“If I have one it is too silly to put into words,” laughed Constance, “so I will not let it influence me. I dare say Kitty Sniffins is a right nice girl and will sell enough candy to make me open my eyes. At all events, I’ll have a pow-wow with her. But before she can sell candy or anything else she must have a place to sell it in, and it’s up to me to scuttle off to the Arcade as fast as I can go. And, by the way, you’ve got to have more help here, Mary. Yes, you have. You need not shake your head. As matters are shaping I shall have to give every moment of my time to the business of this great and glorious enterprise. Now whom shall I get? What is Fanny doing this fall? She left school in the spring, didn’t she?”
“Yes. She is helping mother sew, but——” and an eager light sprang into Mary’s eyes. Fanny Willing was a younger sister, a rather delicate girl, who was growing more delicate from the hours spent at work in the close rooms of her home, and running a heavy, old-fashioned sewing machine. She was a plain, quiet little thing, very unlike her striking-looking older sister, and as such had not found favor in her mother’s eyes. In her younger days Mrs. Willing had boasted a certain style of beauty, and with it had contrived to win a husband whom she felt would elevate her to a higher social plane, but her hopes had never been realized. Probably every family has a black sheep; Jim Willing had figured as that unenviable figure in his. It was the old story of the son born after his parents had been married a number of years, and several older sisters were waiting to spoil him; plenty of money to fling about, a wild college career of two years, marriage with a pretty housemaid and—disinheritance. It had required only twenty-three years to bring it all to pass, and the next twenty-three completed the evil. At forty-six Jim Willing looked like a man of fifty-six—so can dissipation and moral degeneration set their seal upon their victims. Gentle blood? What had it done for him? Very little, because he had permitted it to become hopelessly contaminated. And his children?—they were working out the problem of heredity; paying the penalties of an earlier generation; demonstrating the commandment which says, “unto the third and fourth generation.” A cruel, relentless one, but not to be lightly broken.
In Mary was one illustration of it; Fanny another. Each was to “drie her weird,” as the Scotch say.
“Do you think your mother can spare her?”
“I’m sure she can. The fact is, Fanny has been trying to get some work in one of the shops in South Riveredge. Sewing doesn’t agree with her, somehow; she seems to grow thinner every day; she ain’t—isn’t, I mean—very strong, you see.”
“Will you send word to her, Mary? I think this sort of work will be better for her than the sewing, and we’ll talk about the salary when she comes over.”
“She’ll be a mighty lucky girl just to get here, salary or no salary!” was Mary’s positive reply. “If you don’t mind I’ll run down home this afternoon and tell her to come early to-morrow morning. I’ll have all this batch made, and the rest can wait until the morning; we’ve got a good lot ahead already.” Mary’s eagerness manifested itself in her every action, and Constance nodded a cheerful approval as she laid down her big knife and turned to leave the kitchen.
“Go ahead, partner, but I must be off now.”
“So the business is expanding?” exclaimed Mr. Porter, heartily, when Constance had explained to him her wish to rent an arch for her Christmas trade. “Good! I knew it would. Couldn’t possibly help it with such candy as that to back it up. But mind, you are not to forget my Christmas order in all your bustle and hurry for other people. Twenty pounds——”
“What!” cried Constance, aghast at the recklessness of her oldest customer.