CHAPTER XIV

The Candy Enterprise Grows

"I believe I shall," and drawing closer to the phaeton the Professor peered more closely at its occupant as he said:

"I say, little girl, I think I'll take all you have there. They are exceedingly palatable. And I would really like to know how it happens that a child apparently so respectable as yourself should be peddling sweets. You--why you might really be a gentleman's daughter," he drawled.

Now it had never for a moment occurred to Jean that appearances might prove misleading to those whose powers of observation were not of the keenest, or that a much disheveled child driving about the country in an antiquated phaeton, to which was harnessed a patriarchal horse, might seem to belong to a rather lower order in the social scale than her mother had a right to claim. So the near-sighted Professor's remark held anything but a pleasing suggestion. For a moment she hardly grasped its full significance, then drawing up her head like an insulted queen, she regarded the luckless man with blazing eyes as she answered:

"I am a Carruth, thank you, and the Carruths do as they _please_. You need not buy these candies if you don't wish to. I can get plenty of customers among my friends--the boys."

When did unconscious flattery prove sweeter? Those same "friends--the boys" would have then and there died for the small itinerant whose wares had so touched their palates, and who was openly choosing their patronage over and above that of an individual who had now and again caused more than one of them to pass an exceedingly bad quarter of an hour. A suppressed giggle sounded not far off, but the Professor's face retained its perfect solemnity as he bent his head toward Jean to get a closer view.

"Hum; ah; yes. I dare say you are quite right. I was probably over hasty in drawing conclusions," was the calm response.

"_Mammy_ says a _gentleman_ can always rec'o'nize a lady," flashed Jean, unconsciously falling into Mammy's vernacular.

"And who is Mammy, may I inquire?" asked the imperturbable voice, its owner absently eating lumps of fudge and pralines at a rate calculated to speedily reduce the supply he had on hand, the lads meanwhile regarding the vanishing "lumps of delight" with longing eyes.

"Why she's _Mammy_," replied Jean with considerable emphasis.

"Mammy _what_?" was the very unprofessional question which followed.

"Mammy Blairsdale, of course. _Our_ Mammy."

There was no answer for a moment as the candy continued to melt from sight like dew before the morning sun. Then the Professor looked at her steadily as he slowly munched his sweets, causing Jean to think of the Henrys' cow when in a ruminative mood.

"Little girl, are you from the South?"

"Don't _call_ me 'little girl' again!" flared Jean, bringing her foot down upon the bottom of the phaeton with a stamp. "I just naturally despise to be called 'little girl.' I'm Jean, and I want to be called Jean."

"Jean, Jean. Pretty name. Well _Miss_ Jean, are you from the South?"

"My _mother is_. She was a _Blairsdale_," replied "Miss" Jean, much as she might have said she is the daughter of England's Queen, much mollified at having the cognomen added.

"Do you happen to know which part of the South you come from?"

"_I_ don't come from the South at all. I was born right here in Riveredge. My mother came from Forestvale, North Carolina."

"I thought I knew the name. Yes, it is very familiar. Blairsdale. Yes. Quite so. Quite so. Rather curious, however. So many years. My grandmother was a Blairsdale too. Singular coincidence, _she_ had red hair, I'm told, Yes, really. Think I must follow it up. Very good, indeed. Did _you_ make them? I judge not. Who did? I must know where to get more when I have a fancy for some," and having eaten the last praline the Professor absent-mindedly put into his mouth the paper in which they had been wrapped, having unconsciously rolled it into a nice little wad while talking.

A funny twinkle came into his eyes when his mistake dawned upon him and turning to the grinning boys he said:

"I have heard of men putting the lighted end of a cigar into their mouths by mistake. This was less unpleasant at all events," and the wad was tossed to the driveway. The boys burst into shouts of laughter and the ice was broken. Crowding about the phaeton they asked:

"Who makes the candy? Do you always sell it? When can we get some more? Say, Professor, do you really know her folks? Who _is_ she any how?"

"I told you my name, and I live in Riveredge. My sister makes the candy, but she doesn't know I'm selling it. Maybe she'll let me bring you some more, and maybe she won't. I don't know. And maybe I'll catch Hail-Columbia-Happy-Land when I get back home," concluded the young lady, her lips coming together with decision and her head wagging between doubt and defiance. "But I don't care one bit if I do. I've sold _all_ the candy, and I've got just piles of money; so _that_ proves that I _can_ help as well as the big girls even if _I_ am too little to be trusted with their old secrets. And now I've got to go straight back home or they'll all be scared half to death. Perhaps they won't want to scold so hard if they are good and scared."

"One of us will go with you till you get past McKim's Hollow," cried the boys. "Ned can, can't he, Professor?"

"I believe I'll go myself," was the unexpected reply. "I was about to walk over to Riveredge, but I think perhaps Miss Jean will allow me to ride with her," and without more ado Professor Forbes, B.A., B.C., B.M., and half a dozen other Bachelors, gravely removed the coverings from old Baltie, folding and carefully placing the blanket upon the seat and laying the rug over Jean's knees. After he had tucked her snugly in, he took his seat beside her.

"Now, Miss Jean, I think we are all ready to start."

If anything could have been added to complete Jean's secret delight at the attention shown her, it was the dignified manner in which the Professor raised his hat, the boys as one followed his example, as Baltie ambled forth. "That is the way I _like_ to be treated. I _hate_ to be snubbed because I'm only ten years old," thought she.

As they turned into the road the distant whistles of South Riveredge blew twelve o'clock. Jean started slightly and glanced quickly up at her companion.

"The air is very clear and still to-day," he remarked. "We hear the whistles a long distance."

"It's twelve o'clock. I wonder what Mammy is thinking," was Jean's irrelevant answer.

"Does Mammy think for the family?" asked the Professor, a funny smile lurking about the corners of his mouth.

Jean's eyes twinkled as she answered:

"She was _mother's_ Mammy too."

"Ah! I think I understand. I lived South until I was fifteen."

"Did you? How old are you now?" was the second startling question.

"How old should you think?" was the essentially Yankee reply, which proved that the southern lad had learned a trick or two from his northern friends.

Jean regarded him steadily for a few moments.

"Well, when you raised your hat a few minutes ago your hair looked a little thin on _top_, so I guess you're going to be bald pretty soon. But your eyes, when you laugh, look just about like the boys'. Perhaps you aren't so very old though. Maybe you aren't much older than Mr. Stuyvesant. Do you know him?"

"Yes, I know him. He is younger than I am though." The Professor did not add "exactly six months."

"Yes, I thought you were lots older. He's the kind you _feel_ is young and you're the kind you feel is old, you know."

"Oh, am I? Wherein lies the difference, may I inquire?" The voice sounded a trifle nettled.

"Why I should think anyone could understand _that_," was the surprised reply. "Mr. Stuyvesant is the kind of a man who knows what children are thinking right down inside themselves all the time. They don't have to explain things to _him_ at all. Why the day I found Baltie he knew just as well how I felt about having him shot, and I knew just as well as anything that _he'd_ take care of him and make it all right. We're great friends. I love him dearly."

"Whom? Baltie?"

"Now there! What did I tell you? _That's_ why _you_ are _years_ and _years_ older than Mr. Stuyvesant. He _would'nt_ have had to say 'Whom? Baltie?' He'd just know such things without having to ask." The tone was not calculated to inspire self-esteem.

"Hum," answered the man who could easily have told anyone the distance of Mars from the earth and many another scientific fact. "I think I'm beginning to comprehend what constitutes age."

"Yes," resumed Jean as she flapped the reins upon Baltie who seemed to be lapsing into a dreamy frame of mind. "You can't always tell _how_ old a person is by just looking at 'em. Maybe you aren't nearly as old as I think you are, though I guess you can't be far from forty, and that's pretty bad. But if you'd sort of get gay and jolly, and try to think how you felt when you were little, or maybe even as big as the boys back yonder, you wouldn't seem any older to me than Mr. Stuyvesant."

The big eyes were regarding him with the closest scrutiny as though their owner wished to avoid falling into any error concerning him.

"Think perhaps I'll try it. It may prove worth while," and the Professor fell into a brown study while old Baltie plodded on and Jean let her thoughts outstrip his slow progress. At the other end of her commercial venture lay a reckoning as well she knew, and like most reckonings it held an element of doubt as well as of hope. It was nearly one o'clock when they came to the outskirts of Riveredge. The pretty town was quite deserted for it was luncheon hour. When they reached the foot of Hillside street, Jean said:

"This is my street; I have to go up here," and drew up to the sidewalk for her passenger to descend. He seemed in no haste to take the hint, and Jean began to wonder if he would turn out a regular old man of the sea. Before she could frame a speech both positive and polite as a suggestion for his next move, her ears were assailed by:

"Bress Gawd, ef dar aint dat pesterin' chile dis very minit! What I gwine _do_ wid yo'? Jis' tell me dat?" and Mammy came puffing and panting down the hill like a runaway steam-roller.

Professor Forbes roused himself from the reverie in which he had apparently been indulging for several moments, and stepping from the phaeton to the sidewalk, advanced a step or two toward the formidable object bearing down upon him, and raising his hat as though saluting a royal personage, said:

"I think I have the pleasure of addressing Mammy----_Blairsdale_."