“Perhaps if I could ‘bang’ as well with my brains as with my hands I might amount to something, Mammy. But Nornie has all the brains of the family. She’ll make our fame and fortune some day; see if she doesn’t.”
“Guess I’ll have to do something clever then if I am to become famous in this day and age,” said Eleanor, as she made her way past Mammy. “Thus far I haven’t given very noble promise.”
“Who sesso?” demanded Mammy. “Ain’ yo’ de fust and fo’most up dere whar de school’s at? What fur ole Miss sendin’ yo’ dar fer den? Huh, I reckon she know whar ter spen’ her money, an’ Gawd knows she ain’ spendin’ none what ain’ gwine ter pintedly make up fer all she gin out. She no fool, I tell yo’.”
The girls broke into peals of laughter, for Mammy’s estimation of “ol’ Miss,” as she called Mr. Carruth’s aunt by marriage, was a pretty accurate one, “Aunt Eleanor” being a lady who had very pronounced ideas and no hesitation whatever in giving expression to them, as well as a very strong will to back them up. She also had a pretty liberally supplied purse, the supply being drawn from a large estate which she had inherited from her father, a Central New York farmer, who had made a fortune in fruit-growing and ended his days in affluence, although he had begun them in poverty. She had no children, her only son having died when a child, and her husband soon afterward. Bernard Carruth had always been a favorite with her, although she never forgave him for what she pronounced his “utter and imbecilic folly.” It was Aunt Eleanor who made the seminary possible for the niece who had been named for her; a compliment which flattered the old lady more than she chose to let others suspect, for the niece was manifesting a fine mind, and the aunt had secretly resolved to do not a little toward its development although she took pains to guard the fact.
“Go along up-stairs and get an armful of things, Mammy. That will keep you from flattering me and making me conceited,” cried Eleanor, when the laugh ended.
“Huh! Mek a Blairsdale ’ceited?” retorted Mammy, as she started up to the attic. “Dey’s got too much what dey knows is de right stuff fer ter pester dey haids studyin’ ’bout it; it’s right dar all de endurin’ time; dey ain’ gotter chase atter it lessen dey loses it.”
“Was there ever such a philosopher as Mammy?” laughed Constance as they got beyond hearing.
“Wish there were a few more with as much sound sense—black or white—” answered Eleanor as she shook out one of Jean’s frocks and hung it across the clothes-line.
A moment later Mammy joined them with more garments which cried aloud for the glorious fresh air and sunshine. She hung piece after piece upon the line, giving a shake here, a pat there, or almost a caress upon another, for each one recalled to her loving old heart the memory of more prosperous days, and each held its story for her. When all were swinging in the sunshine she stepped back and surveyed the array, her mouth pursed up quizzically, but her eyes full of kindness.
“What are you thinking of Mammy?” asked Constance, slipping her fingers into Mammy’s work-hardened hand very much as she had done when a little child.