CHAPTER VIII—UNDER THE UMBRELLA
The rain had not stopped—not by any means.
Ruth and Helen had never seen so much water fall in so short a time. The roadway, when Unc’ Simmy drove out into it through the ruined gateway, was flooded from side to side. It was like driving through a red, muddy stream.
But the two girls were comparatively dry under the carriage top. They looked out at the drenched country side with interest, meantime talking together about the Lady of the Gatehouse, by which term they ever after spoke of Miss Catalpa.
“The last of one of the F.F.V.‘s, I suppose,” suggested Helen. “I wonder if Nettie’s Aunt Rachel knows her. Nettie says Aunt Rachel knows everybody who is anybody, in the South.”
“I fancy this family got through being well-known years ago. The poor little lady has been lost sight of, I suppose,” Ruth said.
“Yes. All her old friends are dead.”
“Except this old friend sitting up in front of us,” Ruth said, smiling.
“Yes. Isn’t he an old dear?” whispered Helen. “But I wonder if he shows his Miss Catalpa off to all the Northern people who come to the Point?”
Ruth was silent on this matter. Helen did not suspect yet what Ruth had discovered—that Unc’ Simmy was the sole support of the little, blind lady; and Ruth thought she would not tell her chum just now. She wanted to think of some way of materially helping both the old coachman and the Lady of the Gatehouse.