Mrs. Rachel Parsons marveled at what the girls had done in raising money for Curly Smith. He would have money enough to keep him at the hospital until his leg was healed, and to spare.
Curly was not to be arrested. Deputy Sheriff Ricketts went with the party on the launch back to Georgetown, picking up his own lost launch by the way, uninjured, and saw the boy housed in a private room of the hospital. Then he, as well as Ruth, received news about Curly.
The letter from Mrs. Sadoc Smith at last arrived. In it the unhappy woman opened her heart to Ruth again and begged her to send or bring Curly home. It had been discovered that the boy had nothing to do with the robbery of the railroad station at Lumberton.
“And who didn’t know that?” sniffed Helen. “Of course he didn’t.”
Mr. Ricketts, too, received information that called him off the case. “That there li’le Yankee boy ain’t t’ be arrested after all,” he confessed to Ruth. “Guess he jest got in wrong up No’th. But yo’d better take him back with you when you go, Miss Ruth, He needs somebody to take care of him—sho’ do!”
The river subsided and the girls went back to Merredith. They spent the next fortnight delightfully and then the chums from Cheslow got ready to start home. They could not take Curly with them; but he would be sent to New York by steamer just as soon as the doctors could get him upon crutches; and eventually the boy from Lumberton returned to his grandmother, a much wiser lad than when he left her home and care.
The days at Merredith, all things considered, had been very delightful. But the weather was growing very oppressive for Northerners. Ruth and Helen bade Mrs. Parsons and Nettie and everybody about the Big House, including Mr. Jimson, good-bye and caught the train for Norfolk. They had a day to wait there, and so they went across in the ferry to Old Point Comfort, found Unc’ Simmy, and were driven out to the gatehouse to see Miss Catalpa.
“And we sho’ done struck luck, missy,” Unc’ Simmy confided to Ruth. “Kunnel Wildah done foun’ some mo’ money b’longin’ t’ Miss Catalpa, an’ it’s wot he calls a ‘nuity. It comes reg’lar, like a man’s wages,” and the old darkey’s smile was beautiful to see.
“Now Miss Catalpa kin have mo’ of the fixin’s like she’s use to. Glory!”
“He is the most unselfish person I have ever met,” said Ruth to Helen. “It makes me ashamed to see how he thinks only of that dear blind woman.”