“Where is Gorgas?” he asked casually.
“Off with ‘Gyp,’ as always.” The sister was not concerned.
“‘Gyp’ is mild, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes; stupid.”
“Which way did she go?”
“Her usual—down Cresheim Valley.”
They trotted off toward Chestnut Hill. Blynn broke into a chatty strain until they had turned into the pike which marks the county line.
“Let’s go up the Wissahickon,” he suggested. “You can turn off here and go through Cresheim.”
After leaving Main Street they plunged into the Cresheim Valley, which in the eighteenth century was a thriving industrial center, with prosperous mills—three or four of them—busy at the manufacture of hosiery and paper. One has only to recall the conspicuous masculine leg of that century to know the demand for proper hose, and when one is reminded that Cresheim Valley produced the paper for the printing of the Declaration of Independence, the historic setting is made; but steam, trousers, and a less rebellious time had passed the hand of oblivion over the once busy vale.
As a result, the old road was ragged and rocky, and the only sign that broke the effect of forest primeval was the ruins of two of the old mills, a half-broken dam, and a dangerous looking mill race.