small colored boy who had always lived at Bellvieu and now served as Mrs. Betty’s page as well as footman, descended from his perch and untied the horses from the place where careful Ephraim had fastened them. His air was a perfect imitation of the old man’s and sat so funnily upon his small person that the wharf master chuckled and Dorothy laughed outright.
“Metty,” as he was commonly called, disdained to see the mirth he caused but climbed to his seat behind, folded his arms as well as he could for his too big livery, and became as rigid as a statue – or as all well-conducted footmen should be.
Then good-byes were exchanged, after the good old Maryland fashion and the carriage rolled away.
As it vanished from view the man left behind sighed again and clenched his fists, muttering:
“This horrible, uneven world! Why should one child have so much and my Elsa – nothing! Elsa, my poor, unhappy child!”
Then he went about his duties and tried to forget Dorothy’s beauty, perfect health, and apparent wealth.
For some time neither Mrs. Calvert nor Dorothy spoke; then the girl said:
“Aunt Betty, Jim Barlow could tend that engine. And he’s out of a place. Maybe – ”
“Yes, dear, I’ve been thinking of him, too. Somehow none of our plans seem quite perfect without good, faithful James sharing them.”
“And that poor Mr. Blank – ”
“A very dishonest scoundrel, my child, according to all accounts. Don’t waste pity on him.”
“But his folks mayn’t be scoundrels. He loved them, too, same as we love or he wouldn’t have built such a lovely Water Lily. Auntie, that boat would hold a lot of people, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” answered the lady, absently.
“When we go house-boating may I invite anybody I choose to go with us?”
“I haven’t said yet that we would go!”
“But you’ve looked it and that’s better.”
Just then an automobile whizzed by and the horses pretended to be afraid. Mrs. Calvert was frightened and leaned forward anxiously till Ephraim had brought them down to quietness again. Then she settled back against her cushions and became once more absorbed in her own sombre thoughts. She scarcely heard and wholly failed to understand Dorothy’s repeated question:
“May I, dear Aunt Betty?”
She answered carelessly:
“Why, yes, child. You may do what you like with your own.”
But that consent, so rashly given, was to bring some strange adventures in its train.
CHAPTER II
INVITATIONS TO A CRUISE OF LOVING KINDNESS
“Huh! Dolly’s caught the Ford fashion of sending telegrams where a letter would do!” exclaimed Jim Barlow, after he had opened the yellow envelope which Griselda Roemer gave him when he came in from work.
He was back at Deerhurst, living with old Hans and Griselda, the caretakers, and feeling more at home in his little room above the lodge doorway than anywhere else. He had come to do any sort of labor by which he might earn his keep, and to go on with his studies whenever he had leisure. Mr. Seth Winters, the “Learned Blacksmith,” and his faithful friend, would give him such help as was needed; and the lad had settled down in the prospect of a fine winter at his beloved books. After his long summer on the Colorado mountains he felt rested and keener for knowledge than ever.
Now as he held the telegram in his hand his face clouded, so that Griselda, watching, anxiously inquired:
“Is something wrong? Is our good lady sick?”
“It doesn’t say so. It’s from Dorothy. She wants me to come to Baltimore and help her fool away lots more time on a house-boat! I wish she’d mind her business!”
The friendly German woman stared. She had grown to look upon her lodger, Jim, very much as if he were her own son. He wasn’t often so cross as this and never had been so against Dorothy.
“Well, well! Ah so! Well!”
With this brief comment she made haste to set the dinner on the table and to call Hans from his own task of hoeing the driveway. Presently he had washed his face and hands at the little sink in the kitchen, rubbed them into a fine glow with the spotless roller-towel, and was ready for the great meal of the day – his generous “Dutch dinner.”
Usually Jim was as ready as Hans to enjoy it; but, to-day, he left his food untasted on his plate while he stared gloomily out of the window, and for so long that Griselda grew curious and went to see what might be happening without.
“What seest thou, lad? Is aught wrong beyond already?”
“No. Oh! come back to table, Mrs. Roemer. I’ll tell you. I’d just got fixed, you know, to do a lot of hard work – both kinds. Now comes this silly thing! I suppose Mrs. Calvert must have let Dolly ask me else she wouldn’t have done it. It seems some simpleton or other, likely as not that Mr. Ford – ”
“Call no names, son!” warned Hans, disposing of a great mouthful, to promptly reprimand the angry youth. Hans was a man of peace. He hated nothing so much as ill temper.
Jim said no more, but his wrath cooling began to eat his dinner with a zeal that made up for lost time. Having finished he went out saying:
“I’ll finish my job when I come back. I’m off now for the Shop.”
He always spoke of the smithy under the Great Balm of Gilead Tree as if it began with a capital letter. The old man who called himself a “blacksmith” – and was, in fact, a good one – and dwelt in the place stood to eager James Barlow as the type of everything good and great. He was sure, as he hurried along the road, that Mr. Seth would agree with him in regard to Dorothy’s telegram.
“Hello, Jim! What’s up? You look excited,” was the blacksmith’s greeting as the lad’s shadow darkened the smithy entrance.
“Read that, will you, Mr. Winters?”
The gentleman put on his “reading specs,” adjusted the yellow slip of paper conveniently, and exclaimed:
“Good enough! Mistress Betty has allowed the darling to accept it then! First rate. Well?”
Then he looked up inquiringly, surprised by the impatience of the boy’s expression.
“Well – of course I sha’n’t go. The idea of loafing for another two, three months is – ridiculous! And what fool would give such a thing as a house-boat to a chit of a girl like our Dorothy?”
Mr. Seth laughed and pointed to the settee.
“Sit down, chap, and cool off. The world is as full of fools as it is of wise men. Which is which depends upon the point of view. I’m sorry to have you number me amongst the first; because I happen to be the stupid man who gave the ‘Water Lily’ and its belongings to little Dorothy. I knew she’d make good use of it, if her aunt would let her accept the gift, and she flatters you, I think, by inviting you to come and engineer the
