“And you’ll come nigh to wantin’ to be a dozen other things ’fore you’re old enough to go to work in a hospital, I shouldn’t wonder. Gid-ap, Cherry!”
Cherry tossed his head and increased his stride. The carpenter had one weakness—that was horseflesh. He was always the owner of a roadster of note.
“That’s a funny name for a horse, Mr. Parlow,” observed Carolyn May.
“Cherry red. That’s his colour.”
“Oh!”
“And I got a cat home that’s cherry colour, too.”
“Why-e-e-e!” exclaimed the little girl, “I’m sure I never saw that one, Mr. Parlow. Your cat is black—all black.”
“Well,” chuckled the old man over the ancient joke, “he’s the colour of a blackheart cherry.”
“Oh, my! I never thought of that,” giggled Carolyn May. She looked up into his hard, dry face with an expression of perplexity in her own. “Mr. Parlow,” she went on seriously, “don’t you think now that Miss Amanda ought to be happy?”
“Happy!” exclaimed the carpenter, startled. “What about, child?”