“Ready for me in there, Mary? Mother is perishing for occupation, and I’ve scolded her as much as I dare,” and, with a tender kiss upon her mother’s cheek, the girl ran swiftly into the next room.

CHAPTER V—Mammy Makes Investigations.

“Bress de Lord, we ain’t got ter run no counter on Thanksgiving Day!” was Mammy’s fervent exclamation, as she rose from her bed on the Monday preceding Thanksgiving Day. Hurrying across the room she opened the draughts in the little stove, for Charles’ rheumatic twinges must not be aggravated by the sudden chill of rising from a warm bed to dress in a cold room. The fire had been carefully covered the night before, and now, replenished by a few shovelfuls of coal, and a vigorous shake of the revolving grate, was soon snapping and roaring right comfortably. The rattling had served more than one end, as had the clatter made by putting on the fresh fuel. Although Mammy had no idea of permitting her spouse to contract a cold from dressing in a cold room, she, on the other hand, saw no reason why he should indulge in over-many morning winks after she, herself, had risen and begun the duties of the day.

“Eh? Um, yas, Honey,” came in somnolent tones from the billows of feathers in which Charles’ shiny bald pate, with its fringe of snowy wool, was nearly buried. Mammy could not abide the new-fangled hair mattresses, but clung tenaciously to her bygone ideas of “real downright comfort fer a body dat’s clar beat out when de day’s done. No, sir-ee! Don’t talk ter me ob dese hyar ha’r mattresses. I ain’t got a mite er use fer ’em needer has Charles, if I ses-so. Give me de suah ’nough fedders wid de down on ’em; none ob yo’ hawse ha’r stuffed bags. De fedders fits wherever dey teches, ’an snugs up mighty soft on de achy spots, but dose highfalutin’ h’ar mattresses,—well, dey jest lak dese hyar Norf folks we meet up wid: ef yo’ kin fit dem, well an’ good, yo’s all right, but does yo’ t’ink dey’s gwine ter try fer ter fit yo’? Go ’long, chile.”

Consequently the bed, which stood in the bedroom of the little cottage in which Mammy and Charles lived, boasted a feather bed, the like of which for downiness and size was rarely seen. It had been made by Mammy herself of the downiest of feathers, plucked by her own hand from the downiest of her own geese, hatched under her own critical eyes when she was a young woman on her old master’s plantation. It had taken many geese, many days, much drying and curing to achieve such a triumph; and the “baid” was Mammy’s most cherished possession. The airings, sunnings, beatings and renovatings to which it had been subjected during the years she had owned it would have totally wrecked any less perfect article of household economy; but it had survived all, and each morning, after its prescribed hours of airing, was “spread up” into a most imposing mound, covered with a “croshey” spread, made by the sanctified hands of “ol’ Miss” (Mrs. Carruth’s mother), and still further adorned by “piller shams,” made by “Miss Jinny” herself.

More than one of Mrs. Carruth’s guests had been conducted through Mammy’s cottage by its proud inmate, and the “baid” and its coverings displayed with justifiable pride.

“Yas, wake up!” commanded Mammy, making her own toilet with despatch. “We’s got a pile o’ wo’k ter do terday, an’ I’se gotter see dat dose no count nigger gals what’s a-pertendin’ ter do Miss Jinny’s wo’k now-a-days gits a move on ’em. Dey pesters me mightily, dough I ain’t let ’em ’spect it, I tells yo’. Ef I did dey’d jes nachelly climb right ober de house an’ ebery las’ pusson in it. But I knows how ter han’le ’em ef Miss Jinny don’t. She t’ink she gwine do it jes lak she useter back yonder on her Pa’s plantation, but it don’ do up hyar. Trouble is wid dese hyar Norf niggers dey ain’ know dey is niggers, and dey gits mighty mix in dey minds twell somebody come along and tells ’em jest ’zackly what dey is, an’ whar dey b’longs at. I done tol’ dem two in yonder, an’ I reckon dey’s learnt a heap since I done took ’em in han’. Yas, I does. Dey don’ come a-splurgin’ an’ a-splutterin’ roun’ me no mo’ wid dey, ‘Dis hyar ain’ ma juty. I ain’ ’gaged fer ter do dat wuk.’ My Lawd! I come pretty nigh bustin’ dat Lilly May’s haid las’ week when I tell her ter do sumpin’ an’ she say dat ter me. She foun’ out what her juty was, an’ she ain’t fergit it again, I tell yo’. Now come ’long down, Charles, I gwine have brekfus ready befo’ yo’ get yo’ wool breshed,” and off hurried the old woman to begin the routine of her more than busy day.

The clock was striking five when Charles came slowly down the stairs and entered the immaculate kitchen. The past three years have dealt kindly with the old couple in spite of their incessant labors. Mammy has not changed in the least. Charles is a trifle more bent, perhaps, but the three years have certainly not detracted from the old man’s appearance, nor have they robbed him of any strength. Indeed, he seems in better health and physical condition than upon the day he celebrated his golden wedding. Mammy has made up for the lost years by caring for him as she would have cared for a child.

The business which they started in the Arcade has flourished and prospered beyond their wildest hopes. Charles still holds the honorary position of “Janitor-in-Chief” at the Arcade, a sinecure in every sense of the word excepting one; he keeps the acting janitor up to the high mark in the performance of his duties, greatly to Mr. Porter’s amusement. He also keeps the dapper mulatto youth, who now serves at the lunch counter headed due north. To that young man Charles is “Mr. Devon,” of the firm of “Blairsdale & Devon.”

At the cottage Mammy still cooks, bakes, preserves and concocts with all her wonderful skill, assisted by a little colored girl, the eldest of those whom Jean impressed upon Mammy’s wedding day.

Oh, Mammy is a most important personage these days.

Breakfast over in the little cottage, and it was a breakfast fit for a king, Mammy began issuing her orders like a general, and Charles lived only to obey.

“Now hike in dar an’ git de furnace a-goin’ good, an’ den go ’long ter de gre’t house an’ have it good an’ warm befo’ dem chillern wakes up. I cyant have em’ ketchin’ cold, an’ de mawnin’s right snappy,” she said, as dish-towel in hand she looked out of her kitchen door at the glistening world, for a heavy hoar frost covered lawn and foliage, prophesying a storm before many days.

“Here, put on yo’ coat! What’s de use ob my rubbin’ yo’ shoulder wid linnimint ef yo’ gwine right spang out dis here warm kitchen inter de chill ob de mawnin’ widout wroppin’ up? Laws-a-massy, it tek mos’ de whole endurin’ time ter keep you from doin’ foolishnesses, I clar it do.”

Charles chuckled delightedly. It was, on the whole, rather flattering to be so cherished and looked after as he had been during the last three years. Poor old soul, those he had spent alone had been barren enough of care or comforts.

“You needn’t ter snort dat-a-way,” protested his dominating wife. “I’s only jes’ a-watchin’ out fer my own sake. I’se got a sight ter do ’sides nussin’ rheumatics an’ tekin’ keer sick folks wid a misery in dey backs.”

“Honey, yo’s a wonder. Yas, yo’ is,” was Charles’ parting rejoinder, as he toddled off to the duties, which to him, as well as to Mammy, were labors of love. Before many minutes had passed the little candy kitchen was snug and warm for its mistress, and then the old man made his way to the “gre’t house,” as he and Mammy, true to earlier customs, always called the home which sheltered their white folks. Mammy had already finished her own household tasks and met him at the door. Together they entered the silent house, their key making not the slightest sound, lest they disturb the sleeping inmates. The maids now in Mrs. Carruth’s service did not sleep in the house, but came at seven each morning, and woe betide the tardy one! Mammy was always on hand, and her greeting was governed by the moment of the said damsel’s arrival. There were a few duties, however, which Mammy would permit no other than herself to perform. She must see that the breakfast table was properly laid, the breakfast under way and the rooms dusted, aired and warmed before she stole softly upstairs to call her “chillern.” Then she turned all over to her dusky satellites, and at once became grand high potentate and autocrat.

It was a few minutes past seven when she entered Mrs. Carruth’s room with a cheery “Mawnin’, honey. ’Spose ef I lets yo’ sleep any longer yo’ gwine give me sumpin’ I ain’t cravin’ fer ter git. Cyant fer de life er me see why yo’ boun’ ter git up dese mawnin’s. Why won’ yo’ let me bring up yo’ tray, honey?” said the good old soul, moving softly about the room, raising the window shades and turning on the valve of the radiator.

“Because I have all I can do as it is to keep you and the girls from spoiling me completely,” returned Mrs. Carruth, as she rose from her bed and stepped into the adjoining bathroom, where Mammy already had her bath prepared.

“Well, it’s de biggest job we-all ever is tackled,” insisted the old woman, as she placed a chair before the dressing table and took from the closet the garments Mrs. Carruth would need for the day. Since sunnier times had come to this home Mammy had fallen back into old habits. The “chillern,” as she called Eleanor, Constance and Jean, were called before their mother was awakened, but “Miss Jinny” claimed her undivided attention, and it would have nearly broken Mammy’s loving old heart had Mrs. Carruth denied her this privilege, so long made impossible by the strenuous days and manifold duties following upon the misfortunes which succeeded Mr. Carruth’s death.

The delight of Mammy’s life was to assist at her “Miss Jinny’s” toilet, as she had done in her mistress’ girlhood days—to brush and arrange the still abundant hair, and to hand her a fresh handkerchief and say, as she had said to the young girl years ago:

“Gawd bless yo’, honey! Yo’ is as sweet as de roses dis mawnin’.”

When all was completed to her satisfaction, and Mrs. Carruth was about to leave the room, Mammy remarked, with well-assumed indifference:

“I ’spose dat Lilly done got Miss Nonnie’s room all fix jes right, but I reckons I better cas’ ma eyes ober it; cyant trus’ dese girls wid no ’sponserbility, nohow.”

“I think everything is in perfect order, Mammy, but I dare say you will feel happier if you give those little touches which you alone can give. Eleanor will recognize them and be happier because you gave them. It will be a joy to us all to have her back again, won’t it, although she has not been away so very long after all.”

“No’m, she ain’t. How long she gwine be wid us dis time?”

“Not quite a week, Mammy. She will reach here this afternoon and must leave us early Saturday; Thanksgiving holidays are short ones. We shall have her longer at Christmas, then we will count the days till Easter, and after that to June, when we will have her for a long, long holiday, and college days will be ended.”

“M’m-u’m,” nodded Mammy, drawing the coverings from the bed and laying them carefully over chairs to air. “Spec she’ll find dat trip down from up yonder mighty tiresome. Trabblin’ all alone is sort of frazzlin’.”

“She is hardly likely to travel alone. Mammy. So many of her college mates will be journeying the same way, and even if they were not, she will be pretty sure to meet Mr. Forbes; he was obliged to run up to Springfield on Saturday and expects to return to-day. They may meet on the same train.”

Mammy was looking out of the window. It would have made very little difference had she been facing Mrs. Carruth. Her face was absolutely inscrutable, as she answered:

“’Spec dat would save Miss Nonnie a heap ob trouble. Yas’m, mebbe dey will meet up wid one anoder.”

Mrs. Carruth went upon her way to the breakfast room. Mammy had learned all she wished to know.

At four o’clock that afternoon Miss Jean Carruth was perched upon her point of vantage, from which every object approaching her home could be descried. It was not a particularly easy point to reach, but that only added to its attraction; nobody else was likely to choose it. Nearly everyone sought the terrace, the piazza, or the upper windows in preference to the stable roof, even though the stable roof boasted a delightful assortment of gables and dormer windows, to say nothing of a broad gutter, around which one could prance at the imminent risk of a header to the ground, at least twelve feet below. In the golden haze of that mellow November afternoon, for autumn lingered late this year, Jean sat curled up in her corner, her chin resting in her palms, and her wonderful eyes fixed upon the road leading up the hill to her home. It was in reality more street than road, but was nearly always mentioned as the “hill road,” owing to its contrast to the broader highway from which it branched and zig-zagged up the hill to the more sparsely settled section of Riveredge. The watcher commanded all its length. Presently the shining eyes lighted up with a queer, half-delighted, half-defiant expression. Far down the road a vehicle was approaching; it was one of the railroad station surreys, and in it were seated two people, besides the driver: two people quite oblivious to all the rest of the world, if one could judge by their absorbing interest in each other, for the keen eyes watching them could discern this, even from their owner’s distance from the surrey.

“Um.” The utterance might be interpreted almost any way. Then, “Now, I dare say, we’ve got to have him here all this evening, and all to-morrow, and all the next day, and all every day; and I don’t want him around every single minute. My goodness, it was bad enough before Nonnie left for —— College; we never could get a single word in edgeways. I wonder if he’s going to board here? I used to like him when he just came to see us all, but now he’s tickled to death if everybody’s engaged when he shows up; everybody but Nonnie. I reckon I’ve got to take things in hand. Nonnie’s only twenty-one, and he’s, he’s? I do believe he’s about forty-one, though I never could get him to tell. But it doesn’t make any difference! He’s too old for Nonnie, and I’m not going to let him have her,” was the emphatic conclusion to this monologue, as Jean scrambled to her feet and gave a defiant nod toward the vehicle, which had just drawn up in front of the carriage block. At that moment Mrs. Carruth and Constance hurried down the steps to greet the new arrivals. Evidently the welcome accorded the masculine member of the party aroused a keen sense of resentment in Jean, and some manner of outlet for her feelings became imperative. Physical exercise was her usual safety-valve, and in this instance she chose one which had on former occasions proved effective, and more than once brought Mammy to the verge of nervous prostration, and the dire prophecy that “sooner or later dat chile gwine brek her neck.” As before stated, the gutter was wide, it was also a stoutly constructed one of galvanized iron, but it had not been designed for a promenade, much less a running track for athletic training. Nevertheless, it had to serve as one this time, for Jean started running around it as though bent upon its destruction, or her own. It came near proving her own, for just as Homer Forbes was placing a couple of suit cases upon the piazza he chanced to catch sight of the prancing demoiselle, and with a shout of: “Great Josephus! Are you courting sudden death?” made a wild dash for the stable.

With a defiant skip, Jean made for the other side at top speed, lost her balance, slipped, and the next second was hanging suspended by her arms between earth and sky. Had she not been lithe as a cat she never could have saved herself. Forbes was nearly petrified.

“Hang on! Confound it, what took you up there, anyway?” he cried, with no little asperity, as the others hurried across the lawn to the trapeze performer’s rescue.

“My feet took me up and my hands are keeping me here. Stand from under! I’m going to drop.”

“Drop nothing!” was the very un-savant like retort. “You’ll break both your legs. Hold on till I can get up there,” and the would-be rescuer darted within the stable.

How she managed it no one could quite grasp, but there was a flutter of skirts, a swing, and Jean was in a little heap upon the soft turf. Springing lightly to her feet and dusting the grass from her palms, she said:

“Hello, Nonnie! I got him out of the way long enough to hug you without having him watch how it’s done. Reckon he’ll learn soon enough without me to teach him. Come on into the house, quick. He’ll find out that I’m not killed when he looks out of the window.”

If Mrs. Carruth seemed resigned, Constance quite convulsed and Eleanor unduly rosy, Jean seemed oblivious of those facts.

CHAPTER VI—Thanksgiving.

With the happier outlook resulting from Constance’s success in her candy-making, it had been deemed advisable to send Jean to the private school from which Eleanor had graduated. Consequently, that autumn Jean had been enrolled among its pupils, and her place in the public school at which she and Constance had been pupils knew her no more, and Jean was much divided in her mind as to whether she was made happier or otherwise by the change. In the old school were many friends whom she loved dearly, and whom she missed out of her daily life. In the new one was her boon companion, Amy Fletcher, and also a number of the girls whom she constantly met in the homes of her mother’s friends. But Jean was a loyal little soul, and her interest in her fellow-beings a lively one. She could hardly have been her mother’s daughter otherwise. Naturally in the public school were many children from the less well-to-do families of Riveredge, and not a few from those in very straitened circumstances. Among the latter were three girls very near Jean’s own age. They were sisters, and were ambitious to complete the grammar school course, in order to fit themselves for some employment. There were other children older and other children younger; in fact, there seemed to be no end to the children in the Hodgeson family, a new one arriving upon the scene with the punctuality of clockwork. This fact had always disturbed Jean greatly.

“If there only would come an end to the Hodgesons,” she lamented to her mother. “The trouble is, we no sooner get settled down and think we’ve reached the end than we have to begin all over again. Those babies keep things terribly stirred up. Don’t you think you could make Mrs. Hodgeson understand that she could get on with fewer of them, Mother? You see, the clothes never do hold out, and as for that last baby carriage you managed to get for her, why, it’s just a wreck already. The other day, when I went by there on my way to the Irving School, I saw Billy Hodgeson riding the newest and the next newest, and the third newest in it, and the third newest had a puppy in his arms. No carriage could stand all that, could it?”

“I’m afraid not, dear. Perhaps we had better ask some other friends if they have a carriage they no longer need.”

“Oh, no, don’t! Please, don’t! If you do, Mrs. Hodgeson will think she’s got to get a brand new baby to put into it, for the old babies wouldn’t match, you know. No, please, don’t.”

“Very well; we must let them get on with the old ones, both babies and carriage, I see,” Mrs. Carruth answered, much amused.

“Yes, I really would; but here is something that’s bothering me,” and Jean snuggled close into the encircling arms of the big chair in which she and her mother sat for this twilight hour conference.

“What are they going to do when Thanksgiving Day comes? No turkey on earth would be big enough to go ’round, even if they could buy one, which I don’t believe they can. I was talking to Mrs. Hodgeson about it just the other day, and she said she was afeered her man couldna buy one nohow this year; they was so terrible intortionate in the prices,” concluded Jean, lapsing unconsciously into the slipshod Mrs. Hodgeson’s vernacular.

“I think she must have meant extortionate,” corrected Mrs. Carruth.

“Perhaps she did; I don’t know. But I’ll bet five cents they won’t have a thing when the day comes around, and I think that’s awful.”

“We are sending out a number of baskets from the church, and I have asked that one be sent to the Hodgesons,” was Mrs. Carruth’s hopeful reply. It was not welcomed as she anticipated.

“That won’t do a bit of good,” answered Jean, with a dubious shake of her copper-tinted head. “Not a single bit, for when Mrs. Hodgeson said she reckoned they’d have to get along without a turkey I said right off that I thought I could manage one all right, ’cause you could get one sent to her. My, but she got mad! And she told me she guessed she could get along without no charity turkey; that Hodgeson always had managed to fill up the young ones somehow, and if he couldn’t do it on turkey this year he could do it on salt pork. Ugh! Wouldn’t that be awful? Why, Mammy won’t have salt pork near her except for seasoning use, as she calls it. No, we’ve got to do something else for those everlasting Hodgesons.”

Mrs. Carruth thought the term well applied, even though she did not say so; they were everlasting. But she was hardly prepared for Jean’s solution of the problem with which she had seen fit to burden her youthful shoulders.

Mrs. Carruth’s Thanksgiving guests were Hadyn Stuyvesant and Homer Forbes. Her table was laid for six, and a pretty table it was, suggestive in its decorations of the day. According to her Southern traditions, the meal was ordered for two o’clock instead of the more fashionable hour favored by her Northern friends. Her guests had arrived, and Charles, the very personification of the old family servitor, had just announced with all the elegance and mannerism of which he was capable:

“De Madam is sarved.”

Upon this day Mammy had taken affairs strictly into her own hands. No one except herself should prepare her Miss Jinny’s Thanksgiving dinner. The other servants might assist Charles in serving it, but the actual preparation and cooking must be done by her own faithful hands. Consequently all the marketing for this occasion had been personally looked to by Mammy and Charles. In their chariot of state, drawn by Baltie, they had driven to South Riveredge, selected every article, and carried it home in their own baskets. Once that lordly turkey had been scientifically poked and pinched by her and met with approval, she was not going to let it out of her sight “an’ have no secon’-rater sont up to de house instid.” Mammy had small faith in Northern tradesmen. So to her cabin all had been sent, there to be prepared and cooked by her on “de fines’ range in de worl’!” as she confidently believed her own to be, and truly it was a wondrous feast which now stood ready for Charles’ serving, the two maids to dart like shuttles between Mammy’s cabin and the great house.

It was Hadyn Stuyvesant who with graceful bow offered his arm to Mrs. Carruth, while Homer Forbes turned to the two girls. As she rose to accept Hadyn’s arm Mrs. Carruth paused a moment, doubt and indecision in her eyes, and asked:

“Where is Jean?”

“She left the room just a short time ago, mother. Shall I call her?” asked Constance.

“Yes, do, dear. We will wait just a moment for you.”

Constance left the room, to return in two minutes with consternation written upon her face.

“Where is she and what—?” asked Mrs. Carruth, resignation to any possibility descending upon her.

“She has just come in, mother, and—and—” the words ended in a laugh as Constance collapsed upon a chair.

“What is it, Connie?” demanded Eleanor. “What has Jean done now?”

“Where’s my little sister?” asked Hadyn. “You can’t make me believe she has broken all the laws of the Medes and Persians.”

“No, not those old fogies, but, oh, dear, what do you suppose she has done?—invited, sans ceremony, Victoria Regina, Mary Stuart, and Adelaide Elizabeth Hodgeson to dine with her!”

“Constance! Never!” cried Mrs. Carruth.

“She has. They are up in her room this very minute putting the finishing touches to their very unique toilets.”

“Go get ’em. Fetch ’em on. We’ll entertain ’em right royally! I know that National bird is a bouncer, and big enough to feed a dozen Hodgesons as well as all present,” was Hadyn’s laughing command.

“Oh, Hadyn, we can’t,” protested Eleanor, whose dignity and sense of propriety were continually receiving slight jars from this friend of the household.

“Why not? It will be the experience of their lives—an education by practical illustration of manners polite. How can you hesitate, Eleanor? I thought you were a strong advocate of settlement work, and here you are overlooking an opportunity sent to your very door. Who was it I heard talking about ‘neglected opportunities’ not long since? A most edifying dissertation, if I recollect aright, too.”

“I second the motion. Such a zest to a meal may never again be offered. Yes, Mrs. Carruth, you’ve got it to do. It is clearly a duty brought to your door,” added Homer Forbes. “Moreover, it will give me a wonderful opportunity to pursue my psychological studies. Didn’t know I was knee-deep in them, did you, Eleanor? Fact, however. Human emotions as the direct result of unsuspected mental suggestion, etc. Bring on your subjects, Constance.”

“I give in. Do as you’ve a mind to, you incorrigible children, only bear this in mind—you are not to tease those girls and make them miserable. Jean has made one wild break, but there shall be no more if I can prevent it. Since she has brought them here, and you will dine with them, so be it; but you are not to tease them, you madcap men,” was Mrs. Carruth’s final dictum.

“Not a tease, not a smile out of order,” agreed Hadyn, though his twinkling eyes half belied his words.

“You just watch us entertain ’em,” insisted Homer.

“I’ll watch, you may be sure of that,” laughed Mrs. Carruth. “Now fly, Connie, and summon our unexpected guests.”

We will pass over the oysters, which were disposed of as never before oysters had been, and the soup, which disappeared audibly. That dinner was a genuine Southern one, and no item was lacking. At length arrived the critical moment when the bird of national fame should have appeared, but—didn’t. There was a long, ominous delay. Charles bustled and fussed about, one eye upon his mistress, the other upon the pantry. No one noticed that Jean’s conversational powers, never mediocre, were now phenomenal. She talked incessantly and as rapidly as a talking machine, albeit her listeners seemed to offer small encouragement for such a ceaseless flow of language. They sat with their eyes fastened to their plates—plates which would require very little scraping before washing. To and from pantry and dining room vibrated Charles. The vegetables, relishes, jellies—in short, everything to be served with the turkey—was placed in tempting array upon the sideboard; but still no sign of the festive bird itself, and Charles’ perturbation was increasing by the second. As on many another occasion it was Mammy who supplied the climax. At this crucial moment she appeared in the doorway of the pantry, her eyes blazing, her face a thundercloud, as she stammered:

“Miss Jin-n-n-ninny! M-m-iss Jinny! Please, ma’am, fergive me fer ’trudin’ in ’pon yo’ when yo’ is entertainin’; but ’tain’t lak dey was strangers, dey’s all ob de family, so to speak, ma’am” (Mammy was too excited to notice that the cheeks of two individuals seated at that board had turned a rosy, rosy pink), “an’ I jes’ natchelly got to speak ma min’ or bus’—”

“Why, Mammy, what has happened?” interrupted Mrs. Carruth, quite aware that Mammy managed to find mares’ nests when others were unable to do so, but surprised by this one, nevertheless. Mammy did not often overstep the lines set by convention; but on this occasion she certainly seemed tottery.

“De bird! De tuckey! It’s gone! It’s done been stole right out ob ma wamin oven yonder. I done had it all cook to a tu’n, an’ set up in ma oven fer ter keep it jes’ ter de true livin’ p’int ob sarvin’, an den I run inter Miss Connie’s kitchen fer ter git some ob dem little frilly papers I need fer its laigs, an—an’ it mus’ ’a’ been stole whilst I was in dar, er else de very debbil hisself done fly away wid it right from unner ma nose, kase I ain’t been outer dat kitchen one single minnit since—not one!” emphasized Mammy, with a wag of her turbaned head, her talking machine running down simply because her breath had given out.

If poor Mammy had needed anything to further outrage her feelings and put a climax to her very real distress, the roar which at that instant arose from two masculine throats would have been more than enough; but when Homer Forbes turned a reproachful face toward her and asked, “Mammy Blairsdale, do you mean to tell me that our goose—”

“No, sah! No, sah! de tuckey!” corrected Mammy instantly.

“Well, then, our turkey is cooked—”

“Cooked! Cooked! Ef it was only de cookin’ dat pestered me I wouldn’t be pestered,” was Mammy’s Hibernian reply. “It’s done been stole, sah! Clean, cl’ar stole out ob ma kitchen.”

“Let’s go find the thief, Forbes!” cried Hadyn, casting his napkin upon the table and springing to his feet. “Come on. Mammy, whom do you suspect? Which way shall we run? What must we do with him when we overhaul him?”

“Oh, yo’ jes’ a-projeckin, I knows dat all right, but I tells you dat bird ain’ got no ekal in dis town. I done supervise his p’ints masef, an’ he’s de best to be had. If yo’ wants to know who I thinks is got him, I thinks it’s a man what done stop at ma door when I was a-stuffin’ dat tucky early dis mawnin’. He was a tromp, an’ he ax me fer somethin’ ter eat. I ain’t ginnerly got no use fer tromps, but dis hyer was de Thanksgivin’ mawnin’, an’ seem lak I couldn’t turn him away hungry.”

“We’ll find him! Come on, Forbes! Where’s that stout walking-stick, Mrs. Carruth? Bring along the wheelbarrow for the remains, Charles—of the turkey, I mean.”

Haydn was making for the door, Forbes hard upon his heels, when Jean darted to her mother’s side to draw her head toward her and whisper something into the listening ear. Jean’s guests sat like graven images. Constance and Eleanor were ready to shriek at the absurdity of the situation.

“Hadyn, Homer, come back! Mammy, send in the quail pie and all the other good things you’ve prepared; we shall not starve. Ladies and gentlemen, circumstances render explanations somewhat embarrassing at this moment. Don’t be distressed, Mammy. On with the feast, Charles.

“Why? what? where? who?” were the words which rattled about Mrs. Carruth’s ears.

Mammy gave one glance at Jean, who had returned to her seat. She had not been in this family sixty-eight years without arrogating a few prerogatives. Then, but for Mrs. Carruth’s upraised hand, Etna would have broken forth. But Jean knew her hour of reckoning would come later. Her conversational powers seemed to have suffered a reaction. Her chair was next Hadyn’s. As he returned to his place he bent low, slipped his arm about the subdued little figure, and asked in a tone which it would have been hard to resist:

“Little Sister, what did you do with that turkey?”

“Rolled it in a big towel, put it in a basket, and carried it to the Hodgesons’ with mother’s Thanksgiving compliments, when I went after the girls. They wouldn’t eat a charity turkey, but a compliment turkey was different,” was whispered back in a voice suspiciously charged with tears.

“I call you a trump!” Then in a lower tone he turned to Constance, who sat at the other side, and said: “Who gives himself with his gift, serves three.”

CHAPTER VII—Expansion.

The short Thanksgiving holiday ended, Eleanor returned to college and Jean to school, found Constance busier than ever in her kitchen, for the holiday season was her hardest time, and this year promised to be an exceptional one. An extra supply of candy must be made for the booth in the Arcade, as well as for those who sold her candies on commission in other towns. Then, too, an unusual number of private orders had already come in. These all meant incessant work for Constance and Mary Willing.

The first week in December she entered the kitchen where Mary was just cutting into squares great masses of chocolate caramels. She had been hard at work all the morning, and her face was flushed from her exertions.

“Oh, I’m afraid you are nearly done up,” cried Constance, contritely. “You have been working so hard ever since eight o’clock, and it is now past eleven. I am so sorry to leave all this work to you while I do the easy part.”

“Do you call it easy work to write about two dozen letters, keep track of all the orders which are pouring in now, and run accounts straight?—to say nothing of ordering our supplies. I don’t, and I’m thanking my lucky stars that I can do my share of the work with a big spoon instead of a pen,” was Mary’s cheerful reply, as she raised her arm to push back from her forehead an unruly lock of hair which fell across her eyes.

“Let me,” said Constance quickly, lifting the soft strand into place. “You are all sticky, and when one’s hands are sticky that is the time for hair to grow rampant and one’s nose to itch! I’ve been there too many times myself not to know all about it, I tell you. But that isn’t what I came downstairs to say! Do you know that this pile of letters has set me thinking, Mary? If things go on at this rate you and I can never in the world handle the business. Why, it has taken me the whole morning to look after the letters and acknowledge the orders which came by the early mail. I haven’t been able to do one single stroke in here, and now I have got to go down to South Riveredge. Charles told Mammy that we ought to have more space there for our goods, and he wished I would see Mr. Porter about it at once. He thinks we ought to rent one of the other spaces for the Christmas season, anyway, and have someone there to attend to it. What do you think? And do you know of someone we could get? You see Christmas is only three weeks off, and whatever we do we’ve got to do at once.”

As Constance talked she wielded a big knife and helped briskly. Mary did not answer at once; her pretty forehead wore a perplexed pucker. At length she said:

“I know a girl who could take charge of it I think, although I don’t know whether you’d like her or not.”

Constance smiled as she answered: “Suppose you tell me who she is, then maybe I can tell you whether I like her or not.”

“It’s Kitty Sniffins. We used to go to school together.”

“I don’t know her at all, so I’m a poor judge of her qualifications, am I not? But if you think she is the sort of girl we would like to have there, I am sure she needs no other recommendation, Mary. What is her address?”

“Her brother is an insurance agent down on State Street. You might see him. They moved not long ago, and I don’t know where they live now.”

“Oh——,” exclaimed Constance, light beginning to dawn upon her. She had not heard the name Sniffins since the year in which she began her candy-making, as the result of the burning of their home, and the name had not figured very pleasantly in the experience of that October, or the months which followed. Still, the sister might prove very unlike the brother, and just now time was precious. If she was to act upon Charles’ suggestion she must act immediately.

“I think I’ll drop her a note in care of her brother; I don’t like to go to his office. She can call here,” said Constance.

Mary glanced up quickly to ask:

“Is there any reason, Miss Constance, why you would prefer someone else?” for something in Constance’s tone made her surmise that for some reason which she failed to comprehend Kitty Sniffins did not meet with her young employer’s approval.

“If I have one it is too silly to put into words,” laughed Constance, “so I will not let it influence me. I dare say Kitty Sniffins is a right nice girl and will sell enough candy to make me open my eyes. At all events, I’ll have a pow-wow with her. But before she can sell candy or anything else she must have a place to sell it in, and it’s up to me to scuttle off to the Arcade as fast as I can go. And, by the way, you’ve got to have more help here, Mary. Yes, you have. You need not shake your head. As matters are shaping I shall have to give every moment of my time to the business of this great and glorious enterprise. Now whom shall I get? What is Fanny doing this fall? She left school in the spring, didn’t she?”

“Yes. She is helping mother sew, but——” and an eager light sprang into Mary’s eyes. Fanny Willing was a younger sister, a rather delicate girl, who was growing more delicate from the hours spent at work in the close rooms of her home, and running a heavy, old-fashioned sewing machine. She was a plain, quiet little thing, very unlike her striking-looking older sister, and as such had not found favor in her mother’s eyes. In her younger days Mrs. Willing had boasted a certain style of beauty, and with it had contrived to win a husband whom she felt would elevate her to a higher social plane, but her hopes had never been realized. Probably every family has a black sheep; Jim Willing had figured as that unenviable figure in his. It was the old story of the son born after his parents had been married a number of years, and several older sisters were waiting to spoil him; plenty of money to fling about, a wild college career of two years, marriage with a pretty housemaid and—disinheritance. It had required only twenty-three years to bring it all to pass, and the next twenty-three completed the evil. At forty-six Jim Willing looked like a man of fifty-six—so can dissipation and moral degeneration set their seal upon their victims. Gentle blood? What had it done for him? Very little, because he had permitted it to become hopelessly contaminated. And his children?—they were working out the problem of heredity; paying the penalties of an earlier generation; demonstrating the commandment which says, “unto the third and fourth generation.” A cruel, relentless one, but not to be lightly broken.

In Mary was one illustration of it; Fanny another. Each was to “drie her weird,” as the Scotch say.

“Do you think your mother can spare her?”

“I’m sure she can. The fact is, Fanny has been trying to get some work in one of the shops in South Riveredge. Sewing doesn’t agree with her, somehow; she seems to grow thinner every day; she ain’t—isn’t, I mean—very strong, you see.”

“Will you send word to her, Mary? I think this sort of work will be better for her than the sewing, and we’ll talk about the salary when she comes over.”

“She’ll be a mighty lucky girl just to get here, salary or no salary!” was Mary’s positive reply. “If you don’t mind I’ll run down home this afternoon and tell her to come early to-morrow morning. I’ll have all this batch made, and the rest can wait until the morning; we’ve got a good lot ahead already.” Mary’s eagerness manifested itself in her every action, and Constance nodded a cheerful approval as she laid down her big knife and turned to leave the kitchen.

“Go ahead, partner, but I must be off now.”

“So the business is expanding?” exclaimed Mr. Porter, heartily, when Constance had explained to him her wish to rent an arch for her Christmas trade. “Good! I knew it would. Couldn’t possibly help it with such candy as that to back it up. But mind, you are not to forget my Christmas order in all your bustle and hurry for other people. Twenty pounds——”

“What!” cried Constance, aghast at the recklessness of her oldest customer.

“Now, that will do, young lady. Will you please answer me this! Why must I always be looked upon as a mild sort of lunatic when I give you an order? ’Twas ever thus! Why, you hooted my first order, and you have kept on hooting every single one since. I wonder I haven’t transferred my patronage long since. Trouble is you realize where you have me cornered. You know I can’t duplicate those candies anywhere. Now come along with me and let us arrange for the new quarters which are to replace the outgrown ones, and—mark my word—this business will never again contract to the old space. This is where my business acumen shows itself. Once I’ve got you into the bigger stand, and the rent into my coffers, I mean to keep you there, even if I have to get out and drum up the extra trade to meet the extra outlay. Co-operation.”

Constance was too accustomed to this good friend’s nonsense to see anything but the deepest interest for her welfare underlying it. She knew that, with all his seeming badinage, he was looking further ahead than she, with her still limited experience, even after four years in her little business world, could look, for her’s, while exceptional for her years and sex, could never match that of this man of the great, active business world. But if Mr. Porter was far-seeing in some directions, in others he was short-sighted, and his range of vision was to be broadened by one who dwelt in a far humbler walk of life—Mammy Blairsdale.

Upon this particular morning Mammy had elected to drive in state to South Riveredge, ostensibly to cast a critical eye over the Blairsdale-Devon Lunch Counter, but in reality to convey to it a very special dainty for her pet customer—Hadyn Stuyvesant.

In addition to a few hundred other side issues to her business, Mammy had raised poultry during the previous summer, and, curiously enough, to every chick hatched out, there had pecked themselves into the world about four roosters, until poor Mammy began to believe her setting eggs must have had a spell cast upon them. As the summer advanced such an array of lordly, strutting, squawking young cocks never dominated a poultry yard, and the sequel was inevitable. When they arrived at the crowing age the neighbors arose in revolt! Such a vociferous, discordant collection of birds had never fought and crowed themselves into public notice. Mammy became almost distracted, and was at her wits’ end until a diplomatic move struck her: those roosters should win not only fame for themselves, but for their owner also; and not long afterward first one neighbor then another was mollified and highly flattered to receive a fine daintily broiled, fried, or roasted young bird, cooked as only Mammy knew how to cook a fowl, garnished as only Mammy knew how to garnish, and accompanied by a respectful note, not written by Mammy, but by Jean, somewhat in this strain:

“Will Mrs. —— please accept this dish with the most respectful compliments of Mammy Blairsdale, who hopes this noisy rooster will never disturb her any more?”

Oh, “sop to Cerberus!” Could diplomacy go further?

It was one of the most vociferous of her flock which now lay upon his lordly back, his legs pathetically turned to the skies, his fighting and his squaking days ended forever, that reposed in Mammy’s warming can, to be transferred to Charles’ warming oven, there to await Hadyn’s arrival.

As Constance and Mr. Porter drew near the lunch counter, Mammy was giving very explicit directions to Charles. Constance and Mr. Porter were too occupied to be aware of her presence; not she of theirs, however.

Mr. Porter conducted Constance to the arch next but one to that in which the lunch counter stood, only separated from it by the cigar stand.

“Now here is a space which you can have as well as not, and it is close enough to Charles for him to cast an eye over it from time to time.”

“And may I rent it for one month?” asked Constance.

“Better rent it for one year,” urged Mr. Porter. “It’s in a mighty good location.”

“And I call it a mighty po’ location,” broke in an emphatic voice. “A mighty po’ one, and no kynd ob a place fo’ one ob ma chillen fer to be at. Gobblin men-folks hyar at de lunch stan’; smokin’ men-folks at de nex’ one; an’ we kin bress Gawd ef we don’t fin’ oursefs wid guzzlin men-folks on yonder at de tother side befo’ long.”

“Now, now! Hold on, Mammy! Go slow,” broke in Mr. Porter, laughingly. “You know the Arcade doesn’t stand for that sort of thing. Don’t hit us so hard.”

“How I gwine know what it boun’ ter stan’ fer if it lak ter stan’ fer lettin’ dat chile rint a counter nex’ door to a segar stan’?” snapped Mammy, her eyes fixed upon the luckless superintendent, personifying the strongly emphasized it.

“Well, it’s lucky we found you here. Now, we never took that side of the question into consideration, did we, little girl? Yes, I guess Mammy’s judgment beats ours. Great head! So come on, Mammy, and let us have your sound advice in this choice of bigger quarters for Miss Constance. You see, I predict that she will never return to the smaller ones again.”

“Don’t need no gre’t secon’-sight fer ter make dat out, I reckon,” was the superior retort.

Mr. Porter looked crushed and then dropped behind Mammy, who went sailing majestically down the Arcade, to stop at the very first and most pretentious of all the Arches—one which had been rented until very recently by a stationer, who had profited so handsomely that he had built a large shop not far from the Arcade, and now wished to sub-let this arch until his lease expired. Next to it was a florist’s stand, and opposite a stationer’s, each of a very high order. Constance stood aghast at Mammy’s audacity.

“Why, Mammy, this is the highest-priced arch in the Arcade,” she exclaimed.

“Well, what dat got ter do wid it, Baby? Ain’t your candy de highest-priced candy? An’ ain’ you de very high-water mark quality? Who gwine ter ’spute dat? Go ’long an’ rint yo’ place; yo’ all matches p’intedly,” and with this speech Mammy stalked back to her own quarters.

Constance gave one look at Mr. Porter, then sank upon one of the little benches within the arch.

“By George, she’s right and I’m a blockhead! Think I’d better turn over my job to her and go down into the engine-room until I learn to read human nature as she can. Yes, it is the finest, highest-priced arch in the building, but it didn’t take that old black woman five seconds to discover the match for it.”

“But, Mr. Porter,” protested Constance, “of all the extravagant steps, and for Mammy, above all others, to urge it. That conservative creature! And the way she expressed it! Why was I born a Blairsdale? It will shorten my years, I know, to have to live up to the name,” and Constance broke into a merry laugh.

“Perhaps the burden will be lifted before long, and such a calamity to your friends averted,” answered Mr. Porter, soberly, but with twinkling eyes. The one o’clock whistle had just blown in a building hard by, and the Arcade’s elevator was beginning to bring down the people from the floors above. Among them was Hadyn Stuyvesant, who went at once to the luncheon counter, quite unaware of the presence of a certain little lady near the entrance of the Arcade; but her back was toward the elevator. For one second she glanced at Mr. Porter entirely innocent of the purport of his words. Then, catching sight of the mischievous eyes twinkling at her, she rose suddenly to her feet, saying: “Come at once and let me learn what this rash step will cost me.”

With a low laugh Mr. Porter strode toward his office beside a very rosy-cheeked young girl.

CHAPTER VIII—Vaulting Ambitions.

In the course of a few days Constance’s new quarters in the Arcade were in operation, for Mr. Porter lost no time in fitting up Arch Number One. The little booth beneath the stairs was dismantled to furnish forth the new one. Down at the kitchen Mary and her sister Fanny, who had come to assist in the work, were doing their best to keep abreast of the orders pouring in with each mail, while Mrs. Carruth, her ambitions at length achieved, was attending to the correspondence, since Constance’s time must for a little while be given to the new booth. She had not received a reply to her letter to Kitty Sniffins, and for the time being was too occupied with the demands of the new booth to take further steps in the matter. Indeed, she had about made up her mind to look for someone else, once order was brought out of the confusion of moving and settling, for some indefinable instinct caused her to feel an aversion to engaging Kitty Sniffins. Had she been asked to state why, she would have found it difficult to put her objection into actual words, and more than once she reproached herself for entertaining it at all. Nevertheless, she could not free herself from it, but was too busy just then to dwell upon it. In the course of a few days everything would be settled and in running order; and meanwhile she, herself, would go to the Arcade each day where, with Charles as her Majordomo, body-guard and faithful friend, she was a veritable queen of her little realm, and woe betide the individual so reckless as to forget that he or she was in the presence of a Blairsdale.

The pretty Arch had been in perfect running order for one week when Constance began to cast about for someone to take her place, since neither she herself, nor her family felt content to have her make the journey to and from South Riveredge each day, or to spend her time at the Arch. On the previous Saturday she had put a carefully-worded advertisement in the Riveredge Times, the answers to be sent to Arch No. 1, Arcade Building; and upon her arrival at her Arch on this Monday morning she found dozens of letters from girls, and even men, asking employment. She was reading one of the letters when a shadow fell across the page, and raising her eyes she saw a young man standing at the counter. Thinking he had come to purchase a box of candy, she rose from her chair and stood waiting for him to make his wants known to her. Instead of doing so, he raised his hat, and with a most impressive bend of his long, loosely-hung figure, and a smile which irritated her by its self-complacency, said:

“How are you, Miss Carruth? You’re sure putting up a big show here, ain’t you?”

“What can I do for you?” asked Constance, with quiet dignity.

“Guess you can’t do nothing for me, but maybe I can do something for you. Candy ain’t in my line. Never spent none o’ my solid cash for the stuff, but I’m glad other people do; plenty of fools in this world to help wise folks get rich, ain’t there?”

“Will you please state your business?” and Constance took up another letter as a hint to her unwelcome visitor that her time, if not his, was of some value.

“Got a pile o’ answers, ain’t you? That’s just what I thought, and it’s just what brought me down here this early. This letter come for Kitty in my care ’most a week ago, but she’s down in the city doin’ somethin’ or ’nother; don’t ’mount to much, I guess, though. I knew she hadn’t no friends up yonder in swell Riveredge, and when I saw your ad. in the Riveredge Times it didn’t take me no time to put two and two together. Oh, I’m fly, I am! I knowed—knew—the postmark meant something about that candy kitchen, ’cause Mary Willing and Kit used to be school pals, and I guessed you was a-lookin’ for more help, and I don’t often guess wrong, neither. I sent a telegraph to Kit to come on home this mornin’ to see you, but I weren’t goin’ to take any chances, so I come right up to clench the job for her.”

“Then I assume that you are Miss Sniffins’ brother. May I ask why you felt so sure that the letter sent to your care was from me, or had anything to do with my need of more help in this business?”

The smile and wink which prefaced his reply nearly proved the last straw. Quietly reaching below the counter, Constance pressed an electric button. She had been wise beyond her years when she had this connection made between her Arch and Charles’ counter. Sniffins did not notice the motion.

“Well, you see, I’m boss in my own house and run the wimmin-folks. When I suspicioned what the letter was, I just took French leave, so to speak, and opened and read it——”

“What!” The indignation in Constance’s tone was a trifle disconcerting even to the thick-skinned Sniffins, and he had the grace to color slightly. But it was only momentary. He rarely forgot Sniffins.

“Oh, that’s all O. K. All in the family, you see. Kit won’t dare kick; she ain’t the kickin’ kind—not with me, anyhow. She knows too well which side her bread’s buttered to kick. I’m the head of things down yonder in our house, and as long as I can earn the pile and put up the cash for ’em Ma and Kit can toe the mark. But I don’t see no reason why they shouldn’t add some to the pile. We ain’t, so-to-speak, rich yet, but we ain’t poor; oh, no-siree, we ain’t poor. That savings bank next door knows we ain’t poor no more, and it knows we’re goin’ to be——”

“Yes, Charles, I need you,” interrupted Constance, for unobserved by her visitor old Charles had drawn near, and now stood just behind Sniffins, and had heard a good portion of his senseless boasting.

“Yas, Mist’ess, I’s right hyer fer ter sarve yo’.”

Sniffins turned quickly.

“Hello, old stager, where did you come from?”

Charles paid no more attention to him than he would have paid to a stray dog—not as much.

“Will you please remain at the counter a few moments, Charles. When your sister returns she may call here to see me, Mr. Sniffins. Good-morning.” And without another glance at the man Constance walked quickly away from the counter, and down to the ’phone booth, where she called a number. Sniffins’ eyes followed her. When she disappeared he turned to Charles and, with an unpleasant sneer, remarked: “Workin’ for her livin’ an’ tryin’ ter play the big-bug, too, ain’t she?”

“Does yo’ wish fer ter purchase some of dis hyer candy, sah?” asked Charles, icily.

“No, I don’t, an’ if I did I ain’t takin’ it from niggers.”

“No, sah, I don’ reckon yo’ is, kase—Mor’in’, Massa Po’tah, I’se right glad fer ter see a gemmen, sah. Dey’s mighty skurse sometimes. How kin I sarve yo’, sah?”

“Morning, Charles. Where is my little girl this morning? Gone to the telephone booth? Be back pretty quick, won’t she? I want to speak to her a moment.”

“She’ll return, sah, when de air’s better fer her ter breve; it got sort o’ foul-like, an’ if you’se no objections I’se gwine raise de winder jist a trifle.”

“Do, by all means. Must keep the air pure and sweet for that little lady.”

“Yas, sir: Yas, sir: Dat’s percis’ly what I’s amin’ ter do. Dat’s why I’se always on han’.”

“Good! We’ll watch out for her, won’t we? Hello, Sniffins. How about that big deal you were going to put through for me? I haven’t heard much about it lately.”

“Oh, you’ll hear from that all right, all right. Trouble is you expect a man to do in two weeks somethin’ most men needs two months to do.”

“Well if you take two months to settle that matter for me, the other fellow, who can do it in two weeks, will win out, you mark my word. So you’d better not take time to buy candy at ten A. M. on Monday mornings,” for in some way Mr. Porter had gathered from Charles the true situation, and had given this broad hint. Sniffins was not given to taking hints, but he dared not go counter to Mr. Porter’s implied wish that he leave the Candy Arch. Still, he was bound to have his last shot, and, with what he intended to be a telling glance, he said:

“You tell Miss Carruth that my sister will take that position, and I’ll call ’round later to arrange about her salary.”

“It will not be necessary for you to do so, Mr. Sniffins; I have just ’phoned to someone else.” Constance had returned so quietly that no one was aware of her approach.

“How do you do, Mr. Porter? I am glad to see you. What can I do for you? Come into my sanctum.”

She led the way to the rear of the Arch, where a little inclosure held her desk and two chairs. Sniffins turned to leave the Arch. At the entrance he came face to face with Hadyn Stuyvesant. The look which accompanied the nod Sniffins gave him was not pleasant. Hadyn did not know him at all, and looked at him in surprise, believing him to have mistaken him for someone else. But Sniffins knew Hadyn.

“So he’s on there, too, is he? Guess he can see through a millstone most as far as other folks can. If that girl keeps on she’s goin’ to be rich, rich. That business has growed—ah, grown—like a—a—well, it’s grown. ’For’ long she’s goin’ to have a big thing in it. Wake up, Sniffins, my boy. You’re got as good a chance as any other fellow, an’ you’re no sloach on looks, neither. Get busy and spruce up more’n ever. Buy some new clothes, old man; you’ll find ’em a good investment, I tell you. Get Kit down there somehow; that’s your best wedge for gettin’ into the swell set up yonder. Kit’s half-way good-lookin’, and ain’t got the spunk of a mouse to do any way except the way I tell her.”

By the time this monologue came to an end Sniffins had turned into his office on State Street, and there found his sister awaiting him. She had returned to South Riveredge nearly frightened to death by his telegram.

“Ah, cut it out! What’s the use whooping things up for nothing?” was his short ordering. “Nobody’s dead nor dyin’, but I want you to get down to the Arcade and get this job, see? Don’t come back here whinin’ that you can’t. You’re got to get it, or you can dust out o’ South Riveredge an’ your happy home. Now listen to what I’m tellin’ you: Don’t you let on who you are. If you do the jig’s up, for that high and mighty sprig down there ain’t got no sort o’ use for me. But I’ll tame her. I ain’t seen the girl yet I couldn’t tame. But I want you there ’cause I want to keep track of the revenue, do you see? and if your head’s worth half a muttonhead you can’t help gettin’ a good idea of what that business is worth, and that’s what I mean to know. She don’t know you from a hole in the ground, and you ain’t goin’ to let her——”

“But she will know my name, Lige.”

“How will she know your name if you don’t tell her your name? You’ve got a middle name, ain’t you? Well, what’s the matter with that? Katherine Boggs is all right, ain’t it? You haven’t got to tack on the Sniffins.”

“Oh, I’d forget, and people would know me, and I’d be scared to death to do it, Lige.”

“Now see here: You’ll be scared to death if you don’t do it, let me tell you, for I’ll scare you myself. Now get down there and do the job right up to the mark.”

About half an hour later a sweet-faced, timid girl presented herself at Constance’s Arch. She seemed unduly agitated, and her hands trembled as she rested them on the counter, to ask if Miss Carruth was to be seen.

“I think she can be,” answered Constance, smiling encouragingly at the perturbed little figure before her, for Constance was too much her mother’s child not to feel the deepest sympathy for such a girl.

“Is she in?” ventured her visitor.

“I am Miss Carruth. What can I do for you?”

“Oh! Why, you want a girl, a clerk?”

“I do. Come into my little office; no one will interrupt us there. Sit down; you seem tired. Now tell me all about it. I’ve had such a pile of letters that I hardly know which to answer. By the way, I have just ’phoned to one who gave me her number but not her name. I asked her to call at once. I wonder if you can be No. 795?” Constance paused with a most encouraging smile upon her lips and light in her eyes.

“Yes—oh—no; I mean——”

“Why are you so nervous? It will not be a very difficult undertaking, I’m sure, just to sit here and sell boxes of candy, and I’m not half as formidable a young woman as you must have pictured me. The hours are not so very long, and there will be a good many spare moments. The salary is seven dollars a week. Do you care to consider it, Miss——?”

“S—Boggs, I mean Miss Boggs. Yes, I’ll take it, I want it very much, I’ll try to please you——”

Constance looked at the girl. What ailed her? Why this feverish eagerness to secure the position, and why a degree of nervousness which almost amounted to a panic?

“Will you please give me your address? And”—Constance hesitated. She was upon the point of asking for references, but sympathy for the girl withheld her from doing so.

The girl gave an address in a distant part of the town, and rose to go. Constance’s look held her. There was nothing alarming in the quiet gaze of those deep brown eyes; on the contrary, it was soothing, if compelling.

“Do you mind telling me why you are so agitated? I can see no cause for it, yet there may be one which I do not guess, and if I can help remove it I shall be glad to do so. It troubles me to see you disturbed. Perhaps a good deal depends upon your securing a situation at once, and if that is the cause of your trouble we have removed it, haven’t we? for you are already engaged.”

“Oh, yes, I know I’m very foolish; I do want the situation; I’ve got to take it; I’ll do my very, very best; I truly will. Please excuse me. When must I come?”

“Can you come this afternoon? I am very anxious to get back to my duties in my candy kitchen, and if you can arrange to come here after luncheon, I shall have time to show you the little things you would like to learn, and to-morrow morning you can get along without me.”

“Yes, I’ll come. I’ll be here at two o’clock, and I’ll try so hard to please you, Miss Carruth.” For a moment a smile lighted up the girl’s face and quite transformed it.

She was a plain, colorless little thing, but something in her smile made her very attractive.

“I shall be here. Good-bye for a couple of hours.”

The girl hurried away.

“Well, if she isn’t one of the oddest little creatures I’ve ever come across. I am sure I don’t know what impelled me to engage her, for I dare say I could have found a dozen others much better qualified to attend to things here, but—somehow—well, I dare say, there’s a lot of mother in me, and when our sympathies are aroused we sometimes do queer things.”

Constance was not conscious of having spoken aloud, as she moved about the Arch arranging and giving a touch here and there, until a laughing voice asked:

“What is this I’m listening to? A budding elocutionist practicing her monologue?”

“Does sound a little like it, doesn’t it? but it’s nothing half so brilliant. In fact, you might suspect me of bordering on mental aberration instead if I told you, so I reckon I won’t. But I am starved even if you are not. Let us go see what Blairsdale and Devon have to offer to-day.”

A moment later Constance and Hadyn Stuyvesant were seated in the little screened-off corner back of Charles’ counter, his duties transferred to his satellite, as he laid before his young mistress, and the one whom in his faithful old heart he had long cherished a wish to call his “Young Massa,” the dainties especially prepared for them by Mammy.