Copyright 1910,
by The John C. Winston Co.
TO DOROTHY
_A loyal, lovable lassie,_
_A trusted and true little friend._
G. E. J.
[CHAPTER I—After Three Years.]
October had come to Riveredge. This fact meant more than the five words usually imply, for to few spots did October show such a gracious presence as she did to this pretty town. Beautiful at all seasons, even in its wintry dress of gleaming snow, in its autumn gorgeousness, Riveredge was entirely irresistible. In summer the town drowsed, for during July and August many of its inhabitants took a holiday and journeyed thither and yonder; in the autumn it wakened to the busy bustle of active life and its preparations for the drawing together of all who dwelt therein, and spring was the time when it did its renovating, its housecleaning, its decorating, but October’s crisp westerly winds blowing across the broad expanses of the river set blood stirring, made pulses throb many beats quicker, and caused even strangers to smile and nod to one another as they passed along the streets. Friends called gayly: “Isn’t the air delicious? Doesn’t it make you want to prance like a colt?”
There was one individual in Riveredge whom it so affected, anyway. The fact that nearly three years have slipped by since we last witnessed any of her prancings has not lessened her propensity to do so, for with nearly fourteen years numbered off upon her life’s calendar Jean Carruth is as much of a romp as ever, full of impulses as she was upon the day she rescued old Baltie; as she was when she so valiantly defended her property and her rights against the hoodlums of McKimm’s Hollow. The three years have brought about many changes, it is true, but Jean Carruth will remain Jean Carruth to the end of the story. She has grown like a weed, to be sure, and seems to be nearly all long arms and legs with a body like a hazel wand—pliable and vigorous, with powers of endurance far beyond its indications. A casual observer might think her less strong than she is, but in reality she is “soun’ as a dollar and de cause ob mo’ trebbilation dan a million ob ’em could be,” insisted old Mammy. And Mammy was pretty well qualified to judge, having had charge of that young person since she drew her first breath in the world. Mammy still lived and flourished as Mammy Blairsdale-Devon. Nothing could induce her to drop the Blairsdale. Hadyn Stuyvesant had quite conclusively, though unwittingly, settled that point when he presented the superb sign, with its gleaming gold letters, to the newly opened lunch counter in the Arcade. Mrs. Carruth tried to persuade Mammy to take the name of her lately restored spouse, and be known thenceforth as Mrs. Charles Devon; but Mammy had scornfully stammered: “D-d-drap de Blairsdale? Never! I was borned a Blairsdale, lived a Blairsdale eighteen year befo’ I hooked on de Devon, an’ den hatter onhook it inside of fo’ months; den I lived fo’ty-seben years wid de Blairsdale name befo’ I foun’ out dat I had claim ter any odder. So what fo’ I drap it now? Dey ain’t no name kin leave it behine as I knows on. Devon’s a good one, I knows, and down yonder where we-all was borned at it do stan’ high for a fac’, but it cyant rare up its head like de Blairsdale name kin. No, sir! Devon can hook on to de Blairsdale all right an’ straight if it got a min’ ter; but I ain’t never gwine let it lead it no mo’, an’ I’s a-gwine ter let Charles lead me.” As the possibility of Charles ever leading Mammy seemed more than visionary, Mrs. Carruth gave up the argument. Besides, she had many other things to occupy her thoughts. In the fall of 19— Eleanor had entered college, and within the present college year would graduate with well won honors. From the moment she entered she resolved to be independent so far as her personal needs were concerned. The tuition fees were paid by her great-aunt, Mrs. Eleanor Maxwell Carruth. Those she accepted because Mrs. Carruth, Sr., was amply able to meet them, but further than that she had resolved to be independent and she had been. The first year was the hardest; a freshman’s possibilities are circumscribed; Sophomore year brought with it broader opportunities; Junior year established her place in the college world beyond all argument, and now with senior year her triumph and success lay close at hand. Moreover, this last year was being made much easier for her by Constance’s success in her candy kitchen. The same autumn that Eleanor entered college Constance, in spite of Mammy’s protests and opposition, had branched out on a scale to outrage all the old colored woman’s instincts and traditions. But Mammy had stormed and scolded in vain, the addition to her little four-roomed cabin was built by Haydn Stuyvesant, all Constance’s practical ideas for the needs of such a kitchen being followed out to the minutest detail. He admired the girl’s pluck and enterprise too much to bar her progress in any way, in spite of the fact that Mammy had sought to dissuade him from encouraging her in venturing further into the commercial world. Mammy had actually gone to Haydn’s office to “ketch a word in private,” as she put it. Finding all argument with Constance futile, she played what she hoped would prove her trump card. Haydn had listened with all deference to her arguments against “dat chile a-goin’ on so scan’lous, an’ a-startin’ out fer ter make sweet stuff fer all creation, when dar’s mo’ sweet stuff in de shops dis minit dan folks kin swaller if dey stuff desefs de whole endurin’ time.”
“But, Mammy,” Haydn had replied, as he looked kindly at the troubled old face before him, “you know none can equal Miss Constance’s. It would be a downright piece of cruelty to deprive us all of our Saturday treat.”