In spite of the grand way they lived there wasn’t much company at Mapleshade. Anne Hennessey, the housekeeper, told me Mrs. Fowler was so dead in love with her husband she didn’t want the bother of entertaining people. And the Doctor liked a quiet life. He’d been a celebrated surgeon in New York but had retired only for consultations and special cases now and again. He was very good to the people round about, and would come in and help when our little Dr. Pease, or Dr. Graham, at the Junction, were up against something serious. I’ll never forget when Mick Donahue, the station agent’s boy, got run over by Freight No. 22. But I’m sidetracked again. Anyhow, the Doctor amputated the leg and little Mick’s stumping round on a wooden pin almost as good as ever.
But even so they weren’t liked much. They held their heads very high, Mrs. Fowler driving through the village like it was Fifth Avenue, sending the chauffeur into the shops and not at all affable to the tradespeople. The Doctor wouldn’t trouble to give you so much as a nod, just stride along looking straight ahead. When the story got about that he’d lost most of the money he’d made doctoring I didn’t bear any resentment, seeing it was worry that made him that way.
But Miss Sylvia was made on a different measure. My, but she was a winner! Even after I knew what brought Jack Reddy in from Firehill so often I couldn’t be set against her. Jealous I might be of a girl like myself, but not of one who was the queen bee of the hive.
She was a beauty from the ground up—a blonde with hair like corn silk that she wore in a loose, fluffy knot with little curly ends hanging on her neck. Her face was pure pink and white, the only dark thing in it her big brown eyes, that were as clear and soft as a baby’s. And she was a great dresser, always the latest novelty, and looking prettier in each one. Mrs. Galway’d say to me, with her nose caught up, scornful,
"To my mind it’s not refined to advertise your wealth on your back."
But I didn’t worry, knowing Mrs. Galway’d have advertised hers if she’d had the wealth or a decent shaped back to advertise it on, which she hadn’t, being round-shouldered.
There was none of the haughty ways of her parents about Miss Sylvia. When she’d come into the exchange to send a call (a thing that puzzled me first but I soon caught on) she’d always stop and have a pleasant word with me. On bright afternoons I’d see her pass on horseback, straight as an arrow, with a man’s hat on her golden hair. She’d always have a smile for everyone, touching her hat brim real sporty with the end of her whip. Even when she was in her motor, speeding down Main Street, she’d give you a hail as jolly as if she was your college chum.