he would resent her tone.
But Jim, after a moment’s silence, became duly humble.
“I – I’m very sorry I said that, Dorothy,” he began, slowly. “I – I’m sure I’d forgotten the hyphen in your own name. I was just thinking of those English girls. I’m positive that when they met you they felt themselves far above you, and it just makes my American blood boil – that’s all!”
Dorothy turned in time to catch a suspicious moisture in Jim’s eyes, and the warm-hearted girl immediately upbraided herself for speaking as she had.
“You’re true blue, Jim! I might have known how you meant it, and that you wouldn’t willingly slander my friends. And, just to show you that I believe in telling the truth, I’ll admit that Gwendolyn was a hateful little spitfire when I first entered the school. But finally she grew to know that in the many attributes which contribute to our happiness there were girls in the world just as well off as she. Gradually she came around, until, at the end, she was one of my warmest friends.”
Dorothy went on to relate how she had saved Gwendolyn from drowning, and how, in turn, the English girl had saved Dorothy from a terrible slide to death down an icy incline.
“Well, that wasn’t bad of her,” admitted Jim. “But she couldn’t very well stand by and see you perish – anyway, you had saved her life, and she felt duty bound to return the compliment.”
“Please believe, Jim, that she did it out of the fullness of her heart.”
“Well, if you say so,” the boy returned, reluctantly.
Both looked up at this juncture to find Ephraim standing in the aisle. The eyes of the old colored man contained a look of unbounded delight, and it was not difficult to see that his pleasure was caused by the anticipated return, within the next few hours, to Old Bellvieu and Mrs. Calvert.
“Well, Ephy,” said Dorothy, “soon we’ll see Aunt Betty again. And just think – I’ve been away for nine long months!”
“My, Miss Betty’ll suttin’ly be glad tuh see yo’ once moah, ’case she am gittin’ tuh a point now where yo’ comp’ny means er pow’ful lot tuh her. Axin’ yo’ pawdon, lil’ missy, fo’ mentionin’ de subjeck, but our Miss Betty ain’t de woman she were befor’ yo’ went away las’ fall. No, indeedy! Dar’s sumpthin’ worryin’ her, en I hain’t nebber been able tuh fin’ out w’at hit is. But I reckon hit’s some trouble ’bout de ole place.”
“I’ll just bet that’s it,” said Jim. “You remember we discussed that last summer just before we went sailing on the houseboat, Dorothy?”
“Yes,” said the girl, a sad note creeping into her voice. “Something or somebody had failed, and Aunt Betty’s money was involved in some way. I remember we feared she would have to sell Bellvieu, but gradually the matter blew over, and when I left home for Oak Knowe I had heard nothing of it for some time. The city of Baltimore has long coveted Bellvieu, you know, as well as certain private firms or individuals. The old place is wanted for some new and modern addition I suppose, and they hope eventually to entice Aunt Betty into letting it go. Oh, I do wish the train would hurry! I’m so anxious to take the dear old lady in my arms and comfort her that I can scarcely contain myself. Don’t you think, Jim, there will be some way to save her all this worry?”
“We can try,” answered the boy, gravely. The way he pursed up his lips, however, told Dorothy that he realized of what little assistance a boy and girl would be in a matter involving many thousands of dollars. “Let’s wait and see. Perhaps there is nothing to worry over after all.”
“Lor’ bress yo’, chile – dem’s de cheerfulest wo’ds I eber heered yo’ speak. An’ pray God yo’ may be right! De good Lord knows I hates tuh see my Miss Betty a-worryin’ en a-triflin’ her life erway, w’en she’d oughter be made comf’table en happy in her las’ days. It hain’t accordin’ tuh de Scriptur’, chillen – it hain’t accordin’ tuh de Scriptur’.”
And with a sad shake of his head the faithful old darkey moved away. A moment later they heard the door slam and knew that he had gone to the colored folks’ compartment in the car ahead.
“Ephy is loyalty personified,” said Dorothy. “His skin is black as ink, but his heart is as white as the driven snow.”
The boy did not answer. He seemed lost in thought, his eyes riveted on the passing landscape. Dorothy, too, looked out of the window again, a feeling of satisfaction possessing her as she realized that she was again in her beloved South.
On every hand were vast cotton fields, the green plants well above ground, and flourishing on account of the recent rains. Villages and hamlets flashed by, as the limited took its onward way toward the great Maryland city which Dorothy Calvert called her home.
“Oh, Jim, see!” the girl cried, suddenly, gripping her companion’s arm, and pointing out of the window. “There is the old Randolph plantation. We can’t be more than an hour’s ride from Baltimore. Hurrah! I’m so glad!”
“Looks like a ‘befor’ de war’ place,” Jim returned, as he viewed the rickety condition of what had once been one of Maryland’s finest country mansions.
“Yes; the house was built long before the war. It was owned by a branch of the famous Randolphs, of Virginia, of whom you have heard and read. Aunt Betty told me the story one night, years ago. I shall never forget it. There was a serious break in the family and William Randolph moved his wife and babies away from Virginia, vowing he would never again set foot in that state. And he kept his word. He settled on this old plantation, remodeling the house, and adding to it, until he had one of the most magnificent mansions in the South. Aunt Betty frequently visited his family when a young girl. That was many years before the Civil War. When the war finally broke out, William Randolph had two sons old enough to fight, so sent them to help swell the ranks of the Confederate Army. One was killed in battle. The other was with Lee at Appomattox, and came home to settle down. He finally married, and was living on the old plantation up to ten years ago, when he died.”
“What became of the father?” queried the interested Jim.
“Oh, he died soon after the war, without ever seeing his brothers in Virginia, they say. The son, Harry Randolph, being of a sunny disposition, though, finally resolved to let bygones be bygones, and some years after his father’s death, he went to see his relatives in the other state, where he was received with open arms. How terrible it must be to have a family feud, Jim!”
“Terrible,” nodded the boy.
“Just think how I’d feel if I were to get mad at Aunt Betty and go to Virginia, or New York to stay, never to see my dear old auntie again on this earth. Humph! Catch me doing a thing like that? Well, I reckon not – mo matter how great the provocation!”
Jim smiled.
“Not much danger of your having to do anything like that,” he replied. “Aunt Betty loves you too much, and even if you did, you could go back to Mother Martha and Father John.”
“Yes; I could, that’s true. But life would never seem the same, after finding Aunt Betty, and being taken to her heart as I have. But let’s not talk of such morbid things. Let us, rather, plan what we shall do for a good time this summer.”
“Humph!” grunted the boy. “Reckon I’ll be having a good time studying ’lectricity. There’s work ahead of me, and I don’t dare allow myself to forget it.”
“But, Jim, you are going home with me for a vacation. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, or, at least, that’s what I’ve always been taught to believe.”
“I know, Dorothy; but I’ve got a living to make.” The serious note in Jim’s voice made Dorothy turn in some surprise.
“Why, Jim Barlow, how you talk! You’re not old enough to strike out for yourself yet.” A note of authority crept unconsciously into Dorothy’s tones.
“Yes; I am. Lots of boys younger than I have gone out to wrestle with the world for a livelihood, and I reckon I can do the