CHAPTER IX.
THE MAYOR’S DILEMMA
Berty was rowing down the river in her pink boat with its bands of white.
She was all pink and white, boat, cushions, oars, dress, and complexion—except her hair and eyes, which formed a striking and almost startling blue-black contrast.
However, Berty was nothing if not original, and just now in the late afternoon, when all the other boats and canoes were speeding homeward, she was hurrying down the river.
She gave a gay greeting to her friends and acquaintances, and to many of the fishermen and river-hands with whom she had become acquainted since she came to live on River Street.
She scarcely knew why she was turning her back on her home at this, the time of her evening meal, unless it was that she was so full of life and strength that she simply could not go into the house.
Grandma would not care. Grandma was too philosophical to worry. She would take her knitting to the veranda and sit tranquilly awaiting the return of her granddaughter. If she got hungry, she would take her supper.
“Grandma is a darling,
Grandma is a dear,”