“O, don’t sell it!” protested Eletheer, “you know that is to be the site of my hospital.”
“John, I don’t like that man’s looks and would have as little dealing as possible with him.”
“Why, mother, he seems very much of a gentleman.”
“Nevertheless, I mistrust him.”
Mrs. De Vere, or “Granny,” was a woman of positive ideas and, in her younger days, of great executive ability. A strict Calvinist, she had accepted the doctrines of her church as ultimate truth beyond which there was no cause for investigation; these questions had been settled for all time and those who differed from her were either deluded or wilfully in error. She never obtruded her religious beliefs on others, but, when asked, always gave them in a remarkably direct manner, which precluded all argument.
After supper she retired early, accompanied by Eletheer whose self-imposed duty it was to see her comfortably tucked in bed and then read her to sleep from her beloved Bible. Mr. and Mrs. De Vere went to the library where a bright fire crackled on the hearth, scenting the room with birch. Throwing himself on a couch, Mr. De Vere with a deep sigh said: “You know the mortgage on this place comes due January first, and probably Mills wants his money. I can’t blame him either for Nootwyck is dead. One enterprise after another falls through for want of railway communication. Look at the iron mine, the blast-furnace and the rolling-mill. They cannot compete with like industries elsewhere and consequently fail.”
“This town is bonded for the railroad and we are entitled to have it extended through to Kingston,” his wife said.
“The business men of Elmdale do not want this extension, and I fear they have played a winning game.”
A loud ring at the door announced the arrival of some one, and who should Reuben usher in but Mr. Mills himself.
“Good evening, Mr. Mills,” said Mr. De Vere cordially. “Stormy night.”