One day Mr. De Vere announced that the mythical Valley Railroad was to materialize. The company had been chartered the week previous in New York City with Mr. Valentine Mills as treasurer. A contract had been made with the banking house of Cobb, Hoover and Company of the last-named city to sell the railroad stock, and the bonds were going like hot cakes, so the company felt itself warranted in beginning work at once.
Mr. De Vere also told him that Elisha Vedder, a young civil engineer of St. Louis, through his recommendation, was to arrive the following week and survey the route, which seemed a feasible one, and better in respect to grades than the company anticipated. The need of the gold mine had been heralded abroad, and outsiders also were clamoring for railway facilities.
Genung was jubilant, and his daily visits to Hernando, now out of quarantine, only increased that young man’s impatience to be actively engaged with the others in this great enterprise.
Granny had long since taken him under her wing. His deference to her opinions, and old-fashioned chivalry to all women, completely won her. There existed a strong attachment between them. She would sit by the hour in his room recounting adventures of pioneer days and her vivid pictures interested him intensely. She possessed an inexhaustible fund of them; her memory never deceived, and she regarded the slightest deviation from the exact truth as criminal.
“Where is Miss Eletheer?” Hernando inquired of her after she had just finished a most interesting story. “I have not seen her since dinner.”
“Call the child by her plain name. She has gone daft over that mine and very likely is there. Celeste!” she called, “come and sing for Hernando. He is lonesome.”
Hernando protested, but the sight of Celeste’s sweet face quieted all remonstrance. She flitted in gaily with her guitar, and Hernando would have been an exception to most of his sex had he not bowed in adoration before this beautiful creature.
Music had no charm for Granny so she left them to enjoy it by themselves.
One tiny slippered foot peeped from under Celeste’s skirts and rested upon the guitar case, while her slender white fingers wandered dreamily over the strings.
“What shall I sing for you,” she asked, “something gay or something sad?”