went to
Europe, and the contrast is enough to stir me up considerable. It's
about time such conditions were made impossible, and I'm going to see
what I can do to start a move in that direction," concluded Mr.
Stuyvesant, with an ominous nod toward the stable door, through which
Raulsbury had disappeared.

"I'm glad to hear it, sir. We have had too much of this sort of thing
in Riveredge for the past few years. I've been saying the Society
needed a _live_ president and I'm glad it's got one at last."

"Well, look out for old Baltie, and now I must take my little
fellow-worker home," said Mr. Stuyvesant.

"Oh, may I give him just _one_ pat before we go?" begged Jean, looking
from Baltie to Mr. Stuyvesant.

"Lead him up beside us, Pringle," ordered Mr. Stuyvesant smiling his
consent to Jean.

"Good-bye Baltie, dear. Good-bye. I won't forget you for a single
minute; no, not for one," said the little girl earnestly, hugging the
muddy old head and implanting a kiss upon the ear nearest her.

"Baltie you are to be envied, old fellow," said Hadyn Stuyvesant,
laughing softly, and nodding significantly to Pringle. "She was his
first friend in his misery. I'll tell you about it later, but I must
be off now or her family will have me up for a kidnapper. I'll be back
in about an hour."

Ten minutes' swift bowling along behind Hadyn Stuyvesant's beautiful
"Comet" brought them to the Carruth home. Dusk was already beginning
to fall as the short autumn day drew to its end, and Mrs.
Carruth,--mother above all other things--stood at the window watching
for this youngest daughter, regarding whom she never felt quite at
ease when that young lady was out of her sight. When she saw a
carriage turning in at her driveway and that same daughter perched
upon the front seat beside a total stranger she began to believe that
there had been some foundation for the misgivings which had made her
so restless for the past hour. Opening the door she stepped out upon
the piazza to meet the runaway, and was greeted with:

"Oh mother, mother, I've had such an exciting experience! I started to
see Amy Fletcher, but before I got there I found him in the ditch and
lame and muddy and dirty, and I went up to tell Jabe he _must_ go get
him out and then I got awful angry and banged him with my umbrella,
and then I cried and _he_ found me," with a nod toward her companion,
"and he got him out of the ditch and gave Jabe _such_ a scolding and
took him to Mr. Pringle's and he's going to curry-comb him and get the
mud all off of him and take care of him a week any way, and two weeks
if I've got enough money in my bank and--and--"

"Mercy! mercy! mercy!" cried Mrs. Carruth, breaking into a laugh and
raising both hands as though to shield her head from the avalanche of
words descending upon it. Hadyn Stuyvesant strove manfully to keep his
countenance lest he wound the feelings of his little companion, but
the situation was too much for him and his genial laugh echoed Mrs.
Carruth's as he sprang from the depot wagon and raising his arms
toward the surprised child said:

"Let me lift you out little maid, and then I think perhaps you can
give your mother a clearer idea as to whether it is Jabe Raulsbury, or
old Baltie which is covered with mud and about to be curry-combed.
Mrs. Carruth, let me introduce myself as Hadyn Stuyvesant. I knew your
nephew when I was at college, and on the strength of my friendship for
him, must beg you to pardon this intrusion. I came upon your little
daughter not long since playing the part of the Good Samaritan to
Raulsbury's poor old horse. She had tackled a job just a little too
big for her, so I volunteered to lend a hand, and together we made it
go."

As he spoke Hadyn Stuyvesant removed his hat and ascended the piazza
steps with hand outstretched to the sweet-faced woman who stood at the
top. She took the extended hand, her face lighting with the winning
smile which carried sunshine to all who knew her, and in the present
instance fell with wonderful warmth upon the man before her, for
barely a year had passed since his mother had been laid away in a
beautiful cemetery in Switzerland, and the tie between that mother and
son had been a singularly tender one.

"I have often heard my nephew speak of you, Mr. Stuyvesant, and can
not think of you as a stranger. I regret that we have not met before,
but I understand you have lived abroad for several years. I am
indebted to you for bringing Jean safely home, but quite at a loss to
understand what has happened. Please come in and tell me. Will your
horse stand?"

"He will stand as long as I wish him to. But I fear I shall intrude
upon you?" and a questioning tone came into his voice.

"How could it be an intrusion under the circumstances? Come."

"In a moment, then. I must throw the blanket over Comet," and running
down the steps he took the blanket from the seat and quickly buckled
it upon the horse which meanwhile nosed him and nickered.

"Yes; it's all right, old man. Just you _stand_ till I want you," said
his master, giving the pretty head an affectionate pat which the horse
acknowledged by shaking it up and down two or three times. Hadyn
Stuyvesant then mounted the steps once more and followed Mrs. Carruth
and Jean into the house, across the broad hall into the cheerful
living-room where logs blazed upon the andirons in the fire-place, and
Constance was just lighting a large reading lamp which stood upon a
table in the center of the room.

"Constance, dear, this is Mr. Stuyvesant whom your cousin knew at
Princeton. My daughter, Constance, Mr. Stuyvesant. And this is my
eldest daughter, Eleanor," she added as Eleanor entered the room.
Constance set the lamp shade upon its rest and advanced toward their
guest with hand extended and a smile which was the perfect reflection
of her mother's. Eleanor's greeting although graceful and dignified
lacked her sister's cordiality.

"Now," added Mrs. Carruth, "let us be seated and learn more definitely
of Jean's escapade."

"But it _wasn't_ an escapade _this_ time, mother. It was just an
unhelpable experience, _wasn't_ it, Mr. Stuyvesant?" broke in Jean,
walking over to Hadyn Stuyvesant's side and placing her hand
confidingly upon his shoulder, as she peered into his kind eyes for
his corroboration of this assertion.

"_Entirely_ 'unhelpable,'" was the positive assurance as he put his
arm about her and drew her upon his knee. "Suppose you let me explain
it, and then your mother and sisters will understand the situation
fully," and in as few words as possible he gave an account of the
happenings of the past two hours, Jean now and again prompting him
when he went a trifle astray regarding the incidents which occurred
prior to his appearance upon the scene, and making a clean breast of
her attack upon Jabe Raulsbury. When _that_ point in the narration was
reached Mrs. Carruth let her hands drop resignedly into her lap;
Constance laughed outright, and Eleanor cried: "Oh, Mr. Stuyvesant,
what _must_ you think of Jean's training?"

Jean's eyes were fixed upon his as though in his reply rested the
verdict, and her fingers were clasped and unclasped nervously. It had
been more than two years since a man had set judgment upon her. Hadyn
Stuyvesant looked keenly into the big eyes looking so bravely and
frankly into his own, drew the little girl close to him, rested his
lips for a moment upon the silky curls and said:

"Sometimes we can hardly be held accountable for what we do;
especially when our sense of justice is sorely taxed. I believe I
should have done the same. But since you love horses so dearly, won't
you run and give Comet a lump of sugar? He has not had one to-day and
will feel slighted unless he gets it. Hold it upon the palm of your
hand and he will take it as gently as a kitten. Tell him I am coming
right away," and placing Jean upon the floor, he gave an encouraging
pat upon the brown curls.

"I'll give it to him right away, quick," she cried delightedly as she
ran from the room.

"Good!" Then rising he extended his hand, saying, as he clasped Mrs.
Carruth's:

"She is a little trump, Mrs. Carruth. Jove! if you could have been
there and seen her championship of that old horse, and her dauntless
courage when that old rascal, Jabe, bore down upon her, you would be
so set up that this house would have to expand to hold you. Please
don't reprove her. I ask it as favor, although I have no right to do
so. She has a fine spirit and a finer sense of duty, Mrs. Carruth, for
she gave me a rare call-down when I tested it by hinting that she'd
best keep mum on the subject if she was likely to come in for a
wigging. She is a great little lassie and I am going to ask you to let
me know her better."

"Jean is about right, _I_ think, Mr. Stuyvesant," said Constance, as
she shook hands good-bye. "She is peppery and impulsive, I know, but
it would be a hard matter to make her tell an untruth, or go against
what she considered her duty."

"I'm _sure_ of it, Miss Constance," was the hearty answer. "And now
good-bye. You will let me come again, Mrs. Carruth?"

"We will be very pleased to welcome you," was the cordial reply.

"Good! I'll come."




CHAPTER V

A New Member of the Family


"Has you-all done 'cided to do wid out yo' suppers dis yer night?
'Cause if you _is_ I 'spec's I kin clar away," was the autocratic
inquiry of Mammy Melviny as she stood in the doorway of the
living-room, her ample proportions very nearly filling it.

Hadyn Stuyvesant's call had been of longer duration than Mammy
approved, for her hot corn cakes were being rapidly ruined by the
delayed meal, and this was an outrage upon her skill in cooking. Mammy
had been Mrs. Carruth's nurse "down souf" and still regarded that
dignified lady as her "chile," and subject to her dictation. She was
the only servant which Mrs. Carruth now kept, the others having been
what Mammy stigmatized as "po' northern no 'count <DW65>s" who gave
the minimum of work for the maximum of pay, and were prompt to take
their departure when adversity overtook their employer.

Not so Mammy. When the crisis came Mrs. Carruth stated the case to her
and advised her to seek another situation where she would receive the
wages her ability commanded, and which Mrs. Carruth, in her reduced
circumstances, could no longer afford to pay her. The storm which the
suggestion produced was both alarming and amusing. Placing her arms
upon her hips, and raising her head like a war-horse scenting battle,
Mammy stamped her foot and cried:

"Step down an' out? Get out 'en de fambly? Go wo'k fer some o' dese
hyer strange folks what aint keer a cent fo' me, an' aint know who I
_is_? _Me?_ a Blairsdale! Huh! What sort o' fool talk is _dat_, Baby?
Yo' cyant _git_ me out. Yo' need 'n ter try, kase 'taint gwine be no
good ter. I's hyer and hyer I's gwine _stay_, no matter _what_ come.
'Taint no use fer ter talk ter _me_ 'bout money and wages an' sich
truck. What I kerrin' fer dem? I'se got 'nough, an' ter spare. What
yo' t'ink I'se been doin' all dese years o' freedom? Flingin' my
earnin's 'way? Huh! You _know_ I aint done no sich foolishness. I'se
got a pile--yis, an' a _good_ pile too,--put 'way. I need n't ter ever
do a stroke mo' work long 's I live if I don't wantter. I'se _rich_, I
is. But I _gwine_ ter work jist 's long's I'se mind ter. Ain't I free?
Who gwine ter say I cyant wo'k? Now go long an' tend ter yo' business
and lemme lone ter tend ter mine, and dat's right down wid de pots and
de kettles, and de stew pans, an' de wash biler and de wash tubs, an'
I reckon I kin do more 'n six o' dese yer Norf <DW65>s put togedder
when I set out ter good an' hard if I _is_ most sixty years old. Hush
yo' talk chile, an' don't let me ketch you a interferin' wid _my_
doin's agin. You heah _me_?" And at the end of this tirade, Mammy
turned sharply about and marched off like a grenadier. Mrs. Carruth
was deeply touched by the old woman's loyalty, but knowing the
antebellum <DW64> as she did, she realized how wounded Mammy had been
by the suggestion that she seek a more lucrative situation among
strangers. Mammy had been born and raised a slave on Mrs. Carruth's
father's plantation in North Carolina, and would always consider
herself a member of Mrs. Carruth's family. Alas for the days of such
ties and such devotion!

So Mammy was now the autocrat of the household and ruled with an iron
hand, although woe to anyone who dared to overstep the bounds _she_
had established as her "Miss Jinny's" rights, or the "chillen's"
privileges as "old marster's gran'-chillern." "Old Marster" was
Mammy's ideal of what a gentleman should be, and "de days befo' de
gre't turmoil" were the only days "fitten for _folks_ (always to be
written in italics) to live in."

She was an interesting figure as she stood in the doorway, and snapped
out her question, although her old face, surmounted by its gay
bandanna turban was the personification of kindliness, and her keen
eyes held only love for her "white folks."

She was decidedly corpulent and her light print gown and beautifully
ironed white apron stood out from her figure until they completely
filled the doorway.

Mrs. Carruth turned toward her and asked with a quizzical smile;

"What is spoiling, Mammy?"

"Huh! Ain't nuffin spilin's I knows on, but dat Miss Nornie done say
she ain't had no co'n cakes 'n 'bout 'n age an' if she _want_ 'em so
turrible she'd better come and _eat_ 'em,"--and with a decisive nod
Mammy stalked off toward the dining-room.

"Come, girls, unless you want to evoke the displeasure of the
presiding genius of the household," said Mrs. Carruth smiling, as she
led the way in Mammy's wake.

It was a pleasant meal, for Mammy would not countenance the least
lapse from the customs of earlier days, and the same pains were taken
for the simple meals now served as had been taken with the more
elaborate ones during Mr. Carruth's lifetime. The linen must be ironed
with the same care; the silver must shine as brightly, and the glass
sparkle as it had always done. Miss Jinny must not miss any of the
luxuries to which she had been born if Mammy could help it.

"Isn't he splendid, mother?" asked Jean, as she buttered her third
corn cake. "He was _so_ good to Baltie and to me."

"I am very glad to know him, dear, for Lyman was much attached to
him."

"Where has he been all these years, mother, that we have never met him
in Riveredge?" asked Eleanor.

"He has lived abroad when not at college. He took his degree last
spring. His mother died there a little more than a year ago, I
understand. She never recovered from the blow of his father's death
when Hadyn was about fifteen years of age. She went abroad soon after
for her health and never came back. He came over for his college
course at Princeton, but always rejoined her during his holidays."

"How old a man is he, mother? He seems both young and old," said
Constance.

"I am not sure, but think he must be about Lyman's age--nearly
twenty-four. But the Society seems to have made a wise choice in
electing him its president; he has certainly taken energetic measures
in this case and I am glad that he has, for it is disgraceful to have
such a thing occur in Riveredge. Poor old horse! It would have been
more merciful to shoot him. How could Jabe Raulsbury have been so
utterly heartless?"

"But, mother, suppose no one will take old Baltie and give him a
home?" persisted Jean, "will he _have_ to be shot then?"

"Would it not be kinder to end such a hapless existence than to leave
it to an uncertain fate, dear?" asked Mrs. Carruth gently.

"Well, maybe, but _I_ don't want him killed. He _loves_ me," was
Jean's answer and the little upraising of the head at the conclusion
of the remark conveyed more to Constance than to the others. Constance
understood Jean better than any other member of the family, and during
the summer just passed Jean had many times gone to the field in which
Baltie was pastured to carry some dainty to the poor old horse and her
love for him and compassion for his wretchedness were deep.

No more was said just then, but Constance knew that the subject had
not passed from Jean's thoughts and one afternoon, exactly two weeks
from that evening, this was verified.

Mrs. Carruth had gone to sit with a sick friend. Eleanor was in her
room lost to everything but a knotty problem for Monday's recitation,
and Mammy was busily occupied with some dainty dish against her Miss
Jinny's home-coming. Constance was laying the tea-table when the
crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch, upon the gravel of the driveway caused
her to look up, there to behold Jean with old Baltie in tow.

"Merciful powers, what _has_ the child done now?" she exclaimed as she
let fall with a clatter the knife and fork she was about to place upon
the table and flew to the front door, crying as she hastily opened it:
"Jean Carruth what in this world _have_ you been doing?"

"I've brought him home. I _had_ to. I went down to ask Mr. Pringle if
anybody had come to take him, but he wasn't there. There wasn't
_any_body there but old deaf Mike who cleans the stable and I couldn't
make _him_ understand a single thing I said. He just mumbled and
wagged his head for all the world like that China mandarin in the
library, and didn't do a thing though I yelled at him as hard as I
could."

"But _how_ did you get Baltie and, greater marvel, _how_ did you bring
him all this way home?" persisted Constance, bound to get to the
bottom of facts.

"I went into the box-stall--it's close to the door you know--and got him
and led him here."

"But where was Mike, and what was he doing all that time to _let_ you
do such a thing?"

"O, he went poking off down the stable and didn't pay any attention to
me. It wouldn't have made any difference if he _had_; I had gone there
to rescue Baltie and save him from being shot, and I didn't mean to
come away without doing it. The two weeks were up to-day and he was
_there_. If any one had been found to take him he _wouldn't_ have been
there yet, would he? So _that_ settled it, and I wasn't going to take
any chances. If I'd let him stay one day longer they might have shot
him. If I could have found Mr. Pringle I'd have told him, but I
couldn't, and I didn't dare to wait. I left my bank money, almost five
dollars, to pay for this week's board--Mr. Stuyvesant said it would be
enough--and a little note to tell him it was for Baltie; I wrote it on
a piece of paper in his office, and then I came home as fast as Baltie
could walk, and here we are."

Jean had talked very rapidly and Constance was too dumfounded for the
time being, to interrupt the flow of words. Presently however, she
recovered her speech and, resting one hand on Baltie's withers and the
other on Jean's shoulder, asked resignedly:

"And now that you've got him, may I ask what in this world you propose
to _do_ with him?"

"Take him out to the stable of course and take care of him as long as
he lives," was the uncontrovertible reply.

"Mother will _never_ let you do such a thing, Jean, and he must be
taken back to Pringle's at once," said Constance, with more emphasis
than usually entered her speech toward this mad-cap little sister.

"I won't! I won't! I _won't_ let him go back!" broke out Jean, a storm
of sobs ending the protest and bringing Mammy upon the scene hot-foot,
for Mammy's ears were keen for notes of woe from her baby.

"What's de matter, honey? What done happen ter yo'?" she cried as she
came hurrying across the little porch upon which the dining-room
opened. "Bress Gawd what yo' got dere, chile? Huccum dat old horse
here?"

"Oh Mammy, Mammy, its Baltie, and she says I can't keep him, and they
are going to _kill_ him, 'cause he's old and blind and hasn't anyone
to take care of him. And Mammy, Mammy, _please_ don't let 'em 'cause I
_love_ him. I do, I do, Mammy," cried Jean as she cast Baltie's leader
from her and rushed to Mammy, to fling herself into those protecting
arms and sob out her woes.

"Wha', wha', wha', yo' say, Baby?" stammered Mammy, whose tongue
sometimes became unruly under great excitement. "Somebody gwine tek
away dat old horse dat yo' love, an' breck yo' heart? Huh! Who gwine
do dat when Mammy stan' by? I like 'er _see_ 'em do it! _Co'se_ I
knows Baltie. Ain' I seen him dese many years? An' yo' gwine pertec'
him an' keer fer him in his discrepancy? Well, ef yo' wantter yo'
_shall_, an' dat's all 'bout it."

"But Mammy, Mammy, she can't; she mustn't; what will mother say?"
remonstrated Constance smiling in spite of herself at the ridiculous
situation for Mammy had promptly put on her war-paint, and was a
formidable champion to overcome.

"An' what yo' _ma_ gotter say 'bout it if _I_ sets out ter tak' care
of an' old horse? 'Taint _her_ horse. _She_ aint got nothin' 'tall ter
_do wid_ him. He's been a lookin', an' a waitin'; and de Lawd knows
but he's been _a-prayin'_ fer a pertecter----how _we-all_ gwine know he
aint _prayed_ ter de Lawd fer ter raise one up fer him in his mis'ry?
An' now he's _got_ one an' it's _me_ an' dis chile. Go 'long an' set
yo' table an' let us 'lone. Come on honey; we'll take old Baltie out
yonder ter de stable an' bed him _down_ an' feed him _up_ twell he so
sot up he like 'nough bus' wid pride, an' I just like ter see who
gwine _stop_ us. Hi yah-yah, yah," and Mammy's wrath ended in a
melodious laugh as she caught hold of the leader and stalked off with
this extraordinary addition to her already manifold duties, Jean
holding her free hand and nodding exultingly over her shoulder at
Constance who had collapsed upon the lower step.




CHAPTER VI

Blue Monday


October, with its wealth of color, its mellow days, and soft haze was
passing quickly and November was not far off: November with its
"melancholy days" of "wailing winds and wintry woods."

Baltie had now been a member of the Carruth family for nearly a month
and had improved wonderfully under Mammy Melviny's care. How the old
woman found time to care for him and the means to provide for him was
a source of wonder not only to Mrs. Carruth, but to the entire
neighborhood who regarded the whole thing as a huge joke, and enjoyed
many a hearty laugh over it, for Mammy was considered a character by
the neighbors, and nobody felt much surprised at any new departure in
which she might elect to indulge. Two or three friends had begged Mrs.
Carruth to let them relieve her of the care of the old horse, assuring
her that they would gladly keep him in their stables as long as he
needed a home, and ended in a hearty laugh at the thought of Mammy
turning groom. But when Mrs. Carruth broached the subject to Mammy she
was met with flat opposition:

"Send dat ole horse off ter folks what was jist gwine tek keer of him
fer cha'ity? _No_ I aint gwine do no sich t'ing. De Lawd sartin sent
him ter me ter tek keer of an' I'se gwin ter _do_ it. Aint he mine?
Didn't Jabe Raulsbury say dat anybody what would tek keer of him could
_have_ him? Well I'se tekin' keer of him so _co'se_ he's _mine_. I
aint never is own no live stock befo' an now I _got_ some. Go 'long,
Miss Jinny; you'se got plenty ter tend ter 'thout studyin' 'bout my
_horse_. Bimeby like 'nough I have him so fed up and spry I can sell
him fer heap er cash--dough I don' believe anybody's got nigh 'nough
fer ter buy him whilst Baby loves him."

And so the discussion ended and Baltie lived upon the fat of the land
and was sheltered in Mrs. Carruth's unused stable. Dry leaves which
fell in red and yellow clouds from the maple, birch and oak trees made
a far softer bed than the old horse had known in many a day. A bag of
bran was delivered at Mrs. Carruth's house for "Mammy Melviny," with
Hadyn Stuyvesant's compliments. Mammy herself, invested in a sack of
oats and a bale of cut hay, to say nothing of saving all bits of bread
and parings from her kitchen, and Baltic waxed sleek and fat thereon.
Jean was his devoted slave and daily led him about the grounds for a
constitutional. Up and down the driveway paced the little girl, the
old horse plodding gently beside her, his ears pricked toward her for
her faintest word, his head held in the pathetic, listening attitude
of a blind horse. He knew her step afar off, and his soft nicker never
failed to welcome her as she drew near. To no one else did he show
such little affectionate ways, or manifest such gentleness. He seemed
to understand that to this little child, which one stroke of his great
hoofs could have crushed, he owed his rescue and present comforts.

And so the weeks had slipped away. The money which Jean had left for
Mr. Pringle had been promptly refunded with a note to explain that the
Society had borne all the expenses for Baltie's board.

Mrs. Carruth sat in her library wrinkling her usually serene brow over
a business letter this chilly Monday morning, and hurrying to get it
completed before the arrival of the letter carrier who always took any
letters to be mailed. Her face wore a perplexed expression, and her
eyes had tired lines about them, for the past year had been harder for
her than anyone suspected. Her income, at best, was much too limited
to conduct her home as it had always been conducted, and the general
expenses of living in Riveredge were steadily increasing. True, Mammy
was frugality itself in the matter of providing, and Mrs. Carruth
often marveled at the small amounts of her weekly bills. But the
demands in other directions were heavy, and the expenses of the place
itself were large. More than once had she questioned the wisdom of
striving to keep the home, believing that the tax upon her resources,
and her anxiety, would be less if she gave it up and removed to town
where she could live for far less than in Riveredge. Then arose the
memory of the building of the home, the hopes, the plans, and the joys
so inseparable from it, the children's well-being and their love for
the house their father had built; their education, and the environment
of a home in such a town as Riveredge.

Now, however, new difficulties were confronting her, for some of her
investments were not making the returns she had expected and her
income was seriously affected. In spite of the utmost frugality and
care the outlook was not encouraging, and just now she had to meet the
demand of the fire insurance upon the home and its contents, and just
how to do so was the question which was causing her brows to wrinkle.
She had let the matter stand until the last moment, but dared to do so
no longer for upon that point Mr. Carruth had always been most
emphatic; the insurance upon his property must never lapse. He had
always carried one, and since his death his wife had been careful to
continue it. But _now_ how to meet the sum, and meet it at once, was
the problem.

She had completed her letter when Mammy came to the door.

"Is yo' here, Miss Jinny? Is yo' busy? I wants to ax you sumpin'," she
said as she gave a quick glance at Mrs. Carruth from her keen eyes.

"Come in, Mammy. What is it?"

The voice had a tired, anxious note in it which Mammy was quick to
catch.

"Wha' de matter, honey? Wha's plaguin' you dis mawnin'?" she asked as
she hurried across the room to rest her hand on her mistress'
shoulder.

Like a weary child Mrs. Carruth let her head fall upon Mammy's bosom--a
resting place that as long as she could remember had never failed
her--as she said:

"Mammy, your baby is very weary, and sorely disheartened this morning,
and very, very lonely."

The words ended in a sob.

Instantly all Mammy's sympathies were aroused. Gathering the weary
head in her arms she stroked back the hair with her work-hardened
hand, as she said in the same tender tones she had used to soothe her
baby more than forty years ago:

"Dere, dere, honey, don' yo' fret; don' yo' fret. Tell Mammy jist
what's pesterin' yo' an' she'll mak' it all right fer her baby. Hush!
Hush. Mammy can tek keer of anythin'."

"Oh, Mammy dear, dear old Mammy, you take care of so much as it is.
What _would_ we do without you?"

"Hush yo' talk chile! What I gwine do widout yo' all? Dat talk all
foolishness. Don't I b'long ter de fambly? Now yo' mind yo' Mammy an'
tell her right off what's a frettin' yo' dis day. Yo' heah _me_?"

Mammy's voice was full of forty-five years of authority, but her eyes
were full of sympathetic tears, for her love for her "Miss Jinny" was
beyond the expression of words.

"O Mammy, I am so foolish, and I fear so pitifully weak when it comes
to conducting my business affairs wisely. You can't understand these
vexatious business matters which I must attend to, but I sorely miss
Mr. Carruth when they arise and _must_ be met."

"Huccum I cyan't understand 'em? What Massa Bernard done tackle in his
business dat I cyan't ef _yo'_ kin? Tell me dis minute just what you'
gotter do, an' I bate yo' ten dollars I c'n _do_ it."

"I know there isn't anything you would not try to do, Mammy, from
taking care of an old horse, to moving the contents of the entire
house if it became necessary," replied Mrs. Carruth, smiling in spite
of herself, as she wiped her eyes, little realizing how near the truth
was her concluding remark regarding Mammy's prowess.

"I reckon I c'd move de hull house if I had _time_ enough, an' as fer
de horse--huh! ain't he stanin' dere a livin' tes'imony of what a
bran-smash an' elbow-grease kin do? 'Pears lak his hairs rise right up
an' call me bres-sed, dey's tekin' ter shinin' so sense I done rub my
hans ober 'em," and Mammy, true to her racial characteristics, broke
into a hearty laugh; so close together lies the capacity for joy or
sorrow in this child race. The next instant, however, Mammy was all
seriousness as she demanded:

"Now I want yo' ter tell me all 'bout dis bisness flummy-diddle what's
frettin' yo'. Come now; out wid it, quick."

Was it the old habit of obedience to Mammy's dictates, or the woman's
longing for someone to confide in during these trying days of
loneliness, that impelled Mrs. Carruth to explain in as simple
language as possible the difficulties encompassing her?

The burden of meeting even the ordinary every-day expenses upon the
very limited income derived from Mr. Carruth's life insurance, which
left no margin whatsoever for emergencies. Of the imperative necessity
of continuing the fire insurance he had always carried upon the home
and its contents, lest a few hours wipe out what it had required years
to gather together, and his wife and children be left homeless. How,
under their altered circumstances this seemed more than ever
imperative, since in the event of losing the house and its contents
there would be no possible way of replacing either unless they kept
the insurance upon them paid up.

Mammy listened intently, now and again nodding her old head and
uttering a Um-uh! Um-uh! of comprehension.

When Mrs. Carruth ceased speaking she asked:

"An' how much has yo' gotter plank right out dis minit fer ter keep
dis hyer as'sur'nce f'om collaps'in', honey?"

"Nearly thirty dollars, Mammy, and that seems a very large sum to me
now-a-days."

"Hum-uh! Yas'm. So it do. Um. An' yo' aint got it?"

"I have not got it to-day, Mammy. I shall have it next week, but the
time expires day after to-morrow and I do not know whether the company
will be willing to wait, or whether I should forfeit my claim by the
delay. I have written to ask."

"Huh! Wha' sort o' compiny is it dat wouldn't trus' a _Blairsdale_, I
like ter know?" demanded Mammy indignantly.

Mrs. Carruth smiled sadly as she answered:

"These are not the old days, Mammy, and you know 'corporations have no
souls.'"

"No so'les? Huh, _I'se_ seen many a corpo'ration dat hatter have good
thick _leather_ soles fer ter tote 'em round. Well, well, times is
sho' 'nough changed an' dese hyer Norf ways don't set well on my bile;
dey rises it, fer sure. So dey ain't gwine _trus'_ you, Baby? Where
dey live at who has de sesso 'bout it all?"

"The main office is in the city, Mammy, but they have, of course, a
local agent here."

"Wha' yo' mean by a locum agen', honey?"

"A clerk who has an office at 60 State street, and who attends to any
business the firm may have in Riveredge."

"Is yo' writ yo' letter ter him? Who _is_ he?"

"No, I have written to the New York office, because Mr. Carruth always
transacted his business there. I thought it wiser to, for this Mr.
Sniffins is a very young man, and would probably not be prepared to
answer my question."

"Wha' yo' call him? Yo' don' mean dat little swimbly, red-headed,
white-eyed sumpin' nu'er what sets down in dat basemen' office wid his
foots cocked up on de rail-fence in front ob him, an' a segyar mos' as
big as his laig stuck in he's mouf all de time? I sees _him_ eve'y
time I goes ter market, an' he lak' ter mek me sick. Is _he_ de
agen'?"

"Yes, Mammy, and I dare say he is capable enough, although I do not
care to come in contact with him if I can avoid it."

"If I ketches yo' in dat 'tater sprout's office I gwine smack yo'
sure's yo' bo'n. Yo' heah _me_? Why _his_ ma keeps the _sody_-fountain
on Main street. Wha-fo you gotter do wid such folks, Baby?"

"But, Mammy, they are worthy, respectable people,"--protested Mrs.
Carruth.

"Hush yo' talk, chile. _I_ reckon I knows de diff'rence twixt quality
an' de _yether_ kind. Dat's no place fer yo' to go at," cried Mammy,
all her instincts rebelling against the experiences her baby was
forced to meet in her altered circumstances. "Gimme dat letter. I'se
gwine straight off ter markit dis minit and I'll see dat it get sont
off ter de right pusson 'for I'se done anudder ting."

"But what did you wish to ask me, Mammy?"

"Nuffin'. 'Taint no 'count 'tall. I'll ax it when I comes back. Go
'long up-stairs and mek yo' bed if yo pinin' for occerpation," and
away Mammy flounced from the room, leaving Mrs. Carruth more or less
bewildered. She would have been completely so could she have followed
the old woman.




CHAPTER VII

Mammy Generalissimo


Half an hour later a short, stout <DW52> woman in neat, print gown,
immaculate white apron, gorgeous headkerchief and gray plaid shawl,
entered the office of the Red Star Fire Insurance Company, at No. 60
State street, and walking up to the little railing which divided from
the vulgar herd the sacred precincts of Mr. Elijah Sniffins,
representative, rested her hand upon the small swinging gate as she
nodded her head slightly and asked:

"Is yo' Mister Sniffins, de locum agen' fer de Fire Insur'nce
Comp'ny?"

"I am," replied that gentleman,--without removing from between his
teeth the huge cigar upon which he was puffing until he resembled a
small-sized locomotive, or changing his position--"Mr. Elijah Sniffins,
representative of the Red Star Insurance Company. Are you thinkin' of
taking out a policy?" concluded that gentleman with a supercilious
smirk.

Mammy's eyes narrowed slightly and her lips were compressed for a
moment.

"No, sir, I don' reckon I is studyin' 'bout takin' out no pol'cy. I
jist done come hyer on a little private bisness wid yo'."

Mammy paused, somewhat at a loss how to proceed, for business affairs
seemed very complicated to her. Mr. Elijah Sniffins was greatly amused
and continued to eye her and smile. He was a dapper youth of probably
twenty summers, with scant blond hair, pale blue, shifty eyes, a weak
mouth surmounted by a cherished mustache of numerable hairs and a chin
which stamped him the toy of stronger wills. Mammy knew the type and
loathed it. His smirk enraged her, and rage restored her
self-possession. Raising her head with a little sidewise jerk as
befitted the assurance of a Blairsdale, she cried:

"Yas--sir, I done come to ax yo' a question 'bout de 'surance on a
place in Riveredge. I hears de time fer settlin' up gwine come day
atter to-morrer an' if 'taint settled up de 'surance boun' ter
collapse. Is dat so?"

"Unless the policy is renewed it certainly _will_ 'collapse,'" replied
Mr. Sniffins breaking into an amused laugh.

"Huh! 'Pears like yo' find it mighty 'musin'," was Mammy's next remark
and had Mr. Elijah Sniffins been a little better acquainted with his
patron he would have been wise enough to take warning from her tone.

"Well, you see I am not often favored with visits from ladies of your
color who carry fire insurance policies. A good many carry _life_
insurance, but as a rule they don't insure their estates against
_fire_, an' the situation was so novel that it amused me a little. No
offense meant."

"An' none teken--from _your_ sort," retorted Mammy. "But how 'bout dis
hyer pol'cy? What I gotter do fer ter keep it f'om collapsin' ef it
aint paid by day atter to-morrer?"

"Pay it _to-day, or_ to-morrow," was the suave reply accompanied by a
wave of the hand to indicate the ultimatum.

"'Spose dey ain't got de money fer ter pay right plank down, but kin
pay de week atter? Could'n' de collapse be hild up twell den?"

"Ha! Ha!" laughed Mr. Elijah. "I'm 'fraid not; I've heard of those
'next week' settlements before, and experience tells me that 'next
week' aint never arrived yet. Ha! Ha!"

"Den yo' won't trus' de Ca-- de fambly?" Mammy had very nearly betrayed
herself.

"Well, if it was the Rogers, or the Wellmans, or the Stuyvesants, or
some of them big bugs up yonder on the hill, that everybody knows has
got piles of money, and that everybody knows might let the policy
lapse just because it had slipped their memory--why, that 'd be a
different matter. We'd know down in this here office that it was just
an oversight, yer see; not a busted bank account. So, of course, we'd
make concessions; just jog 'em up a little and a check 'd come 'long
all O.K. and no fuss. But these small policies--why--well, I've got ter
be more careful of the company's interests; I hold a responsible
position here."

"De good Lawd, yo' don' sesso!" exclaimed Mammy, turning around and
around to scrutinize every corner of the tiny office, and then letting
her eyes rest upon the being whose sense of responsibility was
apparently crushing him down upon his chair, if one could judge from
his semi-recumbent position. "Dat's shore 'nough a pity. Look lak it
mought be mos' too much fer yo'. Don' seem right fer a comp'ny ter put
sich a boy as yo' is in sich a 'sponsible 'sition, do it now?"

Mammy's expression was solicitude personified. Mr. Elijah Sniffins'
face became a delicate rose color, and his feet landed upon the floor
with emphasis as he straightened in his chair, and dragged nervously
at the infinitesimal mustache, meanwhile eying Mammy with some
misgivings.

Mammy continued to smile upon him benignly, and her smile proved as
disconcerting as she meant it should. She resolved to have her innings
with the smug youth who had begun by slighting her race and ended by
doing far worse; failing to class the Carruths among those whom
everyone trusted as a matter of course. The former slight might have
been disregarded; the latter? _Never._ Consequently Mammy had
instantly decided "ter mak' dat little no'count sumpin 'er ner'er
squirm jist fer ter te'ch him what's due de quality," and the process
had begun.

Poor Mammy! She would never learn that in the northern world where her
lot was now cast the almighty dollar was king, queen and court
combined. That its possession could carry into high places bad
manners, low birth, aye actual rascality and hold them up to the
shallow as enviable things when veneered with golden luster. That "de
quality" without that dazzling reflector were very liable to be cast
aside as of no value, as the nugget of virgin gold might be tramped
upon and its worth never suspected by the unenlightened in their
eagerness to reach a shining bit of polished brass farther along the
path.

But Mammy's traditions were deeply rooted.

"I think I can take care of the position. What can I do for you? My
time is valuable," snapped Mr. Elijah Sniffins, rising from his chair
and coming close to the dividing railing, as a hint to Mammy to
conclude her business.

"De Lawd er massy! Is dat so? Now I ain't never is 'spitioned dat f'om
de looks ob t'ings. 'Pears lak yo' got a sight o' time on han'. Wal I
'clar fo' it I do'n un'nerstan' dese hyer bisness places no how. Well!
Well! So yo' want me fer ter state mine an' cl'ar long out, does yo'
Mr. 'Lijah? 'Lijah; _'Lijah_. Was yo' ma a studyin' 'bout yo' doin's
when she done giv' yo' dat name? Sort o' fits yo' pine blank, don' it
now? Like 'nuf de cha'iot 'll come kitin' 'long one o' dese hyer days
an' hike yo' inter de high places. Yah! Yah!" and Mammy's mellow laugh
filled the office.

"See here, old woman, if you've got some little picayune payment to
make, _make_ it and clear out. I ain't got time ter stand here talkin'
ter <DW65>s," cried the agent, his temper taking final flight.

Mammy eyed him steadily as she said:

"Wall _dis yere_ time yo's gwine deal wid a <DW65>, an' yo's gwine do
lak _she say_. Dis yere comp'ny 'sures de Carruth house an' eve'y last
t'ing what's inside it, an' de policy yo' say 's gotter be settled up
when it's gotter be, or de hul t'ing 'll collapse? Now Miss Jinny
ain't never _is_ had no dealin's wid _yo'_, case I don' _let_ her have
dealin's wid no white trash--_I_ handles _dat_ sort when it has ter be
handled--an' I keeps jist as far f'om it as ever I kin _while_ I
handles it. But I'se gotter settle up dis policy fer de fambly so what
is it? How much is I gotter pay yo'?"

The varying expressions passing over Mr. Sniffins' countenance during
Mammy's speech would have delighted an artist.

"What er? What er? What er you telling me?" he stammered.

"De ain't no 'watter' 'bout it; it's _fire_, an' I done come ter
settle up," asserted Mammy.

"Have you brought the necessary papers with you? Have we a record in
this office?"

"Don' know nuffin' 'tall 'bout no papers nor no records. Jist knows
dat Miss Jinny's insured fer $15,000," said Mammy, causing the youth
confronting her to open his eyes. "Dis hyer letter what she done wrote
dis mawn'in tells all 'bout it I 'spec'. She tol' me pos' it ter de
comp'ny an' I reckons _yo'll_ do fer de comp'ny _dis_ time when de
time's pressin' an' der ain't nuffin' _better_ ter han'."

The contempt in Mammy's tone was tangible, as she held the letter as
far from her as possible. Mr. Sniffins took it, noted the address and
broke the seal. When he had read the letter he said with no little
triumph in his voice:

"But in this letter Mrs. Carruth says distinctly that she is not
prepared to pay the sum which falls due day after to-morrow, and asks
for an extension of time. I am not prepared to make this extension.
_That's_ up to the company," and he held the letter toward Mammy as
though he washed his hands of the whole affair.

Mammy did not take it. Instead she said very much as she would have
spoken to a refractory child who was not quite sure of what he could
or could _not_ do: "La Honey, don' yo' 'spose I sensed _dat_ long go?
Co'se I knows _yo'_ cyant do nuffin' much; yo's only a lil' boy, an'
der cyant no boy do a man's wo'k. Yo's hyer fer ter tek in de _cash_,
an' so _dat's_ what I done come ter pay. Miss Jinny she done mek up
her mine dat she better pay dat policy dan use de money fer
frolic'in'. I reckons yo' can tek cyer of it an' sen' it long down
yonder whar de big comp'ny 's at. Dat's all I want _yo'_ ter do, so
now go 'long an' git busy an' _do_ it. _Dere's_ thirty dollars; count
it so's yo's suah. Den write it all out crost de back ob Miss Jinny's
letter so's I have sumpin fer ter show dat it's done paid."

"But I'll give you a regular receipt for the amount," said the clerk,
now eager to serve a customer whose premium represented so large a
policy.

"Yo' kin give me dat too if yo' wantter, but I wants de sign on de
letter too, an' yo' full name, Mr. Elijah Sniffins, ter boot, you
knows what yo' jist done said 'bout trus'in' folks, an' _yo'_ don'
berlong ter de Rogersers, ner de Wellmans, ner de Stuyvesants, but _I_
berlongs ter de _Blairsdales_!"

Mammy grew nearly three inches taller as she made this statement,
while her hearer seemed to grow visibly shorter. The receipt was duly
filled out, likewise an acknowledgment written upon the blank side of
Mrs. Carruth's letter and Elijah Sniffins' name signed thereto. Mammy
took them scrutinized both with great care (she could not read one
word) nodded and said:

"Huh, Um. Yas, sir. I reckon _dat_ all squar'. If de house burn down
ter night _we_ all gwine git de 'surance sure 'nough. Yas--yas."

"You certainly could collect whatever was comin' to you," Mr. Sniffins
assured her, his late supercilious smile replaced by a most obsequious
one for this representative of the possessors of the dollars he
worshiped. Mr. Sniffins meant to have a good many dollars himself some
day and the luxuries which dollars stand for.

Mammy nodded, and placing the receipt and letter in her bag gave a
slight nod and turned to leave the office. Mr. Sniffins hurried to
open the door for her. As she was about to cross the threshold she
paused, eyed him keenly from the crown of his smoothly brushed head to
his patent-leather-shod feet and then asked:

"Huccum yo' opens de do' fer <DW65>s? Ef yo' b'longed ter de quality
yo'd let de <DW65>s open de do's fer _yo_. Yo' better run 'long an'
ten' yo' ma's sody foun'in 'twell yo' learns de quality manners."

An hour later Mammy was busy in her kitchen, the receipts safely
pinned within her bodice and no one the wiser for the morning's
business transaction.




CHAPTER VIII

Chemical Experiments


"Eleanor! Eleanor! where are you?" cried Constance at the foot of the
third-story stairs the following day after luncheon.

Blue Monday had passed with its dull gray clouds and chill winds to
give place to one of those rare, warm days which sometimes come to us
late in October, as though the glorious autumn were loath to depart
and had turned back for a last smile upon the land it loved.

The great river lay like shimmering liquid gold, the air was filled
with the warm, pungent odors of the late autumn woods, and a soft haze
rested upon the opposite hills.

"Here in my room," answered Eleanor. "What is it? What do you want? I
can't come just this minute. Come up if it's important." The voice was
somewhat muffled as though the speaker's head were covered.

Constance bounded up the stairs, hurried across the hall and entered
the large third-story front room which Eleanor occupied. There was no
sign of its occupant.

"More experiments I dare say," she murmured as she entered, crossed
the room and pushed open the door leading into a small adjoining room
whereupon her nostrils were assailed by odors _not_ of Araby--the
blessed.

"Phew! Ugh! What an awful smell! What under the sun are you doing? If
you don't blow yourself to glory some day I shall be thankful," she
ended as she pinched her nostrils together.

"Shut the door quick and don't let the smell get through the house or
mother will go crazy when she gets home. Yes, it _is_ pretty bad, but
tie your handkerchief over your nose and then you won't mind it so
much. As for blowing myself to glory, perhaps that will be my only way
of ever coming by any, so I ought to be willing to take that route.
But what do you want?" concluded Eleanor, pouring one smelly chemical
into a small glass which contained another, whereupon it instantly
became a most exquisite shade of crimson.

Constance watched her closely without speaking. Presently she said:

"Well I dare say it is 'everyone to her fancy,' as the old lady said
when she kissed her cow (Jean could appreciate that, couldn't she? She
kisses Baltie often enough) but _I'd_ rather be excused when chemical
experiments are in order. Don't for the life of me understand how you
endure the smells and the mess. What is _that_ horrid looking thing
over there?" and Constance pointed to a grewsome-looking object
stretched upon a small glass table at the farther side of the room.

"My rabbit. I got it at the school laboratory and I've been examining
its respiratory organs. They're perfectly wonderful, Constance. Want
to see them? I'll be done with this in just a minute."

"_No I don't!_" was the empathic negative. "I dare say it's all very
wonderful and interesting and I ought to know all about breathing
apparatus----_es_, or apparatti, or whatever the plural of our wind-pump
machine _is_, but if I've got to learn by hashing up animals I'll
never, _never_ know, and that's all there is about it. I'll take my
knowledge on theory or supposition or whatever you call it. But I've
nearly forgotten to tell you the news. I've had a letter from Mrs.
Hadyn, Mr. Stuyvesant's aunt, the one he is named for you know, asking
me to help at the candy counter at the Memorial Hospital Fair, week
after next, and, incidentally, contribute some of my 'delicious
pralines and nut fudge'--that's in quotes remember,--and remain for the
dance which will follow after ten-thirty on the closing evening. She
will see that I reach home safely. How is _that_ for a frolic? I've
been wild for a dance the past month."

"Is mother willing? What will you wear?" was the essentially feminine
inquiry which proved that Eleanor, even though absorbed in her
sciences and isms, was a woman at heart.

"What is the use of asking that? You know I've got to wear whatever is
on hand to be utilized into gay and festive attire. I can't indulge in
new frocks now-a-days when the finances are at such a low ebb. Need
all we've got for necessities without thinking of spending money for
notions. But I'll blossom out gloriously; see if I don't. That was one
reason I came up to talk to you. Can you tear yourself away from your
messes long enough to come up to the attic with me? I've been wanting
to rummage for days, but haven't been able to get around to it. So
tidy up, and come along. You've absorbed enough knowledge to last you
for one while."

Eleanor wavered a moment and then began to put aside her materials,
and a few moments later the two girls were up in the attic.

"Do you know what I believe I'll do?" said Constance, after a half
hour's rummaging among several trunks had brought forth a perplexing
array of old finery, winter garments and outgrown apparel. "I believe
I'll just cart down every solitary dud we've got here and have them
all aired. I heard mother say last week that they ought to be, and she
would have it done the first clear, dry day, and this one is simply
heavenly. Come on; take an armful and get busy. They smell almost as
abominably from tar camphor as your laboratory smells of chemicals."

"Think I'd rather have the chemicals if my choice were consulted,"
laughed Eleanor as obedient to instructions, she gathered up an armful
of clothing and prepared to descend the stairs.

"Thanks, I'll take the tar. Go on; I'll follow."

Little was to be seen of either girl as she moved slowly down the
stairs. At the foot stood Mammy.

"Fo' de Lawd sake wha' yo' chillen at _now_?" she demanded as she
stood barring their progress.

"Bringing out our winter wardrobes, Mammy. Good deal of it as to
quantity; what it will turn out as to quality remains to be seen,"
cried Constance cheerily.

"Lak' 'nough mos' anyt'ing if yo' had de handlin' ob it. Yo' sartin'
_is_ de banginest chile wid yo' han's," was Mammy's flattering reply.

"Perhaps if I could 'bang' as well with my brains as with my hands I
might amount to something, Mammy. But Nornie has all the brains of the
family. _She_'ll make our fame and fortune some day; see if she
doesn't."

"Guess I'll have to do something clever then if I am to become famous
in _this_ day and age," said Eleanor, as she made her way past Mammy.
"Thus far I haven't given very noble promise."

"Who sesso?" demanded Mammy. "Ain' yo' de fust and fo'most up dere
whar de school's at? What fur ole Miss sendin' yo' dar fer den? Huh, I
reckon _she_ know whar ter spen' her money, an' Gawd knows she ain'
spendin' none what ain' gwine ter pintedly make up fer all she gin
out. _She_ no fool, I tell yo'."

The girls broke into peals of laughter, for Mammy's estimation of "ol'
Miss," as she called Mr. Carruth's aunt by marriage, was a pretty
accurate one, "Aunt Eleanor" being a lady who had very pronounced
ideas and no hesitation whatever in giving expression to them, as well
as a very strong will to back them up. She also had a pretty liberally
supplied purse, the supply being drawn from a large estate which she
had inherited from her father, a Central New York farmer, who had made
a fortune in fruit-growing and ended his days in affluence, although
he had begun them in poverty. She had no children, her only son having
died when a child, and her husband soon afterward. Bernard Carruth had
always been a favorite with her, although she never forgave him for
what she pronounced his "utter and imbecilic folly." It was Aunt
Eleanor who made the seminary possible for the niece who had been
named for her; a compliment which flattered the old lady more than she
chose to let others suspect, for the niece was manifesting a fine
mind, and the aunt had secretly resolved to do not a little toward its
development although she took pains to guard the fact.

"Go along up-stairs and get an armful of things, Mammy. That will keep
you from flattering me and making me conceited," cried Eleanor, when
the laugh ended.

"Huh! Mek a Blairsdale 'ceited?" retorted Mammy, as she started up to
the attic. "Dey's got too much what dey _knows_ is de right stuff fer
ter pester dey haids studyin' 'bout it; it's right dar all de endurin'
time; dey ain' gotter chase atter it lessen dey loses it."

"Was there ever such a philosopher as Mammy?" laughed Constance as
they got beyond hearing.

"Wish there were a few more with as much sound sense--black or white--"
answered Eleanor as she shook out one of Jean's frocks and hung it
across the clothes-line.

A moment later Mammy joined them with more garments which cried aloud
for the glorious fresh air and sunshine. She hung piece after piece
upon the line, giving a shake here, a pat there, or almost a caress
upon another, for each one recalled to her loving old heart the memory
of more prosperous days, and each held its story for her. When all
were swinging in the sunshine she stepped back and surveyed the array,
her mouth pursed up quizzically, but her eyes full of kindness.

"What are you thinking of Mammy?" asked Constance, slipping her
fingers into Mammy's work-hardened hand very much as she had done when
a little child.

"Hum; Um: What's I t'inkin' of? I'se t'inkin' dat ar lot ob clo'se
supin lak we-all here: De'y good stuff in um, an' I reckon dey c'n
stan' 'spection, on'y dey sartin _do_ stan' in need ob jist a _leetle_
spondulix fer ter put em in shape. Dar's _too much_ ob em spread all
_ober_. What dey needs is ter rip off some o' dem _ruffles_ and jis
hang ter de plain frocks ter tek keer ob. We spen's a heap ob time
breshin' ruffles dat we better spen' tekin' keer ob de frocks in,"
concluded Mammy with a sage nod as she turned and walked into the
house.

"Upon my word I believe Mammy's pretty near right Eleanor. We _have_
got a good many _ruffles_ to take care of on this big place and I
sometimes feel that mother is wearing herself out caring for them.
Perhaps we would be wiser to give them up."

"Perhaps we would," agreed Eleanor, "but where will we go if we give
up the home? We have hardly known any other, for we were both too
little to think much about homes or anything else when we came into
this one. For my part, I am ready to do whatever is best and wisest,
although I love every stick and stone here. Mother has looked terribly
worried lately although she hasn't said one word to me. Has she to
you?

"No, nothing at all. But I know what you mean; her eyes look so tired.
I wonder if anything new has arisen to make her anxious. She says so
little at any time. I mean to have a talk with her this evening if I
can get a chance. Do you get Jean out of the way. She is such an
everlasting chatterbox that there is no hope of a quiet half hour
while she is around. Now let's take an inventory of this array and
plan my frivolity frock," and Constance drew Eleanor down upon a
rustic seat at one side of the lawn to discuss the absorbing question
of the new gown to be evolved from some of the old ones which were
swaying in the wind.

Perhaps a half hour passed, the girls were giving little heed to time,
for the drowsy dreamy influence of the afternoon was impressing itself
upon them. Constance had planned the gown to the minutest detail,
Eleanor agreeing and secretly marveling at her ability to do so, when
both became aware of a strong odor of smoke.

"What is burning, I wonder?" said Constance, glancing in the direction
of a patch of woodland not far off.

"Leaves, most likely. The Henrys' gardener has burned piles and piles
of them ever since they began falling. I shouldn't think there would
be any left for him to burn," answered Eleanor, looking in the same
direction.

"It doesn't smell like leaves, it smells like wood, and--oh! Eleanor,
Eleanor, look! look at your window! The smoke is just pouring from it!
The house is a-fire! Run! Run! Quick! Quick!"




CHAPTER IX

Spontaneous Combustion


Had the ground opened and disgorged the town, men, women and children
could hardly have appeared upon the scene with more startling
promptitude than they appeared within five minutes after Constance's
discovery of the smoke. How they got there only those who manage to
get to every fire before the alarm ceases to sound can explain, and,
as usual, there arrived with them the over-officious, and the
over-zealous.

As Constance and Eleanor rushed into the house, the multitude rushed
across the grounds and followed them hotfoot, while one, more
level-headed than his fellows, hastened to the nearest fire-box to
turn in an alarm.

Meanwhile Mammy had also smelt the smoke, and as the girls ran through
the front hall she came through the back one crying:

"Fo' de Lawd's sake wha' done happen? De house gwine burn down on top
our haids?"

"Quick, Mammy. It's Eleanor's room," cried Constance as she flew up
the stairs.

Mammy needed no urging. In one second she had grasped the situation
and was up in Mrs. Carruth's room dragging forth such articles and
treasures as she knew to be most valued and piling them into a
blanket. There was little time to waste for the flames had made
considerable headway when discovered and were roaring wildly through
the upper floor when the fire apparatus arrived. Mrs. Carruth was out
driving with a friend and Jean was off with her beloved Amy Fletcher.

Only those who have witnessed such a scene can form any adequate idea
of the confusion which followed that outburst of smoke from Eleanor's
windows. Men ran hither and thither carrying from the burning house
whatever articles they could lay their hands upon, to drop them from
the windows to those waiting below to catch them. Firemen darted in
and out, apparently impervious to either flames or smoke, directing
their hose where the streams would prove most effectual and sending
gallons of water upon the darting flames. The fact that the fire had
started in the third-story saved many articles from destruction by the
flames, although the deluge of water which flooded the house and
poured down the stairways like miniature Niagaras speedily ruined what
the flames spared.

Eleanor rushed toward her room but was quickly driven back by a burst
of flames and smoke that nearly suffocated her, while Constance flew
to Jean's and her own room, meanwhile calling directions to Mammy.
Five minutes, however, from the time they entered the house they were
forced to beat a retreat, encountering as they ran Miss Jerusha Pike,
a neighbor who never missed any form of excitement or interesting
occurrence in her neighborhood.

"What can I do? Have you saved your ma's clothes? Did you get out that
mirror that belonged to your great-grandmother?" she cried, as she
laid a detaining hand upon Constance's arm.

"I don't know, Miss Pike. Come out quick. It isn't safe to stay here
another second. We must let the men save what they can. Come."

"No! No! I _must_ save your grandmother's mirror. I know just where it
hangs. You get out quick. I won't be a second. Go!"

"Never mind the mirror, there are other things more valuable than
that," cried Eleanor as she tugged at the determined old lady's arm.
But Miss Pike was not to be deterred and rushed away to the second
story in spite of them.

"She'll be burned to death! I _know_ she will," wailed Constance, as a
man ran across the hall calling:

"Miss Carruth, Miss Constance, where are you? You must get out of here
instantly!"

"Oh, Mr. Stuyvesant, Miss Pike has gone up to mother's room and I must
go after her."

"You must do nothing of the sort. Come out at once both of you. I'll
see to her when I've got you to a place of safety," and without more
ado Hadyn Stuyvesant hurried them both from the house to the lawn,
where a motley crowd was gathered, and their household goods and
chattels were lying about in the utmost confusion, while other
articles, escorted by various neighbors, were being borne along the
street to places of safety. One extremely proper and precise maiden
lady was struggling along under an armful of Mr. Carruth's
dress-shirts and pajamas brought forth from nobody knew where. A
portly matron, with the tread of a general, followed her with a
flatiron in one hand and a tiny doll in the other, while behind her a
small boy of eight staggered beneath the weight of a wash boiler.

"Where is Mammy? O _where_ is Mammy?" cried Eleanor, clasping her
hands and looking toward the burning building.

"Here me! Here me!" answered Mammy's voice as she hurried toward them
with a great bundle of rescued articles. "I done drug dese yer t'ings
f'om de burer in yo' ma's room an' do you keep tight fas' 'em 'twell I
come back. Mind now what I'se telling' yo' kase dere's t'ings in dar
dat she breck her heart ter lose. I'se gwine back fer sumpin' else."

"O Mammy! Mammy, _don't go_. You'll be burned to death," cried
Constance, laying her hand upon Mammy's arm to restrain her.

"You mustn't Mammy! You mustn't," echoed Eleanor.

"Stay here with the girls, Mammy, and let me get whatever it is you
are bent upon saving," broke in Hadyn Stuyvesant.

"Aint no time for argufying," cried Mammy, her temper rising at the
opposition. "You chillun stan' _dar_ an' tek kere ob _dat_ bundle, lak
I tell yo' an' yo', Massa Stuyv'sant, come 'long back wid me," was the
ultimatum, and, laughing in spite of the gravity of the situation,
Hadyn Stuyvesant followed Mammy whom he ever afterward called the
General.

As they hurried back to the kitchen entrance the one farthest removed
from the burning portion of the building, Mammy's eyes were seemingly
awake to every thing, and her tongue loosed of all bounds. As they
neared the dining-room someone was dropping pieces of silver out of
the window to someone else who stood just below it with skirts
outspread to catch the articles.

"Ain' dat de very las' bit an' grain o' nonsense?" panted Mammy.
"Dey's a-heavin' de silver plate outen de winder, an' bangin' it all
ter smash stidder totin' it froo' de back do', and fo' Gawd's sake
look dar, Massa Stuyv'sant! Dar go de' lasses!" cried Mammy, her hands
raised above her head as her words ended in a howl of derision, for,
overcome with excitement the person who was dropping the pieces of
silver had deliberately turned the syrup-jug bottom-side up and
deluged the person below with the contents. Had he felt sure that it
would have been his last Hadyn Stuyvesant could not have helped
breaking into peals of laughter, nor was the situation rendered less
absurd by the sudden reappearance of Miss Pike clasping the treasured
mirror to her breast and crying:

"Thank heaven! Thank heaven I'm alive and have _saved_ it. _Where_,
where are those dear girls that I may deliver this priceless treasure
into their hands?"

"Out yonder near the hedge, Miss Pike. I'm thankful you escaped. They
are much concerned about you. Better get along to them quick; I'm
under Mammy's orders," answered Hadyn when he could speak.

Off hurried the zealous female while Hadyn Stuyvesant followed Mammy
who was fairly snorting with indignation.

"Dat 'oman certain'y _do_ mak' me mad. Dat lookin' glass! Huh! I
reckons when Miss Jinny git back an' find what happen she aint goin'
ter study 'bout no lookin' glasses. No suh! She be studyin' 'bout whar
we all gwine put our _haids_ dis yere night. An' dat's what _I_ done
plan fer," concluded Mammy laying vigorous hold of a great roll of
bedding which she had carried to a place of safety just outside the
kitchen porch. "Please, suh, tek' holt here an' holp me get it out
yander ter de stable, I'se done got a sight o' stuff out dere
a-reddy," and sure enough Mammy, unaided, had carried enough
furniture, bedding and such articles as were absolutely indispensable
for living, out to the stable to enable the family to "camp out" for
several days, and with these were piled the garments hastily snatched
from the clothes-lines, Baltie mounting guard over all. Mrs. Carruth
had not been so very far wrong when she told Mammy she believed she
could move the house if necessity arose.

Meanwhile Miss Pike and her rescued mirror had reached the hedge, the
girls breathing a sigh of relief when they saw her bearing
triumphantly down upon them.

"There! There! If I never do another deed as long as I live I shall
feel that I have _not_ lived in vain! What _would_ your poor mother
have said had she returned to find this priceless heirloom destroyed,"
she cried, as she rested the mirror against a tree trunk and clasped
her hands in rapture at sight of it.

"Perhaps mother _might_ ask first whether _we_ had been rescued,"
whispered Constance, but added quickly, "_there_ is mother now. O I
wonder who told her," for just then a carriage was driven rapidly to
the front gate and as the girls ran toward it Mrs. Carruth stepped
quickly from it. She was very white and asked almost breathlessly,
"Girls, girls, is anyone hurt? Are you _all_ safe? Where's Mammy?"

"We are all safe mother, Mammy is here. Don't be frightened. We have
done everything possible and the fire is practically out now," said
Constance, passing her arm about her mother who was trembling
violently.

"Don't be alarmed, mother. It isn't really so dreadful as it might
have been; it truly isn't," said Eleanor soothingly. "Loads of things
have been saved."

"Yes, Mammy has outgeneraled us all, Mrs. Carruth," cried Hadyn
Stuyvesant, who now came hurrying upon the scene. "I guess she has
shown more sense than all the rest of us put together, for she's kept
her head."

"And oh, my dear! My dear, if all else were lost there is one
invaluable treasure spared to you! Come with me. I saved it for you
with my own hands. Come!" cried Miss Pike, as she slipped her arm
through Mrs. Carruth's and hurried her willy-nilly across the lawn.

There was the little round mirror in its quaint old-fashioned frame
leaning against the tree and reflecting all the weird scene in its
shining surface, and there, too, directly in front of it, strutted a
lordly game cock which belonged to the Carruths' next door neighbor.
How he happened to be there, in the midst of so much excitement and
confusion no one paused to consider, but as Miss Pike hurried poor
Mrs. Carruth toward the spot, Sir Chanticleer's burnished ruff began
to rise and the next instant there was a defiant squawk, a frantic
dash of brilliantly iridescent feathers, and the cherished heirloom
lay shattered beneath the triumphant game-cock's feet as he voiced a
long and very jubilant crow.

It was the stroke needed, for in spite of the calamity which had
overtaken her this was too much for Mrs. Carruth's sense of humor and
she collapsed upon the piano stool which stood conveniently at hand,
while Miss Pike bewailed Chanticleer's deed until one might have
believed it had been her own revered ancestor's mirror which had been
shattered by him.

Just then Mammy came hurrying upon the scene and was quick enough to
grasp the situation at a glance.

"Bress de Lawd, Honey, ain' I allers tol' ye' chickens got secon'
sight? Dat roos'er see double suah. He see himself in dat lookin'
glass an' bus' it wide open, an' he see we-all need ter laf stidder
cry, an' so he set out ter mek us."

At sight of her Mrs. Carruth stretched forth both hands like an
unhappy child and was gathered into her faithful old arms as she
cried:

"But oh, Mammy; Mammy, the insurance; the insurance. If I had _only_
been able to pay it yesterday."

"Huh! Don't you fret ober de 'surance. Jis clap yo' eyes on _dat_,"
and Mammy thrust into her Miss Jinny's hands a paper which she hastily
drew from the bosom of her frock.




CHAPTER X

Readjustment


It was all over. The excitement had subsided and all that remained to
tell the story of the previous afternoon's commotion was a
fire-scorched, water-soaked dwelling with a miscellaneous collection
of articles decorating its lawn. When the early morning sunshine
looked down upon the home which for eight years had sheltered the
Carruths, it beheld desolation complete. Alas for Eleanor's chemicals!
Her experiments had cost the family dear.

The only living being in sight was a policeman mounting guard over the
ruins. A staid and stolid son of the Vatterland who had spent the wee
sma' hours upon the premises and now stood upon the piazza upright and
rigid as the inanimate objects all about him. Beside him was a small,
toy horse "saddled and bridled and ready to ride," and anything more
absurd than the picture cut by this guardian of the law and his
miniature charger it would be hard to imagine.

Meanwhile the family was housed among friends who had been quick to
offer them shelter, Mr. Stuyvesant insisting that Mrs. Carruth and
Constance accept his aunt's hospitality through him, while the next
door neighbor, Mr. Henry, harbored Eleanor, Jean and Mammy, who
refused point blank to go beyond sight of the premises and her
charge--Baltie.

Mammy was the heroine of the hour; for what the old woman had not
thought of when everyone else's wits were scattered was hardly worth
thinking of. In the blanket which she had charged the girls to guard
were all of Mrs. Carruth's greatest treasures, among them a beautiful
miniature of Mr. Carruth of which no one but Mammy had thought.
Jewelry which had belonged to her mother was there, valuable papers
hastily snatched from her desk, and many of the girl's belongings
which would never have been saved but for Mammy's forethought. At
seven o'clock, when all was over, the crowd dispersed and the family
gathered together in Mr. Henry's living-room to collect their wits and
draw a long breath, Mrs. Carruth drew Mammy to one side to ask:

"Mammy, what is the meaning of this receipt? I cannot understand it.
Who has paid this sum and where was it paid?"

"Baby, dere comes times when 'taint a mite er use ter tell what we
gwine _do_. Dat 'surance hatter be squar'd up an' dat settled it. So
_I_ squar'd it--."

"Oh, Mammy! Mammy!" broke in Mrs. Carruth, almost in tears.

"Hush, chile! Pay 'tention ter _me_. What would a come of we-all if I
hadn't paid dat bill den an' dar? Bress de Lawd I had de cash an' don'
pester me wid questions. Ain' I tole yo' I'se _rich_? Well den, dat
settles it. When _yo_ is, yo' kin settle wid _me_. _Dat_ don' need no
argufyin' do it? Now go long wid Miss Constance an' Massa Stuyvesant
lak dey say an' git yo' sef ca'med down. Yo' all a shakin' an' a
shiverin' lak yo' got de ager, an' dat won' never do in de roun'
worl'. Yo'll be down sick on my han's."

And that was all the old woman would ever hear about it. When the
thirty dollars were returned to her in the course of a few days she
took it with a chuckle saying:

"Huh! Reckons _I_ knows wha' ter investigate _my_ money. Done git my
intrus so quick it like ter scar me."

After the first excitement was over came the question of where the
family was to live, and it was Hadyn Stuyvesant who settled it
forthwith by offering the home which had been his mother's; a pretty
little dwelling in the heart of Riveredge which had been closed since
his mother's death and his own residence with his aunt. So in the
course of the next week the Carruths were installed therein and began
to adjust themselves to the new conditions The first question to be
answered was the one concerning their home. Should it be rebuilt with
the money to be paid by the insurance company, or should it be sold?
It was hard to decide, for sentiment was strongly in favor of
returning to the home they all loved, while sound sense dictated
selling the land and thus lessening expenses. Sound sense carried the
day, and the little house on Hillside street became home, and in the
course of a few weeks the machinery ran along with its accustomed
smoothness, although it was some time before the family recovered from
the shock of realizing how close they had come to losing all they
possessed, and also keenly alive to the fact that what _had_ been
saved must be carefully guarded. Fifteen thousand was not an alarming
sum to fall back upon and the rent for the new home although modest,
compared with what their own would have commanded, had to be
considered.

Meanwhile the girls had returned to their school duties, the older
ones working harder than ever, especially Eleanor, whose conscience
troubled her not a little at thought of her carelessness which had
caused all the trouble, for well she realized that her failure to care
properly for the powerful acids with which she had been experimenting
when Constance appeared upon the scene had started the fire.

Constance had immediately set to work to evolve from the apparel
rescued a winter wardrobe for the family, and displayed such ingenuity
in bringing about new gowns and headgear from the old ones that the
family flourished like green bay trees. Still Constance was not
satisfied, and one afternoon said to Eleanor, who now shared her room,
but who had _not_ laid in a new supply of chemicals:

"Nornie, put down that book and listen to me, for I'm simmering with
words o' wisdom and if I don't find a vent I'll boil over presently."

Eleanor laid aside the book she was poring over, laughing as she
asked:

"What is it--some new scheme for making a two-pound steak feed five
hungry mouths, or a preparation to apply to the soles of shoes to keep
them from wearing out?"

"It has more to do with the stomach than the feet, but I'm not joking.
I want to take account of stock and find out just where we are _at_
and just what we _can_ do. Mother has her hands and head more than
full just now, and I think _I_ ought to give a pull at the wheel too."

"And what shall _I_ be about while you are doing the pulling? It seems
to me a span can usually pull harder than a single horse. By-the-way,
apropos of horses, what _has_ Mammy done to poor old Baltie? Do you
realize that she has not yet had him two months, but no one would ever
recognize the old horse for the decrepit creature Jean led home that
afternoon."

"I know it! Isn't she a marvel? I believe she is half witch. Why,
blind and twenty-five years old as he is, old Baltie to-day would
bring Jabe Raulsbury enough money to make the covetous old sinner
smile, I believe; if anything on earth could make him smile. I thought
I should have screamed when she started off with her steed the other
day. That old phaeton and harness she found in the barn here were
especially sent by Providence, I believe. I never expect to see a
funnier sight if I live to be a hundred years old than Mammy driving
off down the road with that great basket of apples by her side and
Jean perched behind in the rumble. Mammy was simply superb and proud
as the African princess she insists she is," and Constance laughed
heartily at the picture she made.

"What did she do with her apples? I wish I could have seen her," cried
Eleanor.

"She had them stored away in our cellar. She had gathered them herself
from mother's pet tree and packed them carefully in a couple of
barrels. How on earth she finds time to do all the things she manages
to I can't understand. She took that basket out to Mrs. Fletcher. You
remember Mrs. Fletcher once said there were no apples like ours and
Mammy remembered it. Still, I am afraid Mrs. Fletcher would never have
seen that basket of apples if her home had not adjoined the Raulsbury
place. You know Jabe had to pay a large fine before he could get free.
Such an hour of triumph rarely comes to two human beings as came to
Mammy and Jean when they drove that old horse past Jabe's gateway and
kind fate drew him to that very spot at the moment. Mammy is still
chuckling over it, and Jean isn't to be lived with. But enough of
Mammy and her charger, let's get to stock-taking."

"Yes, do," said Eleanor.

"I've been putting things down in black and white and here it is,"
said practical Constance, opening a little memorandum book and seating
herself beside her sister. "You see mother has barely fifteen hundred
dollars a year from father's life insurance and even _that_ is
somewhat lessened by the slump in those old stocks. Now comes the fire
insurance settlement and the interest on that won't be over seven
hundred at the outside, will it?"

"I'm afraid not," said Eleanor with a doubtful shake of her head. "But
suppose we are able to sell the old place?"

"Yes, 'suppose.' If we _do_, well and good, but supposes aren't much
account for immediate needs, and those are the things we've got to
think about now."

"Then let me think too," broke in Eleanor.

"You may _think_ all you've a mind to; that's exactly what your brains
are for, and some day you'll astonish us all. Meanwhile _I'll_ work."

"Now, Constance, what are you planning? You know perfectly well that
if you leave school and take up something that _I_ shall too. I
_won't_ take all the advantages."

"Who said I had any notion of leaving school? Not a bit of it. My plan
won't affect my school work. But of that later. Now to our capital.
Mother will have at the outside nineteen hundred a year, and out of
that she will have to pay five hundred rent for this house. That
leaves fourteen hundred wherewith to feed and clothe five people,
doesn't it? Now, she can't possibly _feed_, let alone clothe, us for
less than twenty dollars a week, can she? And out of that must come
fuel which is no small matter now-a-days. That leaves only three
hundred and sixty dollars for all the other expenses of the year, and,
Nornie, it isn't enough. We _could_ live on less in town I dare say,
but town is no place for Jean while she's so little. She'd give up the
ghost without a place to romp in. Then, too, mother loves every stone
in Riveredge, and she is going to _stay_ here if I can manage it. So
listen: You know what a fuss everybody at the fair made over my
nut-fudge and pralines. Well, I'm going to make candy to sell----."

"Oh, Constance, you can't! You mustn't!" interrupted Eleanor whose
instincts shrank from any member of her family launching upon a
business enterprise.

"I can and I _must_," contradicted Constance positively. "And what is
more, I shall. So don't have a conniption fit right off, because I've
thought it all out and I know just exactly what I can do."

"Mother will _never consent_," said Eleanor firmly, and added, "and I
hope she won't."

"Now Nornie, see here," cried Constance with decided emphasis. "What
_is_ the use of being so ridiculously high and mighty? We aren't the
first people, by a long chalk, that have met with financial reverses
and been forced to do something to earn a livelihood. The woods are
full of them and they are none the less respected either. For my part,
I'd rather hustle round and earn my own duddies than settle down and
wish for them, and wail because I can't have them while mother strives
and struggles to make both ends meet. I haven't _brains_ to do big
things in the world, but I've got what Mammy calls 'de bangenest
han's' and we'll see what they'll bang out!" concluded Constance
resolutely.

"Mammy will never let you," cried Eleanor, playing what she felt to be
her trump card.

"On the contrary, Mammy is going to _help_ me," announced Constance
triumphantly.

"_What_, Mammy consent to a Blairsdale going into trade?" cried
Eleanor, feeling very much as though the foundations of the house were
sinking.

"Even so, Lady," answered Constance, laughing at her sister's look of
dismay. "Old Baltie was not rescued for naught. His days of usefulness
were not ended as you shall see. But don't look so horrified, and,
above all else, don't say one word to mother. There is no use to worry
her, and remember she _is_ a Blairsdale and it won't be so easy to
bring her to my way of thinking as it has been to bring _you_; you're
only half one, like myself, and remember we've got Carruth blood to
give us mercantile instincts."

"As though the Carruths were not every bit as good as the
Blairsdales," brindled Eleanor indignantly.

"Cock-a-doodle! See its feathers ruffle. You are as spunky as the
Henry's game cock," cried Constance laughing and gathering Eleanor's
head into her arms to maul it until her hair came down.

"Well," retorted Eleanor, struggling to free herself from the
tempestuous embrace, "so they are."

"Yes, my beloved sister. I'll admit all that, but bear in mind that
_their_ ancestors were born in Pennsylvania _not_ in 'ole Caroliny,
and that's the difference 'twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee. I don't
believe Mad Anthony stopped to consider whether he was a patrician or
a plebeian when he was storming old Stony Point, or getting fodder for
Valley Forge, so I don't believe _I_ will, when I set out to hustle
for frocks and footgear for his descendants. So put your pride in your
pocket, Nornie, and watch me grow rich and the family blossom out in
luxuries undreamed of. I'm going to _do_ it: you'll see," ended
Constance in a tone so full of hope and courage that Eleanor then and
there resolved not to argue the point further or discourage her.

"When are you going to begin this enterprise?" she asked.

"This very day. I'm only waiting for Mammy to come back from market
with some things I need, and there she is now. Good-bye. Go look after
the little Mumsie, or Jean; you'd find your hands full with the last
undertaking, no doubt," and with a merry laugh Constance ran
down-stairs to greet Mammy who was just entering the back door.




CHAPTER XI

First Ventures


"Did you get all the things, Mammy?" cried Constance, as she flew into
the kitchen where Mammy stood puffing and panting like a grampus, for
the new home was at the top of a rather steep ascent and the climb
took the old woman's breath.

"Co'se Ise got 'em," panted Mammy, as she untied the strings of her
bright purple worsted hood. "Dar dey is, all ob 'em, eve'y one, an yo'
kin git busy jes' as fas' as yo's a mind ter. But, la, honey, don' yo'
let yo' _ma_ know nothin' 'tall 'bout it, 'cause she lak 'nough frail
me out fer lettin' yo' do hit. But sumpin 's gotter be done in dis
yere fambly. What wid de rint fer _dis_ place, an' de taxes for de
yether, an' de prices dey's teken' ter chargin', fer t'ings ter _eat_,
I 'clar' ter goodness dar ain't gwine be nuffin 'tall lef' fer we-all
ter fall back on ef we done teken sick, er bleeged ter do sumpin'
extra," ended Mammy as she bustled about putting away her things and
untying the packages as Constance lifted them from the basket.

"Yes, you've got every single thing I need, Mammy, and now I'll begin
right off. Which kettles and pans can you spare for my very own? I
don't want to bother to ask every time and if I have my own set at the
very beginning that saves bother in the end," cried Constance, as she
slipped her arms through the shoulder straps of a big gingham apron
and after many contortions succeeded in buttoning it back of her
shoulders.

"Dar you is!" said Mammy, taking from their hooks, above her range two
immaculate porcelain saucepans, and standing them upon the
well-scrubbed kitchen table with enough emphasis to give the transfer
significance. "Dey's yours fer keeps, but don' yo' let me ketch yo'
burnin' de bottoms of 'em."

Mammy could not resist this authoritative warning. Then bustling
across to her pantry she took out three shining pans and placed them
beside the saucepans, asking:

"Now is yo' fixed wid all de impert'nances ob de bisness?"

"All but the fire, Mammy," laughed Constance, rolling up her sleeves
to disclose two strong, well-rounded arms.

"Well yo' fire's gwine ter be gas _dis_ time, chile'. Yo' kin do what
yo's a-mind ter wid dat little gas refrig'rator, what yo' turns on an'
off wid de spiggots; _I_ aint got er mite er use fer hit. It lak ter
scare me mos' ter deaf de fust mawnin' I done try ter cook de breckfus
on it,--sputterin' an' roarin' lak it gwine blow de hull house up.
No-siree, I ain' gwine be pestered wid no sich doin's 's _dat_. Stoves
an' wood 's good 'nough fer _dis_ 'oman," asserted Mammy with an
empathic wag of her head, for she had never before seen a gas range,
and was not in favor of innovations.

"Then I'm in luck," cried Constance, as she struck a match to light up
her "gas refrigerator," Mammy meanwhile eying her with not a little
misgiving, and standing as far as possible from the fearsome thing.
"Tek keer, honey! Yo' don' know what dem new-fangled mak'-believe
stoves lak ter do. Fust t'ing yo' know it bus' wide open mebbe."

"Don't be scared, Mammy. They are all right, and safe as can be if you
know how to handle them, and lots less trouble than the stove."

"Dat may be too," was Mammy's skeptical reply. "But _I'll_ tek de
trouble stidder de chance of a busted haid."

Before long the odor of boiling sugar filled the little kitchen, the
confectioner growing warm and rosy as she wielded a huge wooden spoon
in the boiling contents of her saucepans, and whistled like a song
thrush. Constance Carruth's whistle had always been a marvel to the
members of her family, and the subject of much comment to the few
outsiders who had been fortunate enough to hear it, occasionally, for
it was well worth hearing. It had a wonderful flute-like quality, with
the softest, tenderest, low notes. Moreover, she whistled without any
apparent effort, or the ordinary distortion of the mouth which
whistling generally involves. The position of her lips seemed scarcely
altered while the soft sounds fell from them. But she was very shy
about her "one accomplishment," as she laughingly called it, and could
rarely be induced to whistle for others, though she seldom worked
without filling the house with that birdlike melody. As she grew more
and more absorbed with her candy-making the clear, sweet notes rose
higher and higher, their rapid _crescendo_ and increasing _tempo_
indicating her successful progress toward a desired end.

While apparently engaged in preparing a panful of apples, Mammy was
covertly watching her, for, next to her baby, Jean, Constance was
Mammy's pet.

When the candy was done, Constance poured it into the pans.

"Now in just about two jiffies that will be ready to cut. Keep one eye
on it, won't you Mammy, while I run up-stairs for my paraffin paper,"
she said, as she set the pans outside to cool and whisked from the
kitchen, Mammy saying under her breath as she vanished:

"If folks could once hear dat chile _whis'le_ dey'd hanker fef ter
hear it agin, an' dey'd keep on a hankerin' twell dey'd _done_ hit.
She beat der bu'ds, an' dat's a fac'."

"Now I guess I can cut it," cried Constance, as she came hurrying
back.

The sudden chill of the keen November air had made the candy the exact
consistency for cutting into little squares, and in the course of the
next half hour they were all cut, carefully wrapped in bits of
paraffin paper and neatly tied in small white paper packages with
baby-ribbon of different colors. Four dozen as inviting parcels of
delicious home-made candy as any one could desire, and all made and
done up within an hour and a half.

"There, Mammy! What do you think of _that_ for my initial venture?"
asked Constance, looking with not a little satisfaction upon the
packages as they lay in the large flat box into which she had
carefully packed them.

"Bate yo' dey hits de markit spang on de haid," chuckled Mammy. "An'
now _I'se_ gwine tek holt. La, ain' I gwine cut a dash, dough! Yo' see
_me_," and hastily donning her hood and shawl, and catching up an
apple from her panful, off Mammy hurried to the little stable which
stood in one corner of the small grounds, where Baltie had lived, and
certainly flourished since the family came to dwell in this new home.

Mammy never entered that stable without some tidbit for her pet, for
she had grown to love the blind old horse as well as Jean did, and was
secretly consumed with pride at his transformation. As she entered the
stable, Baltie greeted her with his soft nicker.

"Yas, honey, Mammy's comin'; comin' wid yo' lolly-pop, kase she want
yo' ter step out spry. Yo's gwine enter a pa'tner-ship, yo' know
_dat_, Baltie-hawse? Yo' sure _is_. Yo's de silen' pa'tner, yo' is,
an' de bline one too. Jis as well ter hab one ob 'em bline mebbe," and
Mammy chuckled delightedly at her own joke. "Now come 'long out an' be
hitched up, kase we's gwine inter business, yo' an' me' an' we gotter
do some hustlin'. Come 'long," and opening the door of the box-stall
in which old Baltie now-a-days luxuriated, Mammy dragged him forth by
his forelock and in less time than one could have believed it
possible, had him harnessed to the old-fashioned basket phaeton which
during Mrs. Stuyvesant's early married life had been a most up-to-date
equipage, but which now looked as odd and antiquated as the old horse
harnessed to it. But in Mammy's eyes they were tangible riches, for
Hadyn Stuyvesant had presented her with both phaeton and harness.

Opening wide the stable doors, Mammy clambered into her chariot, and
taking up the reins, guided her steed gently forward. Baltie ambled
sedately up to the back door where Constance was waiting to hand Mammy
the box.

"Mind de do' an' don' let my apples bake all ter cinders," warned
Mammy.

"I will. I won't. Good luck," contradicted Constance, as she ran back
into the house, and Mammy drove off toward South Riveredge; a section
of the town as completely given over to commercial interests as
Riveredge proper was to its homes. There a large carpet factory throve
and flourished giving employment to many hands. There, also, stood a
large building called the Central Arcade in which many business men
had their offices. It was about a mile from the heart of Riveredge
proper and as Mammy jogged along toward her destination, she had ample
time to think, and chuckle to herself at her astuteness in carrying
out her own ideas of the fitness of things while apparently fully
concurring with Constance's wishes. Mammy had no objections to
Constance _making_ all the candy she chose to make; that could be done
within the privacy of her own home and shock _no_ one's sensibilities.
But when the girl had announced her intention of going among her
friends to secure customers, Mammy had descended upon her with all her
powers of opposition. The outcome had been the present compromise.
Very few people in South Riveredge knew the Carruths or Mammy, and
this was exactly what the old woman wished.

Driving her "gallumping" steed to the very heart of the busy town she
drew up at the curbstone in front of the Arcade just a few moments
before the five o'clock whistles blew. Stepping from her vehicle she
placed a campstool upon the sidewalk beside it, and lifting her box of
candy from the seat established herself upon her stool with the open
box upon her lap. Within two minutes of the blowing of the whistles
the streets were alive with people who came hurrying from the
buildings on every side. Mammy was a novelty and like most novelties
took at once, so presently she was doing a thriving business, her
tongue going as fast as her packages of candy. People are not unlike
sheep; where one leads, all the others follow.

"Home-made candy, sah! Fresh f'om de home-kitchen; jis done mek hit.
Ain' hardly col'. Ten cents a package, sah. Yes _sah_, yo' better is
bleeve hit's deleshus. Yo' ain' tas' no pralines lak dem in all yo'
bo'n days," ran on Mammy handing out her packages of candy and
dropping her dimes into the little bag at her side.

"Here, Aunty, give me four of those packages of fudge," cried a
genial, gray-haired, portly old gentleman with a military bearing.
"Porter, here, has just given me some of his and they're simply great!
Did you make 'em? They touch the spot."

"La, suh, I ain' _got_ four left: I ain', fer a fac'. Tek some of de
pralines; deys mighty good, suh," bustled Mammy, offering her
dainties.

"Take all you've got. Did _you_ make 'em?" persisted her customer.

"My _pa'tner_ done mak 'em," said Mammy with dignity, as she handed
over her last package.

"Well you <DW54>s _can_ cook," cried the gentleman as he took the
candy.

For a moment it seemed as though Mammy were about to fly at him, and
her customer was not a little astounded at the transformation which
came over her old face. Then he concluded that the term "darkie" had
been the rock on which they had split, and smiled as he said:

"Better set up business right here in the Arcade. Buy you and your
_partner_ out every day. Good-bye, Auntie."

"Good-bye, suh! Good-bye," responded Mammy, her equanimity quite
restored, for her good sense told her that no reflections had been
cast upon her "pa'tner" in Riveredge, or her identity suspected.
Moreover, her late customer had put a new idea into her wise old head
which she turned over again and again as she drove back home.

Constance was waiting with the lantern, and hurried out to the stable
as Mammy turned in at the gate.

"Oh, Mammy, did you _sell_ some?" she asked eagerly.

"Sell some! What I done druv dar fer? Co'se I sell some; I sell eve'y
las' bit an' grain. Tek dat bag an' go count yo' riches, honey. _Sell
some!_ Yah! Yah!" laughed Mammy as she descended from her chariot and
began to unharness her steed, while Constance hugged the bag and
hurried into the house.

"What are you hiding under your cape?" demanded Jean as her sister ran
through the hall, and up the stairs. Jean's eyes did not often miss
anything.

"My deed to future wealth and greatness," answered Constance merrily,
as she slipped into her room and locked the door, where she dumped the
contents of the bag, dimes, nickels, and pennies, into the middle of
the bed.

"Merciful sakes! Who would have believed it?" she gasped. "Four
dollars and eighty cents for one afternoon's work, and at least
three-eighty of it clear profit, and Mammy has _got_ to share some of
it. Mumsie, dear, I think I can keep the family's feet covered at all
events," she concluded in an ecstatic whisper.




CHAPTER XII

Another Shoulder is Added


Thanksgiving and Christmas had come and passed. Constance's "candy
business" as she called it, throve and flourished spasmodically. Could
she have carried out her wishes concerning it, the venture might have
been more profitable, but Mammy, the autocrat, insisted that it should
be kept a secret, and the habit of obedience to the old woman's
dictates was deeply rooted in the Carruth family, even Mrs. Carruth
yielding to it far more than she realized.

So Constance made her candy during her free hours after school and
Mammy carried it into South Riveredge when opportunity offered. This
was sometimes twice, but more often only once, a week, for the
faithful old soul had manifold duties and was too conscientious to
neglect one. Sometimes all the packages were sold off as quickly as
they had been on that first red-letter day, but at other times a good
many were left over. Could they again have been offered for sale upon
the following day they might easily have been disposed of, but Mammy
could not go to South Riveredge two days in succession and,
consequently, the candy grew stale before another sale's day arrived,
was a loss to its anxious manufacturer, and caused her profits to
shrink very seriously. Things had been going on in this rather
unsatisfactory manner for about six weeks when one Saturday morning
little Miss Paulina Pry, as Constance sometimes called Jean, owing to
her propensity to get to the bottom of things in spite of all efforts
to circumvent her, came into her sister's room to ask in the most
innocent manner imaginable:

"Connie, who does Mammy know in South Riveredge?"

"Nobody, that I know of," answered Constance unsuspectingly.

"I thought she had a cousin living there," was the next leader.

"A cousin, child! Why Mammy hasn't a relative this side of Raleigh and
I don't believe she has two to her name down there. If she has, she
hasn't seen them since mother brought her north before we were born."

"I knew it!" was the triumphant retort, "and _now_ I'll get even with
her for telling me fibs."

"Jean, what do you mean?" cried Constance now fully alive to the fact
that she had fallen into a trap.

"I mean just this: I've been watching Mammy drive off to South
Riveredge every solitary week since before Thanksgiving, and I've
asked her ever so many times to take me with her; she lets me go
everywhere else with her and Baltie. But she wouldn't take me there
and when I asked her why not, she always said because she was going to
visit with her cousins in-the-Lord, and 'twan't no fit place for white
folks. I _knew_ she was telling a fib, and _now_ I'm going right down
stairs to tell her so," and Jean whirled about to run from the room.
Constance made a wild dive and caught her by her sleeve.

"Jean, stop! Listen to me. You are not to bother Mammy with questions.
She has a perfect right to do or go as she chooses," said Constance
with some warmth, and instantly realized that she had taken the wrong
tack, for the little pepper-pot began to liven up. Jerking herself
free she struck an attitude, saying:

"You are just as bad as Mammy! _You_ know where she goes, and what she
goes for, but you won't tell me. Keep your old secrets if you want to,
but I'll find out, see if I don't. And I'll get even too. You and
Mammy think I'm nothing but a baby, but you'll see. I'm most eleven
years old, and if I can't be told the truth about things now, I'd like
to know why," and with a final vigorous wrench Jean freed herself from
her sister's grasp and fled down the stairs, Constance murmuring to
herself as the little whirlwind disappeared: "I wonder if it wouldn't
be wiser to let her into the secret after all? In the first place it
is all nonsense to _keep_ it a secret, and just one of Mammy's
high-falutin ideas of what's right and proper for a Blairsdale.
Fiddlesticks for the Blairsdales say I, when certain things should be
done. I'm going to tell that child anyway. She is ten times easier to
deal with when she knows the truth, and she can keep a secret far
better than some older people I might mention. Jean; Jean; come back;
I want to tell you something."

But Jean had gone beyond hearing. "Never mind; I'll tell her
by-and-by," resolved Constance and soon forgot all about the matter
while completing her English theme for Monday. Could she have followed
her small sister her state of mind would have been less serene.

Jean's first reconnoiter was the dining-room. All serene; nothing
doing; mother up in her room. Eleanor gone out. Mammy in the kitchen
stirring quietly about. Jean slipped into the butler's pantry. There
on a shelf stood a big white box marked "Lord & Taylor, Ladies' Suit
Dept." Jean's nose rose a degree higher in the air as she drew near it
and carefully raised the lid. "Ah-hah! Didn't I know it! I guess her
cousins-in-the-Lord must like candy pretty well, for she has taken
that box with her every single time she's gone to South Riveredge,"
whispered this astute young person.

Now it so happened that as Mammy had advanced in years, she had grown
somewhat hard of hearing, and had also developed a habit quite common
to her race; that of communing aloud with herself when alone.

Jean was quite alive to this and more than once had caused the old
woman to regard her with considerable awe by casually mentioning facts
of which Mammy believed her to be entirely in ignorance, and, indeed,
preferred she _should_ be, little guessing that her own monologues had
given the child her cue.

Clambering softly upon the broad shelf which ran along one side of the
pantry, Jean gently pushed back the sliding door made to pass the
dishes to and from the kitchen, and watched Mammy's movements. The
kitchen was immaculate and Mammy was just preparing to set forth for
her Saturday morning's marketing, a task she would not permit any one
else to undertake, declaring that "dese hyer Norf butcher-men stood
ready fer ter beat folks outen dey eyesight ef dey git er chance."

As usual Mammy was indulging in a soliloquy.

"Dar now. Dat's all fix an' right, an' de minit I gits back I kin clap
it inter de oven," she murmured as she set her panfuls of bread over
the range for their second rising. "I gotter git all dis hyer wo'k off
my han's befo' free 'clock terday ef I gwine get ter Souf Riveredge in
time fer ter sell all dat mes o' candy."

Behind the window a small body's head gave a satisfied nod.

"'Taint lak week days. De sto'es tu'n out mighty early on Sattidays.
Hopes I kin sell eve'y bit and grain _dis_ time. I hates ter tote any
home agin, an' dat chile tryin' so hard ter holp her ma."

Over little Paulina Pry's face fell a shadow, and for a moment the big
eyes grew suspiciously bright. Then wounded pride caused them to flash
as their owner whispered to herself, "She _might_ have told me the
truth."

Then the kitchen door was shut, locked from the outside, and Mammy
departed.

Jean got down from her perch and stood for a few moments in the middle
of the pantry floor in deep meditation. Then raising her head with a
determined little nod she said under her breath, "_I'll_ show 'em."

To hurry out to the hall closet where her everyday hat, coat and
gloves were kept, took but a moment. In another she had put them on,
and was on her way to the stable. To harness Baltie was somewhat of an
undertaking, but by the aid of a box which raised her to the necessary
height this was done, the old horse nickering softly and rubbing his
head against her as she proceeded.

"Yes Baltie, dear. _You_ and _I_ have a secret now and _don't_ you
_tell_ it. If _they_ think they are so smart, _we'll_ show them that
_we_ can do something too."

At length the harnessing was done, and slipping back to the house Jean
went into the pantry, lifted up the box so plainly labeled "Ladies'
Suits" and sped away to the stable where she placed it carefully upon
the bottom of the phaeton, tucking the carriage rug around and about
it in such a manner that even the liveliest suspicion would have
nothing to feed upon.

Then opening the double doors she led Baltie through them, and out of
the driveway to the side street on which it opened, and which could
not be seen from the front of the house where the young lady knew her
mother and sister to be at this critical moment. Only a second more
was needed to run back and close the stable doors and the gates, and
all tracks were covered.

In that immediate vicinity the queer turnout was well-known by this
time, so no curiosity was aroused by its appearance.

As usual, Jean had not paused to mature her plans. Their inception was
enough for the time being; details could follow later.

Plod, plod, fell Baltie's hoofs upon the macadamized street as Jean
guided him slowly along. The day was cold, but clear and crisp, with
just a hint of wind or snow from the mare's tails overhead in the
blue.

Jean had no very clear idea of what her next step would be, and was
rather trusting to fate to show her. Perhaps Baltie had a better one
than his driver, or perhaps it was sense of direction and force of
habit which was heading him toward South Riveredge; Baltie's
intelligence did not appear to wane with his years. At all events, he
was going his usual route when Jean spied Mammy far ahead and in a
trice fate had stepped in to give things a twist. To pull Baltie
around and guide him into a street which led to East instead of South
Riveredge was the work of a second. Jean thought she could go back by
another street which led diagonally into South Riveredge but when she
reached it she found it closed for repairs. Turning around involved
more or less danger and she had a thought for that which lay at her
feet. So on she went, hoping to get into South Riveredge sooner or
later.

Like many suburban towns, Riveredge had certain sections which were
given over to the poorer element, and in such sections could always be
found enough idle, mischievous youngsters to make things interesting
for other people, particularly on Saturdays when they were released
from the restraint of school.

Jean had proceeded well along upon her way when she was spied by two
or three urchins upon whose hands time was hanging rather heavily, and
to whom the novel sight of a handsome, neatly-clad child, perched in a
phaeton which might have been designed for Noah, and driving a blind
horse, was a vision of joy.

"Hi, Billy, get on ter de swell rig," bawled one worthy son of McKim's
Hollow.

"Gee! Aint he a stunner! Say, where did yer git him?" yelled Billy,
prompt to take up the ball, and give it a toss.

"Mebbe he's de ghost av yer granfather's trotter," was the next
salute.

"Hi, what's his best time. Forty hours fer de mile?" asked a larger
lad, hanging on to the back of the phaeton and winding his heels into
the springs.

"Get down! Go away!" commanded Jean.

"Couldn't," politely replied her passenger.

"Say yer oughter have a white hawse wid all dat red hair," yelled a
new addition to the number already swarming after her.

"Git a move on," was the next cry, as a youth armed with a long stick
joined the crowd. Things were growing decidedly uncomfortable for Jean
whose cheeks were blazing, and whose eyes were flashing ominously.
Just then one urchin made a grab for the whip but she was too quick
for him, and once having it in her hand was tempted to lay about
vigorously. As though divining her thoughts, the smaller boys drew off
but he of the stick scorned such an adversary, although discretion
warned him not to lay it upon her. The old horse, however, was not so
guarded by law and the stick descended upon his flanks with all the
strength of the young rowdy's arms. He would better have struck Jean!

Never since coming to live in his present home had Baltie felt a blow,
but during all those four months had been petted, loved and cared for
in a manner to make him forget former trials, and in spite of his age,
renew his strength and spirits. True, he was never urged to do more
than jog, jog, jog along, but under the spur of this indignity some of
his old fire sprung up and with a wild snort of resentment he plunged
forward. As he did so, down came the whip across his assailant's head,
for Jean had forgotten all else in her wrath; she began to lay about
her with vigor, and the battle was on in earnest.

Perhaps John Gilpin cut a wilder dash yet it is doubtful.




CHAPTER XIII

The Battle of Town and Gown


Jean had come about a mile from Riveredge before encountering her
unwelcome escort, and a mile for old Baltie was considered a good
distance by Mammy who always blanketed him carefully and gave him a
long rest after such exertion. The sight of the old woman's care for
her horse had won her more than one feminine customer in South
Riveredge and not infrequently they entered into conversation with her
regarding him. Mammy needed no greater encouragement to talk, and
Baltie's history became known to many of her customers.

Could Mammy have witnessed Baltie's wild careerings as he pounded
along to escape his tormentors, while Jean strove desperately to beat
them off, she would probably have expired upon the spot.

But Baltie's strength was not equal to any long-sustained effort and
his breath soon became labored. The shouting cavalcade had gone about
half a mile at its wild pace and Jean had done her valiant best, but
the numbers against her had been steadily augmented as she proceeded,
and the situation was becoming really dangerous. She stood up in the
phaeton, hat hanging by its elastic band, hair flying and eyes
flashing as she strove to beat off her pursuers. Most of them, it must
be admitted, were good-natured, and were simply following up their
prank from a spirit of mischief. But two or three had received
stinging lashes from the whip and the sting had aroused their ire.

Jean's strength as well as old Baltie's was giving out when from the
opposite side of a high arbor-vitae hedge arose a cry of:

"Gown to the rescue! Gown to the rescue!" and the next second the road
seemed filled with lads who had apparently sprung from it, and a
lively scrimmage was afoot. The boys who had so lately been making
things interesting for Jean and Baltie, turned to flee precipitately,
but were pretty badly hustled about before they could escape; he of
the stick being captured red-handed as he launched a blow that came
very near proving a serious one for Jean since it struck the whip from
her hands and landed it in the road. The poor child collapsed upon the
seat, and strove hard to suppress a sob, for she would have died
sooner than cry before the boys of the "Irving Preparatory School."

Baltie needed no second hint to make him understand that the time had
come to let his friends take up the battle, and bracing his trembling
old legs he stood panting in the middle of the road.

"I say, what did this fellow do to you, little girl?" demanded a tall,
fine-looking lad, whose dark gray eyes were flashing with indignation,
and whose firm mouth gave his captive reason to know that he meant
whatever he said. At any other time Jean would have resented the
"little girl," but during the past fifteen minutes she had felt a very
small girl indeed.

"He's a coward! A great, hulking coward!" she blazed at the hapless
youth whom her champion held so firmly by his collar as he stood by
the phaeton. The other lads who had now completely routed Jean's
tormentors were gathering about her, some with looks of concern for
her welfare, some with barely restrained smiles at her plight and her
turnout.

"What'll I do to him? Punch his head?" demanded knight errant.

"No, shake it most off!" commanded Jean. "He nearly made mine shake
off," she concluded, as she pushed her hair from her eyes and jerked
her hat back into place. "My goodness just look at the state I'm in
and look at Baltie; I don't know what Mammy will say. Aren't you
ashamed of yourself, you great big bully, to torment a girl and a poor
old blind horse. Oh, I _wish_ I were a boy! If I wouldn't give you
bally-whacks."

A smile broke over knight errant's face, but his victim trembled in
his boots.

"All right then, here goes, since you won't let me punch it," and
Jean's injunctions to shake her tormentor's head "most off" seemed in
a fair way to be obeyed, for the next second its owner was being
shaken very much as a rat is shaken by a terrier and the head was
jerked about in a most startling manner.

"Now get out! Skiddoo! And if we catch you and your gang out this way
again you'll have a pretty lively time of it, and don't you forget it
either," said knight errant with a final shake, and Long Stick was
hustled upon his way toward his friends who had not paused to learn
his fate.

This boy who acted as spokesman, and who appeared to be a leader among
his companions, then said:

"I say, your old horse is pretty well knocked up, isn't she? How far
have you come? Better drive into the school grounds and rest up a bit
before you go back. Come on!" and going to Baltie's head the lad took
hold of the rein to lead him through the gateway.

Baltie never forgot his manners, however great the stress under which
he was laboring, so turning his sightless eyes toward his new friend,
he nickered softly, and rubbed his muzzle against him. The lad laughed
and raising his hand stroked the warm neck as he said:

"Found a friend at last, old boy? Well, come on then, for you needed
one badly."

"Guess he _did_!" said Jean. "My gracious, I don't know what we would
have done if you boys hadn't come out to help us. How did you happen
to hear us?"

"We were out on the field with the ball. I guess it's lucky for you we
were, too, for there's a tough gang up there near Riveredge. We're
always on the lookout for some new outbreak, and we make it lively if
they come up this way, you'd better believe. They don't try it very
often, but you were too big a chance for 'em this time, and they
sailed right in. But they sailed at the wrong time for we are never
happier to exchange civilities with them than when we have on our
togs," ended the lad, as he glanced at the foot-ball suits which he
and a number of his chums were wearing.

"Oh, are you playing foot-ball? I wish I could see you," cried Jean
eagerly, all thoughts of her late plans flying straight out of her
head.

"Better come over to the field then," laughed her escort.

"I'd love to but I guess I can't to-day. I'm on important business.
I'm going to South Riveredge," she said, suddenly recalling her
errand.

"South Riveredge!" echoed a lad who walked at the other side of the
phaeton. "Why it's nearly four miles from here. It's almost two to
Riveredge itself. What brought you out this way if you were going to
South Riveredge?"

But to explain just why she had turned off the direct road to South
Riveredge would be a trifle embarrassing, so Jean decided to give
another reason:

"I thought I knew my way but I guess I must have missed it, those boys
tormented me so."

"I guess you did miss it, but I don't wonder. Well, rest here a little
while, and then we'll start you safely back. Guess one of us better go
along with her hadn't we, Ned?" he asked of the gray-eyed boy.

"If we want her to get back whole I guess we had," was the laughing
answer, as Baltie's guide led him up to a carriage step and stopped.
Baltie's coat was steaming. "Got a blanket? Better let me put it on
your horse. He's pretty warm from his race and the day is snappy."

Jean bounded up from the seat and pulled the blanket from it. It was
not a very heavy blanket and when the boy had put it carefully upon
the old horse, it seemed hardly thick enough to protect him. "Let me
have the rug too," he ordered, and without a second's thought jerked
up the rug and gave it a toss. Up came the box of candy with it, to
balance a second upon one end as daintily as a tight-rope dancer
balances upon a rope, then keel gracefully over and land
bottom-side-up, upon the tan-bark of the driveway, the packages of
candy flying in twenty different directions.

Jean's cry of dismay was echoed by the boys' shouts as their eyes
quickly grasped the significance of those dainty white parcels. A wild
scramble to rescue her wares followed, as Jean was plied with
questions.

"Are they yours? What are you going to do with them?" "Are they for
sale?" "Can we buy some?" "How much are they?" "Lend me some cash,
Bob?"

Never was an enterprising merchant so suddenly plunged into a rushing
business. Jean's head whirled for a moment. How much were the packages
of candy? She hadn't the vaguest idea, and circumstances had not made
it convenient to ascertain before she set forth. However, her wits
came to her rescue and she recalled the little packages which
Constance had made for the fair, and which had sold for ten cents
each. So ten cents _she_ would charge, and presently was doling out
her rescued packages of fudge and dropping dimes into her box to take
the place of the packages which were so quickly disappearing from it.
Given four dozen packages of exceptionally delicious home-made candy,
and twenty or thirty boys, after an hour's foot-ball exercise, upon a
crisp January morning, each more or less supplied with pocket money,
and it is a combination pretty sure to work to the advantage of the
candy-maker.

Jean's eyes danced, and her face was radiant. Her business was in its
most flourishing stage when she became aware that another actor had
appeared upon the scene, and was regarding her steadily through a pair
of very large, very round, and very thick-lensed eye-glasses, and with
the solemn expression of a meditative owl. How long he had been a
silent observer of her financial operations Jean had no idea. His
presence did not appear to embarrass the boys in any way; indeed, when
they became aware of it two or three of them promptly urged him to
partake of their toothsome dainties. This he did in the same grave,
absorbed manner.

"Great, aint they, Professor?" asked one lad.

"Quite unusual. Who is the juvenile vender?" he asked.

"We don't know. She was out yonder in the road with half McKim's
Hollow after her when we fellows rallied to the rescue. She was as
plucky as any thing, and was putting up a great standoff when we got
in our licks."

"Ah! Indeed! And how came she to have such a feast along with her.
I'll take another, thank you, Ned. They are really excellent," and
instead of "another" the last three of "Ned's" package were calmly
appropriated and eaten in the same abstracted manner that the other
pieces had been. Ned looked somewhat blank and turning toward one of
his companions, winked and smiled slyly, then said to the Professor:

"Better buy some quick. They are going like hot cakes."




CHAPTER XIV

The Candy Enterprise Grows


"I believe I shall," and drawing closer to the phaeton the Professor
peered more closely at its occupant as he said:

"I say, little girl, I think I'll take all you have there. They are
exceedingly palatable. And I would really like to know how it happens
that a child apparently so respectable as yourself should be peddling
sweets. You--why you might really be a gentleman's daughter," he
drawled.

Now it had never for a moment occurred to Jean that appearances might
prove misleading to those whose powers of observation were not of the
keenest, or that a much disheveled child driving about the country in
an antiquated phaeton, to which was harnessed a patriarchal horse,
might seem to belong to a rather lower order in the social scale than
her mother had a right to claim. So the near-sighted Professor's
remark held anything but a pleasing suggestion. For a moment she
hardly grasped its full significance, then drawing up her head like an
insulted queen, she regarded the luckless man with blazing eyes as she
answered:

"I am a Carruth, thank you, and the Carruths do as they _please_. You
need not buy these candies if you don't wish to. I can get plenty of
customers among my friends--the boys."

When did unconscious flattery prove sweeter? Those same "friends--the
boys" would have then and there died for the small itinerant whose
wares had so touched their palates, and who was openly choosing their
patronage over and above that of an individual who had now and again
caused more than one of them to pass an exceedingly bad quarter of an
hour. A suppressed giggle sounded not far off, but the Professor's
face retained its perfect solemnity as he bent his head toward Jean to
get a closer view.

"Hum; ah; yes. I dare say you are quite right. I was probably over
hasty in drawing conclusions," was the calm response.

"_Mammy_ says a _gentleman_ can always rec'o'nize a lady," flashed
Jean, unconsciously falling into Mammy's vernacular.

"And who is Mammy, may I inquire?" asked the imperturbable voice, its
owner absently eating lumps of fudge and pralines at a rate calculated
to speedily reduce the supply he had on hand, the lads meanwhile
regarding the vanishing "lumps of delight" with longing eyes.

"Why she's _Mammy_," replied Jean with considerable emphasis.

"Mammy _what_?" was the very unprofessional question which followed.

"Mammy Blairsdale, of course. _Our_ Mammy."

There was no answer for a moment as the candy continued to melt from
sight like dew before the morning sun. Then the Professor looked at
her steadily as he slowly munched his sweets, causing Jean to think of
the Henrys' cow when in a ruminative mood.

"Little girl, are you from the South?"

"Don't _call_ me 'little girl' again!" flared Jean, bringing her foot
down upon the bottom of the phaeton with a stamp. "I just naturally
despise to be called 'little girl.' I'm Jean, and I want to be called
Jean."

"Jean, Jean. Pretty name. Well _Miss_ Jean, are you from the South?"

"My _mother is_. She was a _Blairsdale_," replied "Miss" Jean, much as
she might have said she is the daughter of England's Queen, much
mollified at having the cognomen added.

"Do you happen to know which part of the South you come from?"

"_I_ don't come from the South at all. I was born right here in
Riveredge. My mother came from Forestvale, North Carolina."

"I thought I knew the name. Yes, it is very familiar. Blairsdale. Yes.
Quite so. Quite so. Rather curious, however. So many years. My
grandmother was a Blairsdale too. Singular coincidence, _she_ had red
hair, I'm told, Yes, really. Think I must follow it up. Very good,
indeed. Did _you_ make them? I judge not. Who did? I must know where
to get more when I have a fancy for some," and having eaten the last
praline the Professor absent-mindedly put into his mouth the paper in
which they had been wrapped, having unconsciously rolled it into a
nice little wad while talking.

A funny twinkle came into his eyes when his mistake dawned upon him
and turning to the grinning boys he said:

"I have heard of men putting the lighted end of a cigar into their
mouths by mistake. This was less unpleasant at all events," and the
wad was tossed to the driveway. The boys burst into shouts of laughter
and the ice was broken. Crowding about the phaeton they asked:

"Who makes the candy? Do you always sell it? When can we get some
more? Say, Professor, do you really know her folks? Who _is_ she any
how?"

"I told you my name, and I live in Riveredge. My sister makes the
candy, but she doesn't know I'm selling it. Maybe she'll let me bring
you some more, and maybe she won't. I don't know. And maybe I'll catch
Hail-Columbia-Happy-Land when I get back home," concluded the young
lady, her lips coming together with decision and her head wagging
between doubt and defiance. "But I don't care one bit if I do. I've
sold _all_ the candy, and I've got just piles of money; so _that_
proves that I _can_ help as well as the big girls even if _I_ am too
little to be trusted with their old secrets. And now I've got to go
straight back home or they'll all be scared half to death. Perhaps
they won't want to scold so hard if they are good and scared."

"One of us will go with you till you get past McKim's Hollow," cried
the boys. "Ned can, can't he, Professor?"

"I believe I'll go myself," was the unexpected reply. "I was about to
walk over to Riveredge, but I think perhaps Miss Jean will allow me to
ride with her," and without more ado Professor Forbes, B.A., B.C.,
B.M., and half a dozen other Bachelors, gravely removed the coverings
from old Baltie, folding and carefully placing the blanket upon the
seat and laying the rug over Jean's knees. After he had tucked her
snugly in, he took his seat beside her.

"Now, Miss Jean, I think we are all ready to start."

If anything could have been added to complete Jean's secret delight at
the attention shown her, it was the dignified manner in which the
Professor raised his hat, the boys as one followed his example, as
Baltie ambled forth. "That is the way I _like_ to be treated. I _hate_
to be snubbed because I'm only ten years old," thought she.

As they turned into the road the distant whistles of South Riveredge
blew twelve o'clock. Jean started slightly and glanced quickly up at
her companion.

"The air is very clear and still to-day," he remarked. "We hear the
whistles a long distance."

"It's twelve o'clock. I wonder what Mammy is thinking," was Jean's
irrelevant answer.

"Does Mammy think for the family?" asked the Professor, a funny smile
lurking about the corners of his mouth.

Jean's eyes twinkled as she answered:

"She was _mother's_ Mammy too."

"Ah! I think I understand. I lived South until I was fifteen."

"Did you? How old are you now?" was the second startling question.

"How old should you think?" was the essentially Yankee reply, which
proved that the southern lad had learned a trick or two from his
northern friends.

Jean regarded him steadily for a few moments.

"Well, when you raised your hat a few minutes ago your hair looked a
little thin on _top_, so I guess you're going to be bald pretty soon.
But your eyes, when you laugh, look just about like the boys'. Perhaps
you aren't so very old though. Maybe you aren't much older than Mr.
Stuyvesant. Do you know him?"

"Yes, I know him. He is younger than I am though." The Professor did
not add "exactly six months."

"Yes, I thought you were lots older. He's the kind you _feel_ is young
and you're the kind you feel is old, you know."

"Oh, am I? Wherein lies the difference, may I inquire?" The voice
sounded a trifle nettled.

"Why I should think anyone could understand _that_," was the surprised
reply. "Mr. Stuyvesant is the kind of a man who knows what children
are thinking right down inside themselves all the time. They don't
have to explain things to _him_ at all. Why the day I found Baltie he
knew just as well how I felt about having him shot, and I knew just as
well as anything that _he'd_ take care of him and make it all right.
We're great friends. I love him dearly."

"Whom? Baltie?"

"Now there! What did I tell you? _That's_ why _you_ are _years_ and
_years_ older than Mr. Stuyvesant. He _would'nt_ have had to say
'Whom? Baltie?' He'd just know such things without having to ask." The
tone was not calculated to inspire self-esteem.

"Hum," answered the man who could easily have told anyone the distance
of Mars from the earth and many another scientific fact. "I think I'm
beginning to comprehend what constitutes age."

"Yes," resumed Jean as she flapped the reins upon Baltie who seemed to
be lapsing into a dreamy frame of mind. "You can't always tell _how_
old a person is by just looking at 'em. Maybe you aren't nearly as old
as I think you are, though I guess you can't be far from forty, and
that's pretty bad. But if you'd sort of get gay and jolly, and try to
think how you felt when you were little, or maybe even as big as the
boys back yonder, you wouldn't seem any older to me than Mr.
Stuyvesant."

The big eyes were regarding him with the closest scrutiny as though
their owner wished to avoid falling into any error concerning him.

"Think perhaps I'll try it. It may prove worth while," and the
Professor fell into a brown study while old Baltie plodded on and Jean
let her thoughts outstrip his slow progress. At the other end of her
commercial venture lay a reckoning as well she knew, and like most
reckonings it held an element of doubt as well as of hope. It was
nearly one o'clock when they came to the outskirts of Riveredge. The
pretty town was quite deserted for it was luncheon hour. When they
reached the foot of Hillside street, Jean said:

"This is my street; I have to go up here," and drew up to the sidewalk
for her passenger to descend. He seemed in no haste to take the hint,
and Jean began to wonder if he would turn out a regular old man of the
sea. Before she could frame a speech both positive and polite as a
suggestion for his next move, her ears were assailed by:

"Bress Gawd, ef dar aint dat pesterin' chile dis very minit! What I
gwine _do_ wid yo'? Jis' tell me dat?" and Mammy came puffing and
panting down the hill like a runaway steam-roller.

Professor Forbes roused himself from the reverie in which he had
apparently been indulging for several moments, and stepping from the
phaeton to the sidewalk, advanced a step or two toward the formidable
object bearing down upon him, and raising his hat as though saluting a
royal personage, said:

"I think I have the pleasure of addressing Mammy----_Blairsdale_."




CHAPTER XV

The Reckoning


The descending steam-roller slowed down and finally came to a
standstill within a few feet of the Professor, too non-plussed even to
snort or pant, while that imperturbable being stood hat in hand in the
sharp January air, and smiled upon it. There was something in the
smile that caused the steam-roller to reconsider its plan of action,
rapidly formed while descending the hill, for great had been the
consternation throughout the dwelling which housed it, and the cause
of all that consternation was now within reach of justice.

"Mammy Blairsdale?" repeated the Professor suavely.

"Mammy Blairsdale," echoed that worthy being, although the words were
not quite so blandly spoken.

"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mammy. I have taken the liberty
of escorting this young lady back home. She is very entertaining, and
extremely practical, as well as enterprising. I am sure you will find
her a successful cooperator. She has done a most flourishing business
this morning."

"B'isness! B'isness! For de Lawd's sake wha' dat chile been at now,
an' we all cl'ar 'stracted 'bout her? Whar yo' bin at? Tell me dis
minute. An' yo' ma, and Miss Constance and me jist plumb crazy 'bout
you and dat hawse."

The Professor attempted to put in a word of explanation, but a wave of
Mammy's hand effectually silenced him and motioned him aside, as she
stepped closer to the phaeton. Baltie had instantly recognized her
voice and as she drew nearer, nickered.

"Yas, Baltie hawse, what dat chile been doin' wid yo'?" she said
softly as she laid her hand upon the old horse's neck. But the more
resolute tone was resumed as she turned again to the phaeton, and
demanded: "I wanter know wha' yo's been. You hear me? We's done chased
de hull town ober fer yo' an' dat hawse, an' yo' ma done teken de
trolley fer Souf Riveraige, kase someone done say dey seed yo' a gwine
off dat-a-way. Now whar in de name o' man _is_ yo' been ter?"

"I've been out to the Irving School selling your old _candy_, and your
cousins-in-the-Lord, over in South Riveredge, can _wait_ a while for
some. You and Connie thought you could fool me with your old talk but
you couldn't; I found out _all_ about it. _She_ makes it and _you_
sell it, and now _I've_ sold it--yes every single package--and there's
your money; I don't want it, but I've proved that I _can_ help mother,
so there now!" and, figuratively speaking, Jean hurled at Mammy's feet
the gauntlet, in the shape of her handkerchief, in which she had
carefully tied the proceeds of her morning's sale, a no mean sum, by
the way. Then, bounding out of the old phaeton, tore up the hill like
a small whirlwind, leaving Mammy and the Professor to stare after her
open-mouthed. The latter was the first to recover his speech.

"Well, really! Quite vehement! Good deal of force in a small body."

"Fo'ce! Well yo' ain' know dat chile ten years lak _I_ is. She cl'ar
break loose some times, an' dis hyre's one ob 'em. But I 'spicioned
dat she's done teken dat box o' candy. Minit my back turned out she
fly wid it. An' sell hit, too? What _yo'_ know 'bout it, sar? Is yo'
see her?"

"I certainly did, and I haven't seen such a sight in some time. She's
a good bit of a metaphysician into the bargain," and in a few words
Professor Forbes told of the morning's business venture, and the
lively experiences of the young merchant, Mammy listening attentively,
only now and again uttering an expressive "Um-m! Uh-h!" When he had
finished she looked at him sharply and said:

"You know what dat chile' oughter be named? Wal, suh,
Scape-many-dangers would fit her pine blank. De Lawd on'y knows what
she gwine tu'n out, but hits boun' ter be one ting or turrer; she
gwine be de banginest one ob de hull lot, or she gwine be jist nothin'
but a little debbil. Now, suh, who is _yo'_?"

The concluding question was sprung upon the Professor so suddenly that
he nearly jumped. He looked at the old woman a moment, the suggestion
of a twinkle in the eyes behind the big glasses, then answered
soberly:

"I might be termed a knight errant I presume; I've been guarding a
young lady from the perils of the highway."

"Night errand? 'Tain't no night errand as _I_ kin see. Can't be much
broader day dan tis dis minute," retorted Mammy, looking up at the
blazing luminary directly over her head by way of proving her
assertion. "If you's on a errand dat's yo' b'isness; 'taint mine. But
I'd lak ter know yo' name suh, so's I kin tell Miss Jinny."

"Is Miss Jinny the older sister who manufactures that delicious
candy?" asked the Professor, as he drew his card case from his pocket
and handed Mammy his card.

"No, suh, she's _my_ Miss Jinny: Miss Jinny Blairsdale; I mean
Carruth. My mistis. Dat chile's mother. Thank yo', suh. I'll han' her
dis cyard. Is she know yo', suh?"

"No, I haven't the pleasure of Mrs. Carruth's acquaintance though I
hope to before long. (Mammy made a slight sound through her
half-closed lips.) My grandmother was a Blairsdale."

"Open sesame" was a trifling talisman compared with the name of
Blairsdale.

"Wha', wha', wha', yo say, suh?" demanded Mammy, stammering in her
excitement. "Yo's a Blairsdale?"

"No, I am Homer Forbes. My mother's mother was a Blairsdale. I cannot
claim the honor."

"Yo' kin claim de _blood_ dough, an' dat's all yo' hatter claim. Yo'
don' need ter claim nuttin' else ef yo' got some ob _dat_. But I
mustn't stan' here talkin' no longer. Yo' kin come an' see my Miss
Jinny ef yo' wantter. If yo's kin ob de Blairsdales' she'll be
pintedly glad fer ter know yo'," ended Mammy, courtesying to this
branch of the blood royal, and turning to lead Baltie up the hill.

"Thank you. I think I'll accept the invitation before very long. I'd
like to know Miss Jean a little better. Good-day Mammy _Blairsdale_."

"Good-day, suh! Good-day," answered Mammy, smiling benignly upon the
favored being.

As she drew near the house a perplexed expression overspread her old
face. She still held the handkerchief with its weight of change;
earnest of the morning's good intentions. Yet what a morning it had
been for her and the others!

"I clar ter goodness dat chile lak ter drive us all 'stracted. Fust
she scare us nigh 'bout ter death, an' we ready fer ter frail her out
fer her doin's. Den she come pa'radin' home wid a bagful ob cash kase
she tryin' fer ter help we-all. _Den_ what yo' gwine 'do wid her?
Smack her kase she done plague yo', or praise her kase she doin' her
bes' fer ter mek t'ings go a little mite easier fer her ma?" ended
Mammy, bringing her tongue against her teeth in a sound of irritation.

Meanwhile the cause of all the commotion had gone tearing up the hill
and into the house where she ran pell-mell into Eleanor who had just
come home, and who knew nothing of the excitement of the past few
hours. Constance had gone over to Amy Fletcher's to inquire for the
runaway. Jean was on the border land between tears and anger, and
Eleanor was greeted with:

"Now I suppose _you_ are going to lecture me too, tell me I'd no
business to go off. Well you just needn't do any such a thing, and I
don't care if I _did_ scare you. It was all your own fault 'cause you
wouldn't let me into your old secret, and I'm _glad_ I scared you. Yes
I am!" the words ended in a storm of sobs.

For a moment Eleanor stood dumfounded. Then realizing that something
more lay behind the volley of words than she understood, she said:

"Come up to my room with me, Jean. I don't know what you are talking
about. If anything is wrong tell me about it, but don't bother mother.
The little Mumsey has a lot to bother her as it is."

Jean instantly stopped crying and looked at this older sister who
sometimes seemed very old indeed to her.

"_You_ don't know what all the fuss is about, and why Mammy is waiting
to give me Hail Columbia?" she asked incredulously.

"I have just this moment come in. I have been out at Aunt Eleanor's
all the morning, as you know quite well if you will stop to think,"
answered Eleanor calmly.

"Then come up-stairs quick before Mammy gets in; I see her coming in
the gate now. I did something that made her as mad as hops and scared
mother. Come I'll tell you all about it," and Jean flew up the stairs
ahead of Eleanor. Rushing into her sister's room she waited only for
Eleanor to pass the threshold before slamming the door together and
turning the key.

Eleanor dropped her things upon the bed and sitting down upon a low
chair, said:

"Come here, Jean." Jean threw herself upon her sister's lap, and
clasping her arms about her, nestled her head upon her shoulder.
Eleanor held her a moment without speaking, feeling that it would be
wiser to let her excitement subside a little. Then she said: "Now tell
me the whole story, Jean."

Jean told it from beginning to end, and ended by demanding:

"Don't you really, truly, know anything about the candy Constance is
making to sell?"

"I know that she is making candy, and that she contrives somehow to
sell a good deal of it, but she and Mammy have kept the secret as to
_how_ it is sold. They did not tell me, and I wouldn't ask," said
Eleanor looking straight into Jean's eyes.

"Oh!" said Jean.

"Mammy has rather high ideas of what we ought or ought not to do, you
know, Jean," continued Eleanor, "and she was horrified at the idea of
Constance making candy for money. And yet, Jean, both Constance and I
_must_ do something to help mother. You say we keep you out of our
secrets. We don't keep you _out_ of them, but we see no reason _why_
you should be made to bear them. Constance and I are older, and it is
right that we should share some of the burden which mother must bear,
but you are only a little girl and ought to be quite care-free."

Jean's head dropped a trifle lower.

"But since you have discovered so much, let _me_ tell you a secret
which only mother and I know, and then you will understand why she is
so troubled now-a-days. Even Connie knows nothing of it. Can I trust
you?"

"I'd _die_ before I'd tell," was the vehement protest.

"Very well then, listen: You know our house was insured for a good
deal of money--fifteen thousand dollars. Well, mother felt quite safe
and comfortable when she found that Mammy had paid the premium just
before the house burned down, and we all thought we would soon have
the amount settled up by the company and that the interest would be a
big help--"

"What is the interest?" demanded Jean.

"I can't stop to explain it all now, but when people put money in a
savings bank a certain sum is paid to them each year. The bank pays
the people the smaller sum each year because it--the bank, I mean--has
the use of the larger amount for the time being. Do you understand?"

"Yes, it's just as if I gave you my five dollars to use and you gave
me ten cents each week for lending you the five dollars till I wanted
it, isn't it?"

"Yes, exactly. Well mother thought she would have about six hundred
dollars each year, and everything seemed all right, and so we came to
live here because it was less expensive. But, oh, Jean, my miserable
experiments! My dreadful chemicals! When the insurance company began
to look into the cause of the fire and learned that I had gasoline,
and those powerful acids in my room, and the box of excelsior in which
they had been sent out from the city was in the room where the fire
started, they--they would not settle the insurance, and _all_ the money
we had paid out was lost, and we could hardly collect anything. And it
was _all_ my fault. _All_ my fault. But I did not know it! I did not
guess the harm I was doing. I only thought of what I could learn from
my experiments. And _see_ what mischief I have done," and poor
Eleanor's story ended in a burst of sobs, as she buried her head
against the little sister whom she had just been comforting.

Jean was speechless for a moment. Then all her sympathies were alert,
and springing from Eleanor's lap she flung her arms about her crying:

"Don't cry, Nornie; don't cry! You didn't _mean_ to. You didn't know.
You were trying to be good and learn a lot. You didn't know about
those hateful old companies."

"But I _ought_ to have known! I ought to have understood," sobbed
Eleanor.

"How _could_ you? But don't you cry. I'm glad now I _did_ run away
with the box, 'cause I've found a way to make some money every single
Saturday and I'm going to _do it_, Mammy or no Mammy. Baltie is just
as much my horse as hers, and if he can't help us work I'd like to
know why. Now don't you cry any more, 'cause it isn't your fault, and
I'm going right straight down stairs to talk with mother, and tell her
I'm sorry I frightened her but _I'm not_ sorry I went," and ending
with a tempestuous hug and an echoing kiss upon her sister's cheek,
little Miss Determination whisked out of the room.




CHAPTER XVI

United We Stand, Divided We Fall


It need hardly be stated that Mrs. Carruth had passed anything but a
tranquil morning. Indeed tranquillity of mind was almost unknown to
her now-a-days, and her nights were filled with far from pleasant
dreams.

From the hour her old home had burned, disasters had crowded upon her.
Her first alarm lest the insurance upon her property had lapsed, owing
to her inability to meet the premium punctually, had been allayed by
Mammy's prompt action and all seemed well. No one had given a thought
to the conditions of the agreement, and, alas! no one had thought of
Eleanor's laboratory. Indeed, had she done so, Mrs. Carruth was not
sufficiently well informed upon such matters to have attached any
importance to it. But one little clause in the policy had expressly
prohibited the presence of "gasoline, excelsior or chemicals of any
description upon the premises," and all three had been upon it when
the house burned; and, fatal circumstance, had been the _cause_ of the
fire.

Such investigations move slowly, and weeks passed before these facts
were brought to light and poor Mrs. Carruth learned the truth. She
strove in every way to realize even a small proportion of the sum she
could otherwise have claimed, and influential friends lent their aid
to help her. But the terms of the contract had, unquestionably, been
broken, even though done in ignorance--and the precautions taken for so
many years ended in smoke.

Mrs. Carruth had not meant to let the girls learn of it until, if
worse came to worst, all hope of recovering something had to be given
up.

But, several days before, Eleanor had found her mother in a state of
nervous collapse over the letter which brought the ultimatum, and had
insisted upon knowing the truth. Mrs. Carruth confessed it only upon
the condition of absolute secrecy on Eleanor's part, for Constance was
in the midst of mid-year examinations and her mother would not have an
extra care laid upon her just then. Eleanor had kept the secret until
this morning when Jean's outbreak seemed to make it wiser to tell the
truth, and, if the confession must be made, poor Eleanor could no
longer conceal her remorse for the mischief her experiments had
brought upon them all.

She had gone that morning to her Aunt Eleanor's home to confess the
situation to her, and to ask if she might leave school and seek some
position. The interview had been a most unpleasant one, for Mrs.
Eleanor Carruth, Senior, never hesitated to express her mind, and
having exceptional business acumen herself, had little patience with
those who had less.

"Your mother has no more head for business than a child of ten. Not as
much as _some_, I believe. And, your father wasn't much better. Good
heavens and earth! the idea of a man in his sane senses agreeing to
pay another man's debts. I don't believe he _was_ in his senses,"
stormed Mrs. Eleanor.

"Please, Aunt Eleanor, don't say such things to me about father and
mother," said Eleanor, with a little break in her voice. "Perhaps
mother doesn't know as much about business matters as she ought, and
father's heart got the better of his good sense, but they are father
and mother and have always been devoted to us. I don't want to be rude
to you, but I _can't_ hear them unkindly spoken of," she ended with a
little uprearing of the head, which suddenly recalled to the irate
lady a similar mannerism of her late husband who had been a most
forebearing man up to a certain point, but when that was reached his
wife knew a halt had been called; the same sudden uplifting of the
head now gave due warning.

However, Eleanor was only a child in her aunt's eyes, and, fond as she
was of her, in her own peculiar way, she could not resist a final
word:

"Well, I've no patience with such goin's on. And now here's a pretty
kettle of fish and no mistake. You've taken Hadyn Stuyvesant's house
for a year, and of course you've got to _keep_ it, yet every cent
you've got in this world to live on is twelve hundred dollars a year.
That means less than twenty-five dollars a week to house, clothe and
feed five people. I 'spose it can be done--plenty do it--but they're not
Carruths, with a Carruth's ideas. And now _you_ want to quit school
and go to work? Well, I don't approve of it; no, not for a minute.
You'll do ten times better to stay at school and then enter college
next fall. _You've_ got the ability to do it, and it's flyin' in the
face of Providence _not_ to."

Aunt Eleanor might just as well have added, "I representing
Providence," since her tone implied as much.

"Now run along home and leave me to think out this snarl. I can think
a sight better when I'm alone," and with that summary and rather
unsatisfactory dismissal, Eleanor departed for her own home to be met
by Jean with her trials and tribulations.

Meanwhile Mrs. Carruth had gone in quest of that young lady, for upon
Mammy's return from market, Jean, Baltie and the box of candy had been
missed, and the old woman had raised a hue and cry. At first they
believed it to be some prank, but as the hours slipped away and Jean
failed to reappear, Mrs. Carruth grew alarmed and all three set forth
in different directions to search for her. Constance going to Amy
Fletcher's home. Mammy to their old home, or at least all that was
left of it, for Jean frequently went there on one pretext or another,
and Mrs. Carruth down town, as the marketing section of Riveredge was
termed. While there, one of the shopkeepers told her that Jean had
driven by, headed for South Riveredge.

Upon the strength of this vague information Mrs. Carruth had 'phoned
home that she was setting out for South Riveredge by the trolley and
hoped to find the runaway.

But the search, naturally, was unavailing and she was forced to return
in a most anxious state of mind. As she turned into Hillside street
and began to mount the steep ascent, her limbs were trembling, partly
from physical and partly from nervous exhaustion. Before she reached
the top she saw the object of her quest bearing down upon her with
arms outstretched and burnished hair flying all about her.

Jean had not paused for the hat or coat, which she had impatiently
flung aside upon entering Eleanor's room. Her one impulse after
learning of the calamity which had overtaken them was to offer
consolation to her mother. The impact when she met that weary woman
came very near landing them both in the gutter, and nothing but the
little fly-away's agility saved them. Jean was wonderfully strong for
her age, her outdoor life having developed her muscles to a most
unusual degree.

"Oh, mother, mother. I'm _so_ sorry I frightened you. I didn't mean
to; truly I didn't. I only wanted to prove I _could_ help, and now I
_can_, 'cause I've got a _lot_ of new customers and made most four
dollars. I could have made more if some of the papers hadn't bursted
and spilt the candy in the road. We got some of it up, but it was all
dirty and I couldn't take any money for _that_, though the boys _ate_
it after they'd washed if off at the hose faucet. It wasn't so very
dirty, you know. And now I'm going out there every single Saturday
morning, and Connie and I--"

"Jean; Jean; stop for mercy's sake. What _are_ you talking about? Have
you taken leave of your senses, child?" demanded poor Mrs. Carruth,
wholly bewildered, for until this moment she had heard absolutely
nothing of the candy-making, Mammy and Constance having guarded their
secret well. It had never occurred to Jean that even her mother was in
ignorance of the enterprise, and now she looked at her as though it
had come her turn to question her mother's sanity. They had now
reached the house and were ascending the steps, Jean assisting her
mother by pushing vigorously upon her elbow.

"Come right into the living-room with me, Jean, and let me learn where
you've been this morning. You have alarmed me terribly, and Mammy has
been nearly beside herself. She was sure you and Baltie were both
killed."

"Pooh! Fiddlesticks! She might have known better. She thinks Baltie is
as fiery as Mr. Stuyvesant's Comet, and that nobody can drive him but
herself. I've been to East Riveredge with the candy--"

"_What_ candy, Jean? I do not know what you mean."

"_Constance's_ candy!" emphasized Jean, and then and there told the
whole story so far as she herself knew the facts regarding it. Mrs.
Carruth sat quite speechless during the recitation, wondering what new
development upon the part of her offspring the present order of things
would bring to light.

"And Mumsey, darling," continued Jean, winding her arms about her
mother's neck and slipping upon her lap, "I'm going to help _now_; I
really am, 'cause Nornie has told me about that horried old insurance
and I know we haven't much money and--"

"Nornie has told _you_ of the insurance trouble, Jean? How came she to
do such a thing?" asked Mrs. Carruth, at a loss to understand why
Eleanor had disobeyed her in the matter.

"She told me 'cause I was so mad at her and Connie for having secrets,
and treating me as if I hadn't the least little bit of sense, and
couldn't be trusted. I am little, Mumsey, dear, but I can help. You
see if I can't, and the boys were just splendid and want me to come
every Saturday. Please, please say I may go," and Jean kissed her
mother's forehead, cheeks and chin by way of persuasion.

It must be confessed that Mrs. Carruth responded to these endearments
in a rather abstracted manner, for she had had much to think of within
the past few hours.

"Please say yes," begged Jean.

"Childie, I can not say yes or no just this moment. I am too
overwhelmed by what I have heard. I must know _all_ now, and learn it
from Mammy and Constance. I cannot realize that one of my children had
actually entered upon such a venture. What _would_ your father say?"
ended Mrs. Carruth, as though all the traditions of the Carruths, to
say nothing of the Blairsdales, had been shattered to bits and thrown
broadcast.

"But you'll tell me before _next_ Saturday, won't you? You know the
boys will be on the lookout for their candy and will be _so_
disappointed if I don't take it."

"I can not promise _anything_ now. The first thing to do is to eat our
luncheon; it is long past two o'clock. _Then_ we will hold a family
council and I hope I shall recover my senses; I declare I feel as
though they were tottering."

Mrs. Carruth rose from her chair and with Jean dancing beside her
entered the dining-room to partake of a very indifferent meal, for
Mammy had been too exercised to give her usual care and thought to its
preparation.




CHAPTER XVII

A Family Council


Luncheon was over and Mrs. Carruth, the girls and Mammy were seated in
the library; Mammy's face being full of solicitude for her Miss Jinny.
Mammy could no more have been left out of this family council than
could Eleanor.

"An' you haint got dat 'surance money and cyant git hit, Baby?" she
asked, when Mrs. Carruth had finished explaining the situation to
them.

"No, Mammy; it is impossible. I have hoped until the last moment, but
now I must give up all hope."

"But--but I done _paid_ de prem'ym ter dat little Sniffin's man, an'
_he_ say we _git_ de money all right an' straight," argued Mammy,
loath to give up _her_ hope.

"I know that, Mammy. He told you so in all good faith. It is not his
fault in the least. It would have been settled at once, had we not--had
we not--" Mrs. Carruth hesitated. She was reluctant to lay the blame
upon Eleanor.

"Oh, it is _all_ my fault! All. If I had not brought those hateful
acids into the house we would _never_ have had all this trouble. I
shall never forgive myself, and I should think you'd all want to kill
me," wailed the cause of the family's misfortune, springing to her
feet to pace rapidly up and down the room, quite unconscious that a
long feather boa which happened to have been upon the back of her
chair, had caught upon her belt-pin and was trailing out behind in a
manner to suggest Darwin's theory of the origin of man.

"My child you need not reproach yourself. You were working for our
mutual benefit. You knew nothing of the conditions--"

"Knew nothing! Knew nothing!" broke in Eleanor. "That's just _it_. It
was my business to know! And I tell you one thing, in future I _mean_
to know, and not go blundering along in ignorance and wrecking
everybody else as well as myself. I'm just no better than a fool with
_all_ my poring over books and experimenting. After this I'll find out
where my _feet_ are, even if my head _is_ stuck in the clouds. And
now, mother, listen: Since I _am_ responsible for this mess it is
certainly up to me to help you to pull out of it, and I'm going to
_do_ it, I've spoken to Mr. Hillard, and asked him about coaching, and
he says he can get me plenty of students who will be only too glad if
I can give them the time. And I'm going to do it three afternoons a
week. I shall have to do it between four and six, as those are my only
free hours, and if I can't coach better than some I've known to
undertake it, I'll quit altogether."

As Eleanor talked, Mammy's expression became more and more horrified.
When she ceased speaking the old woman rose from the hassock upon
which she sat, and crossing the room to Mrs. Carruth's side laid her
hand upon her shoulder as she asked in an awed voice:

"Baby you won't _let_ her do no sich t'ing as dat? Cou'se you won't.
Wimmin folks now-a-days has powerful strange ways, dat I kin see
myse'f, but we-all don' do sich lak. Miss Nornie wouldn't never in de
roun' worl' do _dat_, would she, honey? She jist a projectin', ain't
she?"

Mammy's old face was so troubled that Mrs. Carruth was much mystified.

"Why Mammy, I don't know of anything that Eleanor is better qualified
to do than coach. And Mammy, dear, we _must_ do something--every one of
us, I fear. We can not all live on the small interest I now have, and
I shall never touch the principal if I can possibly avoid doing so.
Eleanor can materially help by entering upon this work, and Constance
has already shown that she can aid also. Even Baby has helped," added
Mrs. Carruth, laying her arm caressingly across Jean's shoulders, for
Jean had stuck to her side like a burr.

"Then you _will_ let me go to East Riveredge with the candy?" cried
Jean, quick to place her entering wedge.

"We will see," replied Mrs. Carruth, but Jean knew from the smile that
the day was won.

"I know all dat, honey," resumed Mammy, "but dis hyer coachin'
bisness. I ain' got _dat_ settle in my mind. Hit just pure
scandal'zation 'cordin' ter my thinkin'. Gawd bress my soul what
we-all comin' to when a Blairsdale teken ter drive a nomnibus fer a
livin'? Tck! Tck!" and Mammy collapsed upon a chair to clasp her hands
and groan.

Then light dawned upon the family.

"Oh, Mammy! I don't intend to become a stage-coach driver," cried
Eleanor, dropping upon her knees beside the perturbed old soul, and
laying her own hands upon the clasped ones as she strove hard not to
laugh outright. "You don't understand at _all_, Mammy. A coach is
someone who helps other students who can't get on well with their
studies. Who gives an hour or two each day to such work. And it is
very well paid work, too, Mammy."

Mammy looked at her incredulously as though she feared she was being
made game of. Then she glanced at the others. Their faces puzzled her,
as well they might, since the individuals were struggling to repress
their mirth lest they wound the old woman's feelings, but still were
anxious to reassure her.

"Miss Jinny, is dat de solemn prar-book truf?"

"It surely is Mammy. We are not quite so degenerate as you think us,"
answered Mrs. Carruth soberly, although her eyes twinkled in spite of
her.

"Well! Well! Jes so; Jes so. I sutin'ly is behine de times. I speck I
ain' unnerstan dese yer new-fangled wo'ds no mor'n I unnerstan de
new-fangled stoves. If coachin' done tu'ned ter meanin' school marmin'
I hatter give up. Now go on wid yo' talkin': I gwine tek a back seat
an' listen twell I knows sumpin'," and, wagging her head doubtingly,
Mammy went back to her hassock.

"Well _two_ of us have settled upon our plan of action, now what are
_you_ going to do, Connie? You said you were determined to make your
venture a paying one. What is your plan?" asked Eleanor, turning to
Constance, who thus far had said very little.

"I can't tell you right now. I've had so many plans simmering since I
began to make my candy, but Mammy has always set the kettle on the
back part of the stove just as it began to boil nicely, haven't you
Mammy?" asked Constance, smiling into Mammy's face.

"'Specs I's 'sponsuble fer a heap o' unbiled kittles, dough hits kase
I hates p'intedly ter see de Blairsdales fixin' ter bu'n dey han's,"
was the good soul's answer.

"Our hands can stand a few burns in a good cause, Mammy, so don't
worry about it. We're healthy and they'll heal quickly," was
Constance's cheerful reply.

"Mebbe so," said Mammy skeptically.

"Seriously, Constance, what have you thought of doing, dear?" asked
Mrs. Carruth, a tender note coming into her voice for this daughter
who had been the first to put her shoulder to the wheel for them all.

"Well, you let me answer that question day after to-morrow, Mumsey?
Or, perhaps, it may take even a little longer. But I'll tell you all
about my simmering ideas when I have had time to make a few inquiries.
Don't grow alarmed, Mammy; I'm not going to apply for a position as
motor-girl on a trolley car," said Constance, as she laughingly nodded
at Mammy.

"Aint nothin' ever gwine 'larm me no mo', I reckons. Speck some day I
fin' dat chile stanin' down yonder on de cawner sellin' candy an'
stuff. Mought mos' anyt'ing happen," answered Mammy, as she rose from
her hassock. "Well, if _yo'_-all gwine go inter bisness, I specs _I_
gotter too, so don' be 'sprised ef yo' see me. Now I'se gwine ter get
a supper dat's fitten fer ter _eat_; dat lunch weren't nothin' but a
disgrace ter de hull fambly," and off she hurried to the kitchen to
prepare a supper that many would have journeyed far to eat.

"Children," said Mrs. Carruth, as Mammy disappeared, "whatever comes
we must try to keep together. We can meet almost any difficulty if we
are not separated, but _that_ would nearly break my heart, I believe;
father so loved our home and the companionship of his family, that I
shall do my utmost to keep it as he wished. We may be deprived of the
major portion of our income, and find the path rather a stony one for
a while, but we have each other, and the affection which began more
than twenty years ago, when I came North to make my home has grown
deeper as the years have passed. Each new little form in my arms made
it stronger, and the fact that father is no longer here to share the
joys or sorrows with us can never alter it. In one sense he is always
with us. His love for us is manifested on every hand. We will face the
situation bravely and try to remember that never mind what comes, we
have each other, and his 'three little women,' as he used to love to
call you, are worthy of that beautiful name. He was very proud of his
girls and used to build beautiful 'castles in Spain' for them. If he
could only have been spared to realize them." Mrs. Carruth could say
no more. The day had been a trying one for her, and strength and voice
failed together as she dropped upon a settee and the girls gathered
about her. Jean with her head in her lap as she clasped her arms
around her; Eleanor holding her hands, and Constance, who had slipped
behind the settee, with the tired head clasped against her breast and
her lips pressed upon the pretty hair with its streaks of gray.

For a few moments there was no sound in the room save Mrs. Carruth's
rapidly drawn breaths as she strove to control her feelings. She
rarely gave way in the presence of her children, but they knew how
hard it was for her to maintain such self-control. It was very sweet
to feel the strength of the young arms about her, and the presence of
the vigorous young lives so ready to be up and doing for her sake.

"Come up-stairs and rest a while before supper," said Constance,
softly. "Will you? Do, please. We'll be your handmaidens."

"Yes do, Mumsey, dear. I'll tuck you all up 'snug as a bug in a rug,'"
urged Jean.

"And I'll go make you a cup of tea just as you love it," added Eleanor
hurrying from the room. As Mrs. Carruth rose from the settee Constance
slipped her strong arm about her to lead her up to her own room, Jean
running on ahead to arrange the couch pillows comfortably. Presently
Mrs. Carruth was settled in her nest with Jean upon a low hassock, at
her feet, patting them to make her "go byelow," she said. In a few
moments Eleanor came back with a dainty little tray and tea service,
which she set upon the taborette Constance had placed for it, and
proceeded to feed her mother as she would have fed an invalid.

"Do you want to quite spoil me?" asked Mrs. Carruth, from her nest of
pillows.

"Not a bit of it! We only want to make you realize how precious you
are, don't you understand?" said Eleanor, kissing her mother's
forehead. "There! That is the last bite of cracker and the last drop
of tea. Now take 'forty winks' and be as fresh as a daisy for supper.
Come on, Jean, let Mumsey go to sleep."

"Oh, please let me stay here cuddling her feet. I'll be just as quiet
as a mouse," begged Jean.

"Please _all_ stay; and Connie, darling, whistle me to the land o'
nod," said Mrs. Carruth, slipping one hand into Constance's and
holding the other to Eleanor, who dropped down upon the floor and
rested her cheek against it as she nestled close to the couch.

Only the flickering flames of the logs blazing upon the andirons,
lighted the room as the birdlike notes began to issue from the girl's
lips. She whistled an air from the Burgomeister, its pretty melody
rippling through the room like a thrush's notes.

Presently Mrs. Carruth's eyelids drooped and, utterly wearied by the
day's exciting events, she slipped into dreamland upon the sweet
melody.




CHAPTER XVIII

"Save Me From My Friends"


"Miss Jinny! Miss Jinny! Wait a minit. Dar's a man yander at de back
do' dat wants fer ter ax yo' sumpin' he say," called Mammy, as she
hurried through the hall just as Mrs. Carruth was leaving the house
upon the following Monday morning.

"What is it, Mammy?" asked Mrs. Carruth, pausing.

"He say he want ter see yo' pintedly."

Mrs. Carruth retraced her steps and upon reaching the back porch found
Mr. Pringle waiting to see her.

"Hope I haven't delayed you, Mrs. Carruth, but I wanted to see you on
a matter of business which might help both of us, you see. Ah, I
thought--I thought mebbe you'd like to hear of it."

"I certainly should like to if it is to my advantage, Mr. Pringle,"
replied Mrs. Carruth, with a pleasant smile for the livery stable
keeper, who stood self-consciously twirling his cap.

"Yes, ma'am. I thought so, ma'am. Well it's this: Your stable, ma'am,
up at the old place, are you usin' it at all?"

"Not as a stable. It is more like a storehouse just now, for many
things saved from the fire are stored there."

"Could you put them somewhere else and rent the stable to me, ma'am?
I'm much put to it to find room for my boarding horses, and the
carriages; my place is not big, and I thought could I rent your stable
I'd keep most of my boarding horses up there; it's nearer to their
owners you see, ma'am."

Mrs. Carruth thought a moment before replying.

"I shall have to think over your proposal, Mr. Pringle. There is a
great deal of stuff stored in the stable and I am at a loss to know
what we could do with it. However, I will let you know in a day or two
if that will answer."

"Take your own time, ma'am. Take your own time. There's no hurry at
all. I'll call round about Thursday and you can let me know. I'd be
willing to pay twenty-five dollars a month for it, ma'am."

Pringle did not add that the step had been suggested to him by Hadyn
Stuyvesant, or that he had also set the figure.

When they were all gathered in the pleasant living-room that evening,
she spoke of the matter, ending with the question:

"But _where_ can we put all that furniture? _This_ house will not hold
another stick I'm afraid; we are crowded enough as it is."

For a few moments no one had a suggestion to offer, then Constance
cried:

"Mother couldn't we _sell_ a good many of the things? People do that
you know. The Boyntons did when they left Riveredge."

"Yes, they had a private sale and disposed of many things. They
advertised for weeks. I am afraid that would delay things too much."

"Why not have an auction then? _That_ moves quickly enough. The things
go or they _don't_ go, and that is the end of it."

"Oh, I should dislike to do that. So many of those things hold very
tender associations for me," hesitated Mrs. Carruth.

"Yet I am sure there are many things there which can't possibly have,
mother. That patent washing machine, for example, that is as big as a
dining-room table, and Mammy 'pintedly scorns,'" laughed Eleanor.

"And Jean's baby carriage. And the old cider-press, and that Noah's
ark of a sideboard that we never _can_ use," added Constance.

"And my express-wagon. I'll never play with _that_ again you know; I'm
far too old," concluded Jean with much self-importance.

"I dare say there are a hundred things there we will never use again,
and which would better be sold than kept. Come down to the place with
us to-morrow afternoon, Mumsey, and we will have a grand rummage,"
said Eleanor. And so the confab ended.

The following afternoon was given over to the undertaking, and as is
invariably the case, they wondered more than once why so many
perfectly useless articles had been so long and so carefully
cherished.

Among them, however, were many which held very dear memories for Mrs.
Carruth, and with which she was reluctant to part. Among these was a
small box of garden-tools, which had belonged to her husband, and with
which he had spent many happy hours at work among his beloved flower
beds. Also a reading lamp which they had bought when they were first
married, and beneath whose rays many tender dreams had taken form and
in many instances become realities. To be sure the lamp had not been
used for more than ten years, as it had long since ceased to be
regarded as either useful or ornamental, and neither it nor the garden
tools were worth a dollar.

But wives and mothers are strange creatures and recognize values which
no one else can see. The girls appreciated their mother's love for
every object which their father's hands had sanctified, and urged her
to put aside the things she so valued, arguing that the proceeds could
not possibly materially increase the sum they might receive for the
general collection. But Mrs. Carruth insisted that if one thing was
sold all should be, and that her personal feelings must not influence
or enter into the matter. So in time all was definitely arranged; the
auctioneer was engaged and the sale duly advertised for a certain
Saturday morning. No sooner were the posters in evidence than Miss
Jerusha Pike, likewise, became so. She swept in upon Mrs. Carruth one
morning when the latter was endeavoring to complete a much-needed
frock for Jean, as that young lady's elbows were as self-assertive as
herself, and had a trick of appearing in public when it was most
inconvenient to have them do so. Between letting down skirts and
putting in new sleeves Mrs. Carruth's hands were usually kept well
occupied.

"Morning, Mammy," piped Miss Pike's high-pitched voice, as Mammy
answered her ring at the front door. "What's the meaning of these
signs I see about town. You don't mean to tell me you are going to
sell _out_? I couldn't believe my own eyes, so I came right straight
here to find out. _Where_ is that dear, dear woman?"

"She up in her room busy wid some sewin'," stated Mammy, with
considerable emphasis upon the last word as a hint to the visitor.

"Well, tell her not to mind _me_; I'm an old friend, you know. I'll go
right up to her room; I wouldn't have her come down for the world."

"Hum! Yas'm," replied Mammy, moving slowly toward the stairs. Too
slowly thought Miss Pike, for, bouncing up from the reception-room
chair, upon which she had promptly seated herself, she hurried after
the retreating figure saying:

"Now don't you bother to go way up-stairs. I don't doubt you have a
hundred things to do this morning, and I've never been up-stairs in
this house, anyway. Go along out to your kitchen, Mammy, and I'll just
announce myself." And brushing by the astonished old woman she rushed
half way up the stairs before Mammy could recover herself. It was a
master coup de main, for well Miss Pike knew that she would never be
invited to ascend those stairs to the privacy of Mrs. Carruth's own
room. Mammy knew this also, and the good soul's face was a study as
she stared after her. Miss Pike disappeared around the curve of the
stairs calling as she ascended:

"It's only _me_, dear. Don't mind me in the least. Go right on with
your work. I'll be charmed to lend you a hand; I'm a master helper at
sewing." Mammy muttered:

"Well ef yo' aint de banginest han' at pokin' dat snipe nose o' yours
inter places whar 'taint no call ter be _I'd_ lak ter know who _is_.
I'se jist a good min' ter go slap bang atter yo' an' hustle yo' froo'
dat front door; I is fer a fac'."

Meanwhile, aroused from her occupation by the high-pitched voice, Mrs.
Carruth dropped her work and hurried into the hall. She could hardly
believe that this busy-body of the town had actually forced herself
upon her in this manner. She had often tried to do so, but as often
been thwarted in her attempts.

"Oh, _why did_ you get up to meet me? You shouldn't have done it, you
dear thing. I know how valuable every moment of your time is
now-a-days. Dear, dear, how times have changed, haven't they? Now go
right back to your room and resume your sewing and let me help while I
talk. I _felt I must_ come. Those awful signs have haunted me ever
since I first set my eyes upon them. _Don't_ tell me you are going to
sell anything! Surely you won't leave Riveredge? Why I said to Miss
Doolittle on my way here, well, if the Carruths have met with _more_
reverses and have got to sell out, _I'll_ clear give up. You haven't,
have you? But this house must be an awful expense, ain't it? How much
does Hadyn Stuyvesant ask you for it anyway? I'll bet he isn't
_giving_ it away. His mother was rather near, you know, and I dare say
he takes after her. _Do_ you pay as much as fifty a month for it? I
said to Miss Doolittle I bet anything you didn't get it a cent less.
Now do you? It's all between ourselves; you know I wouldn't breathe it
to a soul for worlds."

If you have ever suddenly had a great wave lift you from your feet,
toss you thither and yonder for a moment, and then land you high and
dry upon the beach when you have believed yourself to be enjoying a
delightful little dip in an apparently calm ocean, you will have some
idea of how Mrs. Carruth felt as this tornado of a woman caught her by
her arm, hurried her back into her quiet, peaceful bedroom, forced her
into her chair, and picking up her work laid it upon her lap, at the
same time making a dive for an unfinished sleeve, as she continued the
volley.

"Oh, I see just _exactly_ what you're doing. I can be the greatest
help to you. Go right on and don't give this a thought. I've been
obliged to do so much piecing and patching for the family that I'm
almost able to patch _shoes_. Now _what_ did you say Haydn Stuyvesant
charged you for this house?"

The sharp eyes were bent upon the sleeve.

"I don't think I said, Miss Pike. And, thank you, it is not necessary
to put a patch upon the elbow of that sleeve as you are preparing to
do; I have already made an entire new one. As to our leaving Riveredge
I am sorry you have given yourself so much concern about it. When we
decide to do so I dare say _you_ will be the first to learn of our
intention. Yes, the auction is to take place at our stable as the
announcement states. You learned all the particulars regarding it from
the bills, I am sure. If you are interested you may find time to be
present that morning. And now, since I am strongly averse to receiving
even my most intimate friends in a littered-up room I will ask you to
return to the reception room with me," and rising from her chair this
quiet, unruffled being moved toward the door.

"But your work, my dear. Your work! You can't afford to let me
interrupt it, I'm afraid. Your time must be so precious."

"It seems to have been interrupted already, does it not? Sometimes we
would rather sacrifice our time than our temper, don't you think so?"
and a quizzical smile crept over Mrs. Carruth's face.

"Well, now, I hate to have you make company of me. I really do. I
thought I'd just run in for a little neighborly chat and I seem to
have put a stop to everything. Dear me, I didn't think you'd mind _me_
a mite. Are you going to sell this set of furniture? 'Taint so very
much worn, is it? Only the edges are a little mite frayed. Some people
mightn't notice it, but my eyesight's exceptional. Well, do tell me
_what's_ goin'."

As though fate had taken upon herself the responsibility of answering
that question, the door-bell rang at the instant and when it was
answered by Mammy, Mrs. Eleanor Carruth stalked into the hall. Mrs.
Carruth rose to greet her. _Miss Pike rose to go._ If there was one
person in this world of whom Jerusha Pike stood in wholesome awe it
was Mrs. Eleanor Carruth, for the latter lady had absolutely no use
for the former, and let her understand it. Madam Carruth, as she was
often called, shook her niece's hand, looked at her keenly for a
moment and then said:

"My stars, Jenny, what ails you? You look as though you'd been blown
about by a whirlwind. Oh, how do _you_ do, Miss Pike. Just going?
You're under too high pressure, Jenny. We must ease it up a little, I
guess. Good-bye, Miss Pike. My niece has always been considered a most
amiable woman, hasn't she? I think she hasn't backbone enough at
times. That is the reason I happen along unexpectedly to lend her
some. Fine day, isn't it?"

Two minutes later Miss Pike was in close confab with her friend Miss
Doolittle.

Aunt Eleanor was up in her niece's room putting in the neglected
sleeve and saying:

"If _I'd_ been in that front hall I'll guarantee she would never have
clomb those stairs. Now tell me all about this auction."




CHAPTER XIX

"An Auction Extraordinary"


"My! Just look at them perfec'ly good, new window screens. It _does_
seem a shame to sell 'em, don't it now? They might come in real handy
sometime," cried one eager inspector of the collection of articles
displayed for sale in the Carruths' barn the following Saturday
morning. That the house for which those screens had been made lay
almost in ashes not a hundred feet from her, and that the chances of
their ever fitting any other house, unless it should be expressly
built for them, did not enter that lady's calculations.

"Yes, and just look at his elergant sideboard. My! it must have cost a
heap o' money. Say, don't you think them Carruths were just a little
mite extravagant? Seems ter me they wouldn't a been so put to it after
Carruth's death if they hadn't a spent money fer such things as them.
But I wonder what it'll bring? 'Tis elergant, aint it? I'm just goin'
ter keep my eyes peeled, and maybe I c'n git it."

"Why what in this world would you do with it if you _did_? You haven't
a room it would stand in," cried the friend, looking first at the
huge, old-fashioned, walnut sideboard, that Constance had called a
Noah's Ark, and then at its prospective purchaser as though she
questioned her sanity.

"Yes, it _is_ big, that's so," agreed that lady, "but it's _so_
elergant. Why it would give a real air to my dining-room, and I guess
I could sell our table if both wouldn't stand in the room. We could
eat in the kitchen fer a spell, you know, till maybe Jim's wagers were
raised an' we could go into a bigger house. Anyway I'm goin' ter _bid_
on it. It's too big a chanst ter let slip."

"Yes, it _is_ pretty big," replied her friend, turning away to hide a
slight sneer, for _she_ was a woman of discretion.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," called the auctioneer at that moment,
"may I claim your attention for this most unusual sale; a sale of
articles upon which you would never have had an opportunity to bid but
for the 'calamity at your heels'--to quote the immortal William."

The people massed in front of him, for Riveredge had turned out en
masse, started and glanced quickly over their shoulders. "But for the
tragedy of them ashes these elegant articles of furniture would never
have been placed on sale; your opportunity would never have been.
Alas! 'one man's meat is ever another man's poison.' Now what am I
offered for this roll of fine Japanese matting? Yards and yards of it
as you see; all perfectly new; a rare opportunity to secure a most
superior floor covering for a low figure. What am I bid, ladies and
gentlemen?"

"One dollar," ventured a voice.

"_One dollar!_ Did I hear right? Surely not. One dollar for at least
fifteen yards of perfectly new Japanese matting? Never. Who will do
better 'n that? Two? Two--two--"

"Two-fifty!"

"Good, that's better, but it's a wicked sacrifice Come
now--two-fifty--two-fifty--"

"Three. Three-fifty. Four," ran up the bids in rapid competition until
seven dollars were bid for the roll. It was bought by the discreet
lady. At that moment Jean, who had been everywhere, appeared upon the
scene.

"Oh, did you buy those pieces of matting?" she observed. "Mother told
me to tell the auctioneer not to bother with them 'cause she didn't
think there were two yards of any single pattern. I didn't get here in
time though, I'm sorry, but I had to stop on my way."

"Not two yards of any one pattern? Why there's yards and yards in this
roll. Do you mean to tell me 'taint all alike?"

"I guess not. It's pieces that were left from our house and all the
rest was burned up."

Just then Jean spied Constance and flew toward her leaving the
discreet lady to discover just what she _had_ paid seven dollars for.
On her way she ran into Jerusha Pike, who laid upon her a detaining
hand. "Jean, you're exactly the child I want. Where is your sister
Constance? I want to see her. Is your mother here?"

"No, Miss Pike, mother didn't come. Connie is right yonder. See her?"

Off hurried Miss Pike to the tree beneath which Constance stood
watching the progress of the sale, which was now in full swing; the
auctioneer feeling much elated at the returns of his initial venture,
was warming up to his work. Eleanor, with her Aunt Eleanor, who was
much in evidence this day, was seated behind the auctioneer's raised
stand, and thus quite sheltered from observation.

"Constance Carruth, you are the very girl I must see. _You_ can and
will tell me what I wish to know, I am sure," cried Miss Pike, in a
stage whisper.

"If I can I will, Miss Pike," answered Constance with a mental
reservation for the "can."

"I want you to tell me what your poor dear mother most values among
the things she has here. There _must_ be some treasures among them
which she cherishes for sweet associations' sake. Name them, I implore
you. I have never forgiven myself for the accident which befell that
priceless mirror. If I can bid in something here for her let me do it,
I beg of you. There is no one else to do it, and _you_ are far too
young to be exposed to the idle gaze of these people."

"But Miss Pike, Eleanor and----"

"No! No! I cannot permit either of you to do this thing. Your dear
mother would be shocked. _I'll_ attend to it for you, if you will only
tell me."

"But," began Constance, and was interrupted by the auctioneer's voice
calling:

"_Now_, ladies and gentlemen, here is a _fine_ set of garden tools in
perfect order."

"Oh, they were daddy's. That is the set mother felt so bad about
selling, isn't it, Connie?" broke in Jean, who had not been paying
much attention to the conversation between her sister and Miss Pike.

"There! What did I say! I was confident of it! _Now_ is my opportunity
to make reparation. _Nothing_ shall balk me."

"But Miss Pike; Miss Pike; you must not. Aunt Eleanor----"

But Miss Pike had rushed toward the auction stand.

Meanwhile Eleanor had been saying: "I wish we had not offered that
garden set at all. It was father's and mother really felt dreadful
about selling it. I fully intended to have it put aside without saying
anything to mother, but there was so much to attend to that I forgot
it, and now it is too late."

"Not in the least, _I'll_ bid it in," and rising from her chair, Madam
Carruth prepared to do her duty by her niece. Just then Miss Pike
appeared from the opposite direction.

"How much am I bid for this garden set? All in perfect condition."

"Ten cents," replied a strident voice.

"Scandalous!" cried Miss Pike. "_I'll_ bid one dollar. It is
sanctified by the touch of a vanished hand."

"Indeed," murmured Madam Carruth, who could see Miss Pike, although
that lady could not be seen by _her_. "Well, I guess _not_.
One-fifty."

Miss Pike was too intent upon securing the object to give heed to the
speaker's voice or recognize it.

"One-seventy-five! One-seventy-five! One-seventy-five! Going, going
at one-seventy-five."

"Two-seventy-five!"

"Ah! That's better. It would be a shame to sacrifice this set for a
song. It is no ordinary set of garden implements, but a most superior
quality of steel. Two-seventy-five; two-seventy-five--"

"Three! I must have them." The last words were spoken to a bystander,
but Madam Carruth's ears were sharp.

"Must you? Indeed! We'll see."

One or two others, who began to believe that a rare article was about
to slip from their possible grasp, now started in to bid, and in a few
moments the price had bounded up to five dollars. The original cost of
the set had been three. Then it went gayly skyward by leaps and bounds
until in a reckless instant Miss Pike capped the climax with ten.

"Well if she wants to be such a fool she may," exclaimed Madam
Carruth. "I could buy four sets for that money and sometimes even
sentiment comes too high. I'd save 'em for your mother if I could, but
sound sense tells me she can make better use of a ten-dollar bill than
of a half-dozen pieces of old ironmongery. That Pike woman always
_was_ a fool."

"Gone for ten dollars!" cried the auctioneer at that instant. Miss
Pike's face was radiant. She was about to turn away when Jean made her
way through the crowd to her side crying:

"Did you really get them, Miss Pike? mother'll be so glad. When we
were talking about selling these things she almost cried when she
spoke about the garden tools and the lamp----"

"_What_ lamp, child? Oh these heartrending changes! Tell me what the
lamp is like. If it can be saved I'll save it for her. I can't
understand _why_ your sisters permitted the objects, around which the
tendrils of your mother's heart were so entwined, to be put up for
sale. To me it seems a positive sacrilege."

"But mother made them do it. She wouldn't let----and, oh, there's the
lamp now. That one with the bronze bird on it, see?"

"Oh, the tender memories that must cluster about it. I will hold them
sacred for her. They shall not be desecrated. Stand beside me, child.
I shall bid that in for your dear mother."

Again the lively contest for possession was on, although the sums
named did not mount by such startling bounds as in the case of the
garden tools. Still, more than four dollars had been offered before
Miss Pike, in flattering imitation of a large New York department
store, offered $4.99, and became the triumphant owner of it. Miss Pike
had a small income, but was by no means given to flinging her dollars
to the winds. So it was not surprising that many who knew her marveled
at the sums she was spending for her two purchases. Having paid her
bill she promptly took possession of her lamp and her case of garden
tools and stalked off through the throng of people in quest of
Constance whom she found talking to a group of schoolmates near the
ruins of the old home.

"Congratulate me! Congratulate me! I've saved the treasures from the
vandals! I've rescued them from sacrilegious hands. Behold! Take them
to your mother with my dearest love. I had a struggle to get them, for
some woman was determined to secure that garden set But _I_ came off
victorious. I had to do battle royal, but I conquered. Now, my dear,
when you go home take them with you. They _did_ come rather high; I
had to pay ten dollars for the garden set, but I got the lamp for less
than five!--four ninety-nine. But you need not pay me until it is
_perfectly_ convenient. Don't let it worry you for a moment. I am
repaid for the time being in the thought that I secured them for your
mother. I knew she would rather pay twice the sum than see them fall
into the hands of utter strangers. Good-bye, my dear, I must hurry
home, for I have been absent too long already."

As Miss Pike departed, Constance dropped upon the carriage step,
which, being of stone, had survived flame and flood. Upon the ground
before her lay their own garden set, and stood their own lamp for
which her mother would have to return to Jerusha Pike, fourteen
dollars and ninety-nine cents owing to that lady's unbridled zeal. She
looked at them a moment, then glancing up at her friends whose faces
were studies, the absurdity of the situation overcame her and them
also, and peals of laughter echoed upon the wintry air.

"Who was it that said 'Save me from my friends!' Connie?" asked a girl
friend.

Constance looked unspeakable things. Then bounding to her feet she
cried:

"Well, it's lucky we can return her own money to her, but that settles
it. It might have been worse anyway. I've been on the fence for
several days without knowing which way to jump. _Now_ I do know, and
Miss Pike has given the push. It's been a case of:

  'Our doubts are traitors
  And make us lose the good we oft might win
  By fearing to attempt.'

"There, Belle, is a quotation to match yours, and bear in mind what I
say: I'm going to live up to it. Now I'm going home. Come on, you
people, and help me lug these treasures there," and off the laughing
procession set, each girl or lad burdened with some article of the
purchases, Constance leading the way with the lamp, and all singing:

  'Doubt thou the stars are fire,
    Doubt that the sun doth move;
  Doubt truth to be a liar,
    Doubt _not_ Jerusha's love.'

"I don't think I ever shall, but perhaps she has helped in one way,
since she has settled _my_ doubts, and the next thing you people hear
of me may make you open your eyes. No, I won't tell you a single
thing. Just wait until next week, then you'll see."




CHAPTER XX

Constance B.'s Venture


Owing to the stirring events at home, Jean had not set forth that
morning, but the first excitement, incident to the sale of their
belongings over, she prepared to drive out to East Riveredge, with her
box of candies. Mrs. Carruth entertained some misgivings regarding the
wisdom of letting her again pass through McKim's Hollow, but a
compromise was effected by Jean agreeing to take a different road. It
made the trip a trifle longer, but was free from dangers, and Jean set
forth in high feather and bursting with importance.

Having seen her off, Constance flew to her room, and within half an
hour emerged therefrom dressed all in soft brown. Little brown toque,
with a modest brown quill stuck through the folds of the cloth. Brown
kilted skirt and box coat, brown furs and brown gloves. She looked
almost as sedate as a little Quakeress, although her cheeks were rosy
from excitement and her eyes shone.

"Mother, I have a little matter to attend to in South Riveredge. You
won't feel anxious if I am not back before dark will you?" she asked
as she paused at her mother's door, on her way down-stairs.

Mrs. Carruth looked at her a moment before replying and wondered if
the girl had any idea how attractive she was. Then she asked:

"Am I to refrain from making inquiries?"

"Please don't ask a single question, for even if I wanted to answer
them I couldn't," said Constance, as she kissed her mother good-bye.

Half an hour later she was at the Arcade in South Riveredge, asking
the elevator man to direct her to the office of the superintendent of
the building.

"Room 16, fourth floor," directed the man. So to the fourth floor went
Constance. Opening the door of No. 16, she entered, but stood for a
second upon the threshold rather at a loss how to proceed. Seated at a
large rolltop desk was a man wearing a brisk, wide-awake air which
instantly reminded her of her father. Gaining confidence from that
fact, so often are we swayed by trifles, she advanced into the room,
saying: "Good afternoon. Are you the superintendent of the building?"

"I am," answered the gentleman, smiling pleasantly, and rising from
his chair. "What can I do for you, young lady?"

Now that she had actually come to the point of stating her errand,
Constance hardly knew where to begin. The superintendent noticing her
hesitancy said kindly: "Won't you be seated? It is always easier to
talk business when seated, don't you think so?" and placing a chair
near his desk, he motioned her toward it.

Mr. Porter did not often have calls from such youthful business women,
and was somewhat at a loss to understand the meaning of this one.
Constance was not aware that in placing the chair for her he had put
it where the light from the window just back of him would fall full
upon _her_ face.

Taking the chair she looked at him smiling half-doubtfully, and
half-confidently as she said:

"Maybe you will think I am very silly and inexperienced, and I know I
_am_, but I'd like to know whether you have any offices to rent in
this building, and how much you charge for them?"

The big eyes looked very childish as they were turned upon him, and
Mr. Porter could not help showing some surprise at the question. He
had a daughter about this girl's age, and wondered how he would feel
if she were in her place.

"Yes, we have one unoccupied office on the eighth floor, in the rear
of the building. It is divided into two fair-sized rooms and the
rental is four hundred dollars a year."

Constance jumped. "Four hundred a year! Why that is almost as much as
we pay for our _whole_ house! My goodness, isn't that a lot? I had no
idea they cost so much. Dear me, I'm afraid I can never, never do it,"
and her words ended with a doubtful shake of her head.

"Do you object to telling me just what you wish to do and why you need
an office?" asked Mr. Porter kindly. "Perhaps I could offer some
suggestions. Sometimes our tenants like to rent desk room, and if you
needed no more than a desk----why----."

"But I couldn't use a desk for a counter, could I?" hesitated
Constance.

"That depends upon what the counter had to hold. Suppose you tell me.
Then we will see." The deep blue eyes behind the glasses regarded her
very encouragingly.

Constance's eyebrows were raised doubtfully as she replied:

"I'm afraid you will think me very foolish and unsophisticated, and of
course I am, but I just _know_ I can succeed if I once get started
right. Besides I _won't_ give up unless I _have_ to. Other girls do
things and there is no reason _I_ shouldn't. I know my candy is good,
'cause if it wasn't Mammy could not sell it so easily, and--"

"Candy? Are you planning to sell candy? If it's half as good as the
candy an old <DW52> woman sells around here you'll sell all you can
make. I buy some of her every time she comes here, and my girls ask
every day if she has been around with it. It's great candy."

As Mr. Porter talked Constance's cheeks grew rosier and rosier, and
her eyes danced with fun. Of this he speedily became aware, and
looking at her keenly he asked:

"Have you ever eaten any of the old Auntie's candy? Does she make it
herself? I've asked her a dozen times, but I can't get her to commit
herself! She always gets off a queer rigmarole about her 'pa'tner,'"
ended Mr. Porter, smiling as he recalled Mammy's clever fencing with
words.

"Yes, I've eaten it. No, she doesn't make it; she only sells it. _I_
make it," confessed Constance, nervously toying with the ends of her
fur collar.

"You don't say so! Why it's the best candy I've ever tasted. Well,
really! And you think of opening a _stand_?" concluded Mr. Porter, a
little incredulously, for the girl before him did not seem to be one
who would venture upon such an enterprise.

"Well yes, and no. I want to have a place to sell it here in South
Riveredge, but I can't exactly have a counter you see, because I am
still in school the greater part of the day. So I thought up a plan
and--and I want to try it. Would you mind if I told you about it?"

The sweet voice and questioning look with which the words were spoken
would have won the ear of a less interested man than Robert Porter.
More than an hour passed before this plan which had been simmering in
the girl's active brain, was laid before the practical business
man, and he was amazed at what he afterwards pronounced its
"level-headedness."

When the conversation ended, Constance was wiser by many very sane
suggestions made by her listener, and more than ever determined to
carry her plan through.

"Now, young lady, by-the-way, do you mind letting me know your name?
We can talk better business if I do. Mine's Porter."

"I am Constance Carruth," said Constance.

"Carruth? Not Bernard Carruth's daughter?"

"Yes."

"You don't say so! Why I knew your father well, little girl, and
respected him more than any man I've ever known. He was a fine man.
Bernard Carruth's daughter? Well I declare."

Constance's cheeks glowed more than ever. Praise of her father was
sweet to her ears.

"Well, well, Bernard Carruth's daughter," repeated Mr. Porter, as
though he could not quite make it true. "Well, come with me. I've an
idea for this candy selling scheme and we'll see what we can do."

Rising from his chair he led the way to the elevator. Upon reaching
the main floor he walked to the rear of the building where the
stairway was situated.

In the alcove made by the box-stairs stood the public telephone switch
board and two booths. At the right, close under the stairs, was an
empty space too low for the booths, and yet of no use to the operator,
since while she might be able to occupy it when sitting at a desk, she
was very likely to encounter a cracked crown if she rose too quickly
from her chair. All was enclosed with a little wooden railing and well
lighted by the electric lights.

"Now I am wondering if we couldn't rig up a tempting little booth in
this unoccupied space. Good afternoon, Miss Willing. How would you
like to share your quarters with this enterprising young lady? She has
a mighty clever idea in that logical head of hers and I'm going to do
my best to help her make it a success. How about _you_?" he ended,
making a mental contrast between the strikingly handsome, dark-haired,
dark-eyed girl at the telephone booth, whose glances flashed back at
him so boldly, and whose toilet would have been better suited to an
afternoon function than a telephone booth, and the modest,
well-gowned, young girl beside him.

"I guess I won't bother her, and I'm sure she won't bother _me_," was
the reply which proved the speaker's fiber, and caused Constance to
look at her and wonder that any one _could_ be so lacking in
refinement. Little Connie had many things to learn in the business
world into which she was venturing. But the knowledge would do her no
harm. She was well equipped to stand the test.

The girl saw the look of surprise and no rebuke could have been
keener. With a little resentful toss of her head, for this girl who
had so innocently made her aware of her shortcomings, she turned to
answer a call upon the 'phone, and Constance to listen to Mr. Porter's
words.

"Now, Miss Carruth, my idea is this: Suppose we have this little space
fitted up with attractive cases, and the necessary shelves. It is not
very large, but neither is the venture--yet. When it grows bigger we
will find a bigger cubby for it. The thing to do now is to find the
_right_ one; one where you can make a good show, and be sure of
catching your customers, and where the customers are likely to come to
be _caught_. I don't know of any place where, in the long run, more
are likely to come than to a 'phone booth. What do you think of it?"

"It's just _splendid_!" cried Constance. "I couldn't have found a
better place no matter how long I tried. I'm _so_ much obliged to you,
Mr. Porter."

"Better wait until you see how it pans out--the booth, not the candy. I
can speak for the panning of that," laughed Mr. Porter, then added:
"Well, that is step No. 1 taken. Now for No. 2, and that is stocking
up. Have you thought about that?"

"Yes, I've thought. My goodness! I've thought until my wits are fairly
muddled with thinking, but that is the part that bothers me most. I
can make the candy easily enough after school hours, and I can manage
to send it here, but I'm dreadfully afraid I haven't as much capital
on hand as I ought to have to get all the boxes I need. They are very
expensive I find. I wrote to two firms who make them, but it seems to
me they charged me dreadful prices. Perhaps they suspected from my
letter that I wasn't much of a business woman," confessed Constance,
looking frankly into the friendly eyes.

Mr. Porter laughed in spite of himself, then sobering down again
asked:

"Have you time to come back to my office? I would like to make a
proposition to you."

"Why yes, Mr. Porter, I have time enough," hesitated Constance. "But I
am afraid I am taking a good deal more of yours than I ought to."

"Am I not working in the interests of the owner of this building? I'm
trying to secure a new tenant for him. What more could I do?"

"I don't believe their income will be materially increased by _this_
tenant," answered Constance much amused at the thought.

"Every one counts, you know. But now to business."

Entering his office with a brisk air, he again motioned Constance to
the chair by his desk, and asked:

"Are you willing to discuss all the details with me? You know I do not
ask from idle curiosity, I am sure. I am interested; very deeply
interested. I want to see this thing succeed. You have outlined your
plan and it is all right. All it needs now is a little capital to
carry it through successfully. Now let us see if we can't _secure_
that."




CHAPTER XXI

Constance B.'s Candies


"Now, Miss Carruth, tell me the prices quoted for the boxes, and how
many you had thought of ordering," said Mr. Porter, in the voice so
encouraging when used by older people to younger.

"Well, if I order _any_ I suppose I ought to order a hundred," began
Constance.

"One hundred!" echoed Mr. Porter. "Why, little girl, that would not be
a flea-bite. You ought to order five hundred at least."

"_Five hundred!_" cried Constance, in dismay. "Why, Mr. Porter, I'm
afraid I've hardly enough money to order one hundred at the rate they
charge," and she named the sums asked by the firms to which she had
written.

"Bosh! Nonsense! That's downright robbery. You let _me_ write to a
firm _I_ know of and we'll see what we'll see. And now I'm going to
take some stock in this company right off. I'm going to invest one
hundred dollars in it to be used as a working capital--there--don't say
a word of protest," as Constance voiced an exclamation. "_I_ know what
I'm up to, and--I love sweets. If you can't pay back in any other way
you can keep me supplied for a year. Just now you've got to start out
in good shape, and there is no use doing things half way. But you
haven't asked me what I'm going to charge you for your booth?"
concluded Mr. Porter, with a merry twinkle in his blue eyes.

"Why I forgot all about the price," said Constance in confusion. "Oh,
dear, how stupid I am."

"Well, since it is a space we never thought to rent anyway, and
couldn't use for anything else if we wished to, suppose we say five
dollars a month? I think those are pretty good returns for a cubby. If
I do as well in proportion with all the other offices I'll make the
owners rich."

"I'm afraid it is _very_ low. I think you are only letting me have it
so cheap just because you liked father. Don't you think I ought really
to pay more? I didn't think I could get _any_ sort of a place for
_less_ than ten dollars a month," was Constance's most unbusinesslike
speech.

Mr. Porter looked at the earnest face regarding him so frankly and
confidingly, and a very suspicious moisture came into his eyes. Rising
from his chair he laid his hand kindly upon her shoulder as she arose
and stood before him, and said very gently:

"Don't worry yourself on _that_ score, little girl, and--don't mind it
if I _do_ call you little girl; you seem that to me spite of your
business aspirations. I am asking you a fair price because I know you
would rather feel that you are _paying_ a fair price for what you get,
and would prefer beginning your business venture on such a basis. I am
also advancing this sum of money because I am confident you will
succeed. It is purely a business speculation. I would do it for your
father's sake, but I know you would rather I did it upon strictly
business principles. I can not lose my money in any case, because if I
do not get the actual cash, I know I shall get my sweets--a whole
hundred dollars' worth. It fairly makes my mouth water to think of
them, and my girls will go wild when I tell them. Keep up a brave
heart, and, above all, keep that pretty modesty you have, for it will
carry you farther than any amount of audacity. It is your best armor.
There is nothing a man respects more than a brave and modest woman, my
dear. Nothing in this world. Now, little woman, go home and think up
the style and sizes of the boxes you will need and let me know at
once. 'Phone me early Monday morning. Design something yourself if you
can; it will take quicker. Next week I'll have your stall put into
shape and you can make your candies and stock up as soon as your boxes
come. _Then_ we will soon learn whether your faith in your
fellow-beings is justified or misplaced. I believe you will find it
justified; upon my soul I do; though I have never before seen such a
scheme put to the test. Now good-bye; good-bye, and God bless you,"
ended Mr. Porter, warmly shaking the small gloved hand.

"Good-bye, Mr. Porter, and, oh, thank you _so_ much for your kind
interest. I feel so brave and encouraged to begin now," cried
Constance, her eyes confirming her words, and her cheeks glowing.

Mr. Porter accompanied her to the elevator, and with another hearty
farewell, sped her upon her way brimful of enthusiasm, and more than
ever resolved to carry into effect the scheme which had entered her
head many weeks before, and which was now taking definite form and
shape.

The trolley car seemed fairly to crawl along, so did her desire to
reach home and tell of the afternoon's undertaking outstrip its
progress. It was quite dark when she alighted and climbed the hill at
her home, thinking, as she ascended the steps, how sweet and cheerful
the little home looked, for her mother, in spite of the warnings
volunteered by some of her friends that some day she would be robbed
as the outcome of letting all the world look in upon her, would never
have the shades drawn. Mrs. Carruth always replied:

"For the sake of those to whom a glimpse of our cheery hearth gives
pleasure, and there are more than you guess, as I have learned to my
own surprise, I shall take my chances with the possible unscrupulous
ones."

And so the window shades remained raised after the lamps were lighted,
and many a passer-by was cheered along his way by a peep at the sweet,
home-like picture of a gentle-faced woman, and three bright-faced
girls, gathered around the blazing hearth, and reading or sewing in
the soft lamp-light.

"Dear little Mumsey," said Constance, softly, as she paused a moment
before crossing the piazza. "Your girlie is going to help you keep
just such a sweet home forever and ever, and ever." Then giving the
whistling bird-call by which the members of the family signaled to
each other, she went close to the window and looked smilingly in.

Up bounced Jean to fly to the door; Eleanor raised her head from the
book over which she was, as usual, bent, and nodded; Mrs. Carruth
waved her hand and wafted a kiss.

"Oh, come in quick, and tell us where you have been, and what you have
done," cried Jean, opening the door with a whirl.

"Hello, baby! Give me a big hug first," cried Constance, and Jean
bounded into her arms. Mrs. Carruth had crossed the room to welcome
the tardy one, and as soon as she was released from Jean's tempestuous
embrace, took the glowing face in both her hands gently to kiss the
cheeks as she said:

"What a bonny, bonny glow the cheeks wear, sweetheart. Something very
lovely must have happened."

"Oh, mother, I've had such a perfectly splendid afternoon and feel so
brave and proud about it all. Let me get my things off and I'll tell
you all about it. But is supper almost ready? I'm half-starved?
Excitement sharpens one's appetite doesn't it? Heigh-ho. Nornie. What
news of the ponies? If you're to be a coach-woman you've got to have
some sort of an equine creature to hustle along, haven't you? Did you
have time to go and see the prospective ones this afternoon? And oh,
_how_ did the auction turn out, mother? Gracious, what stirring people
the Carruths are getting to be compared with the common-place,
slow-going ones they were."

"Jean, dear, run out and tell Mammy that Constance is home, and we
will have supper at once. You can tell us all the news at the table,
dear."

Jean flew for Mammy's quarters, quite as eager as Constance to have
the supper served.

"Mammy! Mammy! Connie's got back, and she's starved _dead_! Mother
says have supper right off quick," burst out Jean, as she whisked
through the butler's pantry.

"Jes so. Whar dat chile been? Go 'long back an' tell 'em de supper
'ready an' a waitin', as de hyme book say, an' I got sumpin' dat dat
chile pintedly love."

"What is it, Mammy? What is it?" cried Jean, eagerly, as she ran over
to inspect the dishes upon the range.

"Get out! Clear 'long! Yo' keep yo' little nose outen my dishes!"
cried Mammy, with assumed wrath, as she pounced upon little
Miss Inquisitive. "Yo' go right 'long an' tell her I'se got
lay-over-catch-meddlers in hyer an' lessen yo' take keer you'll turn
inter one."

"Fiddlestick!" retorted Jean, as she flew back.

A few moments later the family had gathered about the delightful
supper table and Constance was relating the experiences of the
afternoon, while first one and then another exclaimed over her
venture, Mammy crying as she urged her to take another of the dainty
waffles she had made especially for her. "Honey, what I tol' yo'? Ain'
I perdic' dat yo' boun' ter hit de tack spang on de right en'? I say
dat dem pralines and fudges de banginest candies I ever _is_ see, an'
de folks what done buy 'em--huh! My lan' dey fair brek dey necks
fallin' ober one an'ner ter git _at_ 'em de minit I sot myse'f on dat
ar camp stool. An' now yo' gwine open a boof an' 'splay 'em fer sale?
But yo' aint gwine stan' behin' de counter is yo'? Yo' better _not_
set out ter do no sich t'ing as _dat_, chile, whilst _I'se yo'_ Mammy.
No-siree! I ain' gwine stan' fer no sich gwines-on as dat--in a
Blairsdale. Yo' kin hab yo' cubby, as yo' calls hit, an' take yo'
chances wedder yo' gits cheated or wedder yo' meets up with hones'
folks, but yo' cyant go behin' no counter, an' dats flat. When yo'
gwine begin makin' all dat mess o' candy?"

"Just as soon as I have some boxes to sell it in, Mammy, and those I
must design. At least must suggest something pretty for the covers."

"Have a picture of Baltie on the cover, Connie. He was the first one
to take your candies to South Riveredge," cried Jean, with thoughts
ever for the faithful old silent partner.

"No, Baltie belongs to you and Mammy. By-the-way, how did you get on
at the school to-day? You haven't told me yet."

"Just _splendiferous_! The boys bought every bit I took; I mean every
bit that was _left_ after Professor Forbes got all _he_ wanted. He was
at the gate when I drove up, and what do you think he did? Made me
stop until he had bought six packages of fudge and six packages of
pralines, and then made me promise always to save them for him. My
goodness if that man doesn't have _one_ stomachache," ended this sage
young lady speaking from bitter experiences of her own.

"Jean!" cried Eleanor.

"Well, it's true. Twelve whole packages of candy all for _himself_,
greedy old thing! And he asked me if I couldn't come _twice_ a week. I
told him I guessed not, and if he wanted it oftener than once a week
he'd have to come after it. And he said that was precisely what he
_would_ do, and to ask my sister to please to have twelve packages for
him on Wednesday afternoon. _That_ man's teeth will need a dentist
just you see if they don't," ended Jean with an ominous wag of the
head for the sweet-toothed professor, while the rest of the family
shrieked with laughter.

"What do _you_ suggest for my boxes, mother?" asked Constance, when
the laugh had subsided.

"How about little white moire paper boxes with some pretty flower on
the cover?"

"Pretty, but not very distinctive I'm afraid," said Constance,
doubtfully.

"How about those pretty Japanese boxes they have at Bailey's?"
ventured Eleanor.

"Still less distinctive. No; I must have some design that suggests
_me_. Don't think me conceited, but I want people to know that the
candy is made and sold by a school-girl, who cannot be there to look
after her counter, and must trust to their honesty. I've got an idea
about my _sign_, but, somehow, I don't seem to be able to get one that
is worth a straw for the boxes, yet I've been thinking as hard as I
could think."

"Wait a minit, Baby," said Mammy, and hurried from the room. She came
back in about ten minutes holding a small box in her hand. Placing it
upon the table before Constance, she said: "Now, Honey, mebbe dis yere
idee ob mine ain' nothin' in de worl' but foolishness, but seems ter
me ef yo' want distincshumness you's got hit _dar_. I ain' half lak
ter let yo' _do_ hit, but dey's _yo'_ candies, so I spec' yo' might as
well let folks unnerstan' hit."

The box was one which Jean had given Mammy the previous Christmas. It
was made of white moire paper with a small medallion in gilt in the
left-hand upper corner, the medallion being in the shape of a little
gold frame formed of gold beads. Originally there had been a 
picture of Santa Claus's face within it, but over this Mammy had
carefully pasted a small photo of Constance; one taken several years
before. In the center of the box was written in gold script "Merry
Christmas," and just beneath that the word "bonbons."

"Couldn't you have yo' name whar de Merry Christmas stan' at an'
'candies' whar de bong bongs is?" asked Mammy.

"Mammy, you old dear!" cried Constance, springing to her feet to throw
her arms about the wise old creature. "You've hit it exactly. Why I
couldn't have anything better if I thought for a whole year. I'll have
some pictures taken right off and the boxes shall be just exactly like
this. Hurrah for 'Constance B.'s Candies!' Come on Mammy, we've got to
celebrate the brilliant idea!" and catching the astonished old woman
by the arms, Constance whirled her off on a lively two-step, whistling
the accompaniment, while Mammy cried:

"Gawd bress my soul, is yo' gone stark crazy, chile!" and at length
broke away to vanish protesting within the privacy of her kitchen.




CHAPTER XXII

First Steps


During the ensuing week it would have been hard to find a busier
household than the Carruths'. Instead of telephoning to Mr. Porter on
Monday morning, as he had suggested, Constance wrote a long letter
Saturday evening, giving accurate directions for the boxes, and
enclosing a paper design to be sent to the manufacturers.

The letter reached him by the early mail, causing him to exclaim:
"George, what a level little head she _has_ got! She shall have those
boxes before next Saturday, if I have to go after them myself. Why the
idea is simply great!"

Going to his 'phone he called up Mrs. Carruth's home. Constance had
already gone to school, but Mrs. Carruth answered the 'phone. She was
quite as delighted as Constance would have been, and promised to
deliver the message to her upon her return. When she heard it
Constance's cheeks glowed.

"Isn't he a _dear_, mother, to take so much trouble for me? And now I
must get _busy, busy, busy_. I've pounds and pounds of candy to make
between this and Saturday, and I must make it afternoons."

"I can not bear to think of you doing this, dear," said Mrs. Carruth,
laying her hand tenderly upon the soft brown hair.

"Why not, I'd like to know?" cried Constance.

"Because it takes the time you should spend in outdoor exercise. You
work hard in school, and that has always seemed to me to be quite
enough for any girl to undertake. Yet here you and Eleanor are about
to give up your afternoons for this work and the coaching."

Mrs. Carruth sighed, for it was hard for her to adjust herself to the
new order of things in her family. Raised upon a large plantation,
where she, the only daughter, was her father's idol, for whom
everything must be done, and whose every wish must be considered, she
shrank from the thought of her girls laboring for their daily bread,
or stepping out into the world beyond their own thresholds. Her father
would have felt that the world was about to cease revolving had _she_
been obliged to take such a step. Indeed it would have quite broken
his heart, for never had any woman of _his_ household been forced to
do aught toward her own maintenance. But times had changed since
Reginald Blairsdale had been laid away in the little burial plot upon
the plantation, where his wife had slept for so many years, and his
daughter had lived to see many changes take place which would have
outraged all his traditions.

"Now, mother, _please_ listen to me," said Constance, earnestly, as
she slipped her arm about her mother's waist. "I am _not_ going to
give up all my afternoons, and neither is Eleanor. As to the exercise,
we each have a pretty long walk to and from school mornings and
afternoons, and, in addition to that, Eleanor will go to her pupils'
houses to do her coaching. That gives her a good bit of exercise three
afternoons each week, and she has _all_ her Saturdays free. I shall
give little more than two hours a day to my candy making, and I know
you and Jean will gladly help me do the packing and tying up. Just how
I shall send it over, I haven't decided yet; that can be settled later
when I send a ton or so each day," laughed Constance. "Meanwhile Mammy
will take it over, or _I_ can. Only _please_ don't dampen my
enthusiasm or worry because I am undertaking this step. I am perfectly
well and strong, and I'll promise not to do anything to endanger that
health and strength. So smile upon my venture, Mumsey, dear, and make
up your mind that it _is_ going to be a _great_ success,--because it
_is_," ended Constance, with a rapturous hug.

"You are my brave, sweet girl!" said Mrs. Carruth, very tenderly.
"Yes, I'll put my Blairsdale pride in my pocket--or rather my hand-bag,
since pockets are no longer in fashion, and try to be a full-fledged,
twentieth-century woman. Now what is the first step?"

"The first step is to make my candies before I try to sell 'em. No,
the first is to order the stuff sent home to make them of. I'll 'phone
right down to Van Dorn's this minute. I've plenty on hand for this
afternoon's candy, but I'll lay in a big supply ahead."

The 'phoning was soon done, and then Constance hurried to the kitchen
where for the two ensuing hours she worked like a beaver. At the end
of that time several pounds of tempting sweets were made and ready to
be wrapped in paraffin paper. When this was done all was packed
carefully into tin boxes to await the arrival of the paper ones.

Constance surveyed the candy with much satisfaction, as indeed she
well might, for no daintier sweets could have been found. Turning to
the others she cried:

"I feel as self-satisfied and self-righteous as though I'd just put a
new skirt braid on my skirt, and I don't know of anything that makes
one feel more so. If I can make five pounds a day for six days I'd
have a pretty good supply on hand for Saturday, my 'opening day.' My,
doesn't that sound business-like? Nornie, don't you wish _you'd_ taken
to a commercial rather than a professional life? Come on Jean, the
others will die of envy when they see our candy booth spread and
spread until it swallows up all the office space in the Arcade," and
catching up the saucepan in which she had made her candy, Constance
began to beat a lively tattoo upon the bottom of it, as an
accompaniment to her whistling, as, still enveloped in her big apron,
she pranced about the kitchen. Jean, also in gingham array, promptly
joining in, for Jean's resentment had vanished since she had been
taken into the girls' confidence and "entered the partnership" as she
called it.

In a day or two another message came over the 'phone to Constance,
asking her to call at the Arcade, the following afternoon.

Upon reaching there at three o'clock, she was met by Mr. Porter, who
had been on the lookout for her.

"Glad you've come, little girl! Glad to see you," he said heartily.
"Come and look at your cubby and tell me what you think of it. _I_
think it great." While he talked Mr. Porter led the way to the rear of
the Arcade. As they drew near the stairway, Miss Willing glanced up,
gave an indifferent nod in answer to Constance's "How do you do, Miss
Willing?" and turned to her 'phone. Miss Willing much preferred being
the center of attraction beneath the stairs, and was not enthusiastic
over the thought of sharing her corner with "one of them big-bugs, as
they think themselves." Could she have known it, this girl, whom she
was so stigmatizing, felt herself a very tiny bug indeed in the world
in which Miss Willing dwelt, and secretly stood in considerable awe of
the young lady who could look with so much self-assurance into the
eyes of the patrons of her 'phone booth, and smile and joke with old
and young men alike. There were always several around the booth.
Constance wondered why they seemed to have to wait so long to have
their calls answered. Her own 'phone calls at home were answered so
promptly. However, while these sub-conscious thoughts passed through
her brain, the more wide-awake portion of it was taking in the changed
appearance of her cubby's corner.

Mr. Porter had lost no time and spared no trouble, and the Arcade's
carpenter to whom he had given instructions to "do that job in shape
and mighty quick," had followed those instructions to a dot. There was
the cubby, the wood all carefully painted in white enamel, the
portable shelves made of sheets of heavy glass. A high railing and
gate shut off one end, giving ingress to the proprietor, and privacy
if she wished at any time to stay at her counter for awhile. On the
lower shelf of the counter stood a little cash box divided into two
sections: One for bills the other for silver. Just above it was a
small white sign upon which was plainly painted in dark blue letters:

    "Constance B.'s Candies."
      Take what you wish.
    Leave cost of goods taken.
 Make your change from my cash box.
  Respecting my patrons' integrity,
             Constance B. C.
      Kindly close the door.

Constance clasped her hands and gave a little cry of delight. All her
ideas were so perfectly carried out.

"Oh, Mr. Porter, it is perfectly fascinating! How good you are! How am
I ever going to pay for it though? I had no idea you were going to so
much trouble and expense."

"But you don't _have_ to pay for it. Every office has to be fitted up
for its tenant's needs you know, or he wouldn't rent it. So I had to
have your cubby fitted up for yours. Now you can stock up as soon as
you're a mind to. And, by-the-way, those boxes will be along to-morrow
morning. I told them they must hustle, and they have. Are your photos
ready to paste on 'em?"

"Yes, they came home last evening; at least six dozen of them did, and
the rest will come next week. I'll send them to the box manufacturers
for the next lot and they can be put right on there. It will save our
time."

"Good! Twelve dozen boxes will be delivered this time, and the rest
will be along pretty soon. Send your photos to them as quickly as you
can. I'm glad you like your cubby."

"Like it! Why I'd be the most ungrateful girl that ever lived if I
didn't like it. It's just simply _splendid_! But a whole year's rent
won't pay you back I'm afraid."

"Don't care whether it does or not. Mean to make you sign a _five_
years' lease next time. When will you stock up?"

"Mammy is coming over with me early Saturday morning. Just think we
have already made over twenty-five pounds of candy. I want to have
fifty on hand to start with. Do you think I'll _ever_ sell it?" and
the pretty girlish face was raised to Mr. Porter's with the most
winning of smiles.

"Little flirt! I wonder if she knows he has daughters as old as _she_
is," muttered the girl at the 'phone. Constance was quite unconscious
of either look or comment.

"Of course you'll sell it. Mark my word it will go like hot cakes,"
was the encouraging answer.

"I hope so. And thank you again and again for _all_ you have done.
Good-bye. Please tell your daughters what a proud girl you have made
me," and the little gloved hand was held toward him. He shook it
warmly and walked with her to the front door. As he turned to go back
a man who occupied a cigar stand near the door nodded and said with a
laugh:

"Got a new tenant, Mr. Porter? Goin' to let us have another pretty
girl to talk to?"

"I've got a new tenant, yes, Breckel, but, unless I am very much
mistaken, you will not talk to her a great deal, and when you _do_
you'll take your hat off, and toss away your cigar. It's a pity we
can't have a few more such girls in our business world. It would raise
the standard considerably. Men would find a better occupation than
making fool speeches to them then. Mark my word that little woman will
succeed."

"I'm sure I hope she will if she's the right stuff," answered Breckel,
the laugh giving place to a more earnest expression and tone of voice,
which proved that the man, like most of his stamp, had something good
in him to be appealed to.




CHAPTER XXIII

Opening Day


At last the eventful morning arrived. Constance and Mammy were astir
long before the clock struck six, and the candy kettles were bubbling
merrily. Constance was pulling her big lump of molasses candy when
Jean came bounding into the kitchen arrayed in her little night toga.

"Bress my soul!" cried Mammy. "Wha' yo' doin' down hyer? Kite long
back dis minit. Does yer want ter kitch yo' deaf cold?"

"But Connie didn't call me, and I said I'd help," protested Jean.

"He'p! He'p! Yo' look lak yo' could he'p, don't yo'? stannin' dar
dressed in nuffin in de worl' but yo' nightie an' yo' _skin_. Clar out
dis minit befo' I smack yo' wid dis hyer gre't spoon," and Mammy made
a dive for the culprit as she darted away.

A few hours later the candy boxes were in the bottom of the phaeton,
Constance mounting guard over them while Mammy acted as Jehu.

When the Arcade was reached Mammy descended from the phaeton,
blanketed Baltie, and then taking one of the large boxes in which the
smaller ones were packed, said:

"Now honey, yo' tek anodder--_No, not two_ of 'em--dey's too heavy fo'
you; I'll come back fo' dose. Now walk 'long head ob me, kase I want
dese hyer folks what's a-starin' at us lak dey aint neber _is_ seen
anybody befo', ter unnerstan' dat I'se _yo' sarvint_, an' here fer ter
pertec' yo'. _An' I ain' gwine stan' no nonsense needer._"

"You need not be afraid Mammy. Everybody is just as kind and lovely as
possible."

"Huh! Dey'd _better_ be," retorted Mammy, with a warning snort.

In a short time the little booth made a brave showing with its
quarter-pound, half-pound, and pound boxes of candy, each tied with
pretty ribbon, and each bearing upon its cover the smiling face of its
young maker.

When Miss Willing found a chance to take a sly peep at them she turned
her head and sneered as she murmured: "Well, of all the conceit. My!
Ain't she just stuck on that face of hers though."

Scarcely was all arranged, when Mr. Porter appeared upon the scene.

"Just in time to be the first customer," he cried gayly. "How are you
this morning? How-de-do, Auntie? Ah, you see I know your partner now.
What all have you got here anyhow?" he continued as he peered into the
cases. "Pralines, plain fudge, nut fudge, molasses candy, cream
walnuts, caramels, butter-scotch. I say! You've been working, little
girl, haven't you?"

"Lak ter wo'k her finges mos' off," asserted Mammy.

"They're none of them missing, though," laughed Constance, holding up
the pretty tapering fingers to prove her words.

"Then give me my candies, quick! I can't wait another minute. You can
almost see my mouth water like my old hunting dog's."

"Which kind will you have Mr. Porter?"

"_All_ kinds of course!"

"Not really?"

"Yes, _really_. Do you think I'm going to miss any of the treat?
Biggest boxes, please."

Constance lifted from the case a pound box of each variety.

"How much?" asked Mr. Porter.

"Why nothing to _you_? How _could_ I?" she asked, coloring at the
thought of accepting more from him.

"Now see here, young lady, that won't do. You can't begin _that_ way.
Your business has got to be spot cash. Don't forget that, or you'll
get into difficulties," said her customer with a warning nod of his
head.

"As near as I can make out Mr. Porter, it's just the other way about;
I'm getting my cash in advance. Now please listen to me," said
Constance very seriously, an appealing look in her expressive eyes.
"You have done a great deal for me in arranging this booth so
attractively, and encouraging me in every way. In addition to that you
have 'taken stock,' as you call it, in the venture. Very well, _I_
call it simply advancing capital. Now I shall never feel at ease until
that sum is paid off, and one way for me to do it is to let you have
all the candy you want. No--wait a minute; I haven't finished," as Mr.
Porter raised his hand in protest. "If you will promise to come to the
booth for all the candy you want, I will charge you just the same for
it as I charge the others, but it must go toward canceling my
obligation _so far as money_ can cancel it. Now, _please_, say yes,
and make my opening day a very happy one for me. Otherwise I shall
have to refuse to let you have _any_ candy until I have paid back the
hundred dollars. Isn't that right and fair, Mammy?" she asked, turning
to look into the kind old face beside her.

"Hits jist de fa'r an' squar' livin' truf. Hit suah is, Massa Potah.
Ain' no gittin' roun' dat. We-all cyant tek no mo' 'vestments 'dout we
gibs somepin fer ter mak hit right. Miss Constance, know what she
a-sayin'."

The gay bandanna nodded vigorously to emphasize this statement.

Mr. Porter looked at them for a moment, and then broke into a hearty
laugh.

"I give it up!" he cried. "Have it your own way, but if I eat sweets
until I lose all my teeth, upon your heads be the blame. It isn't
every man who has a hundred dollars worth to pick from as he chooses."

"_You_ won't have very long, because I expect to pay back in more ways
than just candies," cried Constance, merrily.

"But you surely don't want _all_ that?" she added, laying her hands
upon the seven boxes lying upon the counter.

"Yes, I do! My soul, if she isn't trying to do me out of my own
purchases. Here, young lady, give me those boxes. I want them right in
my own hands before you have some new protest to put forth," and
hastily piling his seven pounds of candy upon his arm, Mr. Porter fled
for the elevator, leaving Mammy and Constance to laugh at his speedy
departure.

At length all was arranged, the booth with its array of dainty boxes
making a brave display.

Constance and Mammy stood for a moment looking at it before taking
their departure, well pleased with the result of their undertaking.
Then with a pleasant good morning to Miss Willing, whose eyes and ears
had been more than busy during the past hour, they departed, leaving
the little candy booth, its cash box, and its very unusual
announcement upon the sign which swung above it, to prove or disprove
the faith which one young girl felt in her fellow beings.




CHAPTER XXIV

One Month Later


One month had passed since the eventful opening day. A month of hard,
incessant work for Constance, Mammy and Jean, who insisted upon doing
her share. It was nearly March, and the air already held a hint of
spring. The pussy-willows were beginning to peep out upon the world,
and in sheltered spots far away in the woodland the faint fragrance of
arbutus could be detected.

From her opening day, Constance's venture had prospered, and the
little candy booth's popularity became a fact assured. Up betimes
every morning, Constance had her kettles boiling merrily and by seven
o'clock many pounds of candy were ready to be packed in the dainty
boxes. Then came Jean's part of the work and never had she failed to
come to time. True to her word to be a "sure-enough partner," she was
up bright and early and had her candies wrapped and packed before her
breakfast was touched. Mammy and Baltie, soon became familiar figures
in South Riveredge, and many of Constance's patrons believed the old
woman to be the real mover of the enterprise. How she found time to
convey the candy boxes to the booth, arrange them with such care,
collect the money deposited there the previous day by the rapidly
increasing number of customers, and still reach home in time to
prepare the mid-day meal with her usual care, was a source of wonder
to all. Yet do it she did, and her pride and ambition for the success
of the venture rivaled Constance's. Failure was not even to be dreamed
of. No one ever guessed the hours stolen from her sleep by the good
soul to make up for the hours stolen from her daily duties, but many a
night after bidding the family an ostentatious "good-night, ladies,"
and betaking herself to her bedroom above stairs, did she listen until
every sound was hushed and then creep back to her kitchen and work
softly until everything was completed to her satisfaction.

Friday afternoons and Saturdays, Constance took matters into her own
hands, and she soon discovered that another mode of transportation for
her candy would be imperative, so rapidly was the demand for Constance
B.'s Candies increasing. So after the first two weeks the local
expressman was pressed into service, and the old <DW52> man, who for
years had run the elevator in the Arcade, received the boxes upon
their delivery.

The way in which the old man had scraped acquaintance with Mammy,
caused Mr. Porter considerable amusement. Mammy's intercourse with the
<DW52> people she had met since coming North, had not been calculated
to increase her respect for her race. Finding "Uncle Rastus" at the
North, she instantly concluded that he had been born and raised there.
That, like herself, he might have been transplanted, she did not stop
to argue. But one day when Mammy was struggling with an unusually
large consignment of candy, Uncle Rastus hurried to offer his services
"to one ob de quality <DW52> ladies," as he gallantly expressed it.
This led to a better understanding between the two old people, and
when Mammy discovered that Rastus had been born and raised in the
county adjoining her own, and that his old master and hers had been
warm friends, Rastus' claim to polite society was indisputable, and
from that moment, Mammy and Rastus owned the Arcade, and the courtly
old <DW64>, and dignified old negress caused not a little amusement to
Constance B.'s customers, and the people who frequented the Arcade. It
would be hard to tell which grew to take the greater pride in the
venture, for Rastus had all the old antebellum <DW64>'s love and
respect for his white folks and Mammy lost no opportunity for singing
the praises of hers. And thus another member was added to the firm and
Constance's interests were well guarded.

Not once since launching upon her venture had Constance met with any
loss. The little cash box invariably held the correct amount to
balance the number of boxes taken from the booth, and the returns
surprised Constance more than anyone else.

"I tell you I'm going to be a genuine business woman, see if I'm not,"
she cried, after balancing her accounts one Saturday evening. "Why
just think of it Mumsey, dear, here are fifteen dollars over and above
_all_ expenses for the week. If I continue like this I'll be a
million_nairess_ before I know what has happened. How are you
flourishing, Nornie? Are your Pegasus Ponies as profitable?"

"Not quite, but I'm hopeful," laughed Eleanor. "Some of them are
spavined in their minds, I fear. At any rate they don't 'arrive' as
quickly as I'd like to have them in spite of all my efforts. However,
they are not going backward, and I dare say that ought to gratify me,
especially when they are willing to pay me two dollars an hour for
helping them to stand _still_. I can't make such a showing from
driving my coach as you can make from wielding your big spoon, Connie
dear, but ten dollars added to your fifteen will keep the wolf from
the door, won't it little mother?" ended Eleanor, laying her hand upon
her mother's shoulder.

Mrs. Carruth rested her cheek upon it as she replied:

"What should I do without my girls? I am _so_ proud of my girls! So
proud!--yet I cannot realize it all."

"You haven't got to do without us. We're here to be done _with_,
aren't _we_, Nornie?" cried Constance, gayly.

"We certainly _are_," was the hearty response.

"Then why don't you add my part?" demanded Jean, who had faithfully
made her journeys to the Irving School each Saturday morning, and upon
each occasion returned triumphant with her candy box empty, but her
little coin bag well filled with dimes, for her customers were always
on the lookout for her.

"I have, Honey. It is all included in the amounts set down here,"
answered Constance.

"Yes, but I want to know just which part of it is mine. How much did I
sell last Saturday and how much to-day?" persisted Jean.

"Twenty-five packages last Saturday and eighteen this. Forty-three in
all. Four dollars and thirty cents in two weeks, and four dollars in
your first two weeks. Eight dollars and thirty cents all told, little
girl. Two dollars seven and a half cents a week. I call that pretty
good for a ten-year-old business woman, don't you, Mumsey, dear?"

"I call it truly wonderful," was Mrs. Carruth's warm reply.

"What do _you_ think of it, Mammy?" cried Constance. "Aren't we here
to be done with after that showing?"

"Done wid _what_?" promptly demanded Mammy, who had no intention of
committing herself before becoming fully informed of all the facts.

"Done _everything_ with. Made use of. Worked for all there is in us.
Made to pay for ourselves. Isn't that right, Mammy? Say 'yes' right
off. Say 'yes' Mammy, because that's why we are big, and young, and
strong, and happy, and anxious to prove that we are the 'banginest
chillern' that _ever_ were. You've said so hundreds of times, you know
you have, so don't try to go back on it now. Aren't we _just right_,
Mammy? Successful business women and a firm of which you are proud to
be a member? The Carruth Corporation, _bound_ to succeed because,
unlike other corporations, it has a _soul_, yes, _four_ of 'em, and
can prove that a corporation with four souls can outstrip any other
ever associated. _Mine's_ as light as a feather this minute, so let's
prance," ended Constance, springing toward Mammy, to catch her
hardened hands in her own warm ones, and give a beckoning nod to Jean
and Eleanor, who were quick to take her hint. The next instant a
circle was formed around Mrs. Carruth's chair, the girls singing in
voices that made the room ring.

  "Mammy, dear,
  Listen here,
  Isn't this a lark?
  Every day,
  Work and play,
  And each to do her part."

While poor old Mammy sputtered and protested as she pounded around
with them willy-nilly.

"Bangin'est chillern! _Bangin'est_ chillern! Huh! I reckons you _is_!
Huh! Let me go dis _minit_! Miss Jinny! Miss Jinny! Please ma'am, make
'em quit. Make 'em let loose ob me! Dar! You hear dat? Eben Baltie
heer yo'in' holler. Bres Gawd, I believes he's 'fronted kase he lef'
outen de cop'ration. Dat's hit! He's sure _is_. Let me go dis minit, I
say. He gotter be part ob it," and giving a final wrench from the
detaining hands, Mammy rushed away crying in answer to old Baltie's
neigh, which had reached her ears from his stable:

"Yas, yas, Baltic hawse, Mammy done heard yo' a-callin' an' she's
a-comin'; comin' to passify yo' hurt feelin's case you's been left
outen de cop'ration. Comin', honey, comin'."




About this book:

    Original publication data:
    Title: Three Little Women, A Story for Girls
    Author: Gabrielle E. Jackson
    Publisher: John C. Winston Company
    Copyright: 1913, by  John C. Winston Company



***