“Best not to notice. Best keep right on diggin’. That’s Josie—I mean Josephine—Dillingham—Jabb! Her father intended her to marry into one of our oldest Maryland ‘families’ and she rebelled. Took up with Jabb, a son of the poorest white trash in the county, not a cent to his name—that’s bad enough!—but more brains ’an all the ‘first families’ put together ever had. Made his way right straight up the ladder. Has a reputation greater outside Annyrunnell than in it. Only fault—likes money. Says he’ll make a fortune yet will beat the ‘aristocrats’ into being proud of him. Says if he does have to leave his daughter the humble name of Jabb he’ll pile money enough on top of it to make the world forget what’s underneath. Says when she marries she shall never discard that name but always be ‘of J’. Poor little child! Her parents adore her but all her father’s skill and pride is powerless to straighten her poor little body. She’s a hunchback, and though she doesn’t mind that for herself she grieves over it for them. Oh! but this is a grand day! The Colonel will just idolize little Eunice—I want to fling up my hat and hurra!”
All this information had been given in a whisper while Dorothy snuggled in the great fronds, and Mr. Stillwell crouched beside her, idly digging with the paperknife he had picked up, and trying to keep his presence hidden from these two chief actors in this unexpected scene.
“Do you suppose it was really to find the ‘buried treasure’ the Colonel came? Or to—to make up friends with his daughter?” asked Dolly, softly.
“Well—both, maybe. No matter why nor how—he’s here. They’ve met, and at heart are just as loving as they always were. It is a good day, the best anniversary Josie Dillingham ever had. Hark! What’s doing? Peep and see.”
“The lady has motioned that groom to lead the horses this way. Ah! isn’t that sweet? The little thing is holding out her arms to the Colonel as if she knew him and loved him already!”
“Reckon Josie’s taught her that. Joe always was a brick! Liked to rule the roost but with a heart as big as her body. She told my Lucetty ’t she should teach little Eunice to know she had a grandpa somewhere and that he was the very best, dearest man alive; so that when they met, if they ever did, she wouldn’t be afraid but would take to him right away. Reckon her plan’s succeeded. Won’t Lucetty be glad about this!”
The groom was now leading the two horses through the woods, toward the Copse and the Water Lily. Both saddles were empty for little Eunice was in her grandfather’s arms and he stepping as proudly, almost as firmly, as the woman walking beside him.
“They—why—why—what have you done? Broken Aunt Betty’s paperknife of real Damascus steel! She says she knows it’s that because she bought it there herself, once when she went on a ‘round the world’ tour. She says it mayn’t be any better than other steel—reckon it isn’t, or it wouldn’t have broken that way. I ought not to have taken it but I was so excited, everybody was, I didn’t stop to think. What makes you look so queer, Mr. Corny? Aunt Betty won’t care, or she’ll blame me only. You—you most scare me!”
Indeed, her companion was looking very “queer,” as she said. His eyes were glittering, his face was pale, his lips nervously working, and he was rapidly enlarging the hole her knife had made by using his bare hands.
Dorothy sprang to a little distance and then watched, fascinated. A suspicion of the truth set her own eyes shining and now she was scarcely surprised when the man stood up, holding a muddy box in his hand, and shouting in hilarious delight: