“Mammy Blairsdale, of course. Our Mammy.”
There was no answer for a moment as the candy continued to melt from sight like dew before the morning sun. Then the Professor looked at her steadily as he slowly munched his sweets, causing Jean to think of the Henrys’ cow when in a ruminative mood.
“Little girl, are you from the South?”
“Don’t call me ‘little girl’ again!” flared Jean, bringing her foot down upon the bottom of the phaeton with a stamp. “I just naturally despise to be called ‘little girl.’ I’m Jean, and I want to be called Jean.”
“Jean, Jean. Pretty name. Well Miss Jean, are you from the South?”
“My mother is. She was a Blairsdale,” replied “Miss” Jean, much as she might have said she is the daughter of England’s Queen, much mollified at having the cognomen added.
“Do you happen to know which part of the South you come from?”
“I don’t come from the South at all. I was born right here in Riveredge. My mother came from Forestvale, North Carolina.”
“I thought I knew the name. Yes, it is very familiar. Blairsdale. Yes. Quite so. Quite so. Rather curious, however. So many years. My grandmother was a Blairsdale too. Singular coincidence, she had red hair, I’m told, Yes, really. Think I must follow it up. Very good, indeed. Did you make them? I judge not. Who did? I must know where to get more when I have a fancy for some,” and having eaten the last praline the Professor absent-mindedly put into his mouth the paper in which they had been wrapped, having unconsciously rolled it into a nice little wad while talking.
A funny twinkle came into his eyes when his mistake dawned upon him and turning to the grinning boys he said: