When they arrived after traveling conditions that warranted every conception of quaintness, but violated 237 every demand of comfort, the girl from the Bluegrass found Glory a discovery.
At once she recognized that into any drawing-room this wilderness-bred girl could be safely dropped, and that even though she stood in a corner, she would soon become its center.
Helen Merriwell was fascinated by the anomaly of an inherent aristocracy in an encompassing life which was almost squalid, and a bond of sympathy sprang into instant being. The Bluegrass woman knew by instinct, though through no utterance from the loyal lips, that the other was lonely, and when Colonel Merriwell announced his intention of returning home, the daughter decided to continue her visit and its companionship.
To Spurrier’s house, too, during the crisp, clear weather of late winter came, without announcement or expectation another visitor. They were two other visitors to be exact, but one so overshadowed his companion in importance that the second became negligible.
At the Carnettsville station the daily train drew up one morning and uncoupled, on a siding, the first private car that had ever run over that piece of roadbed. Its chef and valet gazed superciliously down upon the assembled loungers, but the two gentlemen who alighted and gave their names as Martin Harrison and his secretary, Mr. Spooner, were to all appearances “jest ordinary folks.”
Glory was housecleaning on the day of Harrison’s coming, and, in neatly patched gingham and dust-protected crown, she came nearer seeming the typical mountain woman than she had for many days before. 238 Her fresh beauty was hard to eclipse, but she was less presentable than she wished to be when her husband’s great patron saw her for the first time and contrasted her with such women as his own daughter.
When she heard the name, without previous warning, a sort of panic possessed her and for once she became tongue-tied and awkward, so that after the first, Helen Merriwell stepped into the breach and did the talking.
“My name is Martin Harrison,” said the great man with simple cordiality. “I thought John Spurrier lived here—but I seem to be mistaken.”
“He—he does live here,” stammered Glory, catching the swiftly stifled amazement of the magnate’s disapproving eyes.
“Here?” He put the question blankly as if only politeness prevented a greater vehemence of surprise. “But I expected to find a bachelor establishment. There are ladies here.”