"
"Who is J. G.?" asked Caroline abruptly.
"J. G. Terwilliger," she answered simply. It was as if one had said
"Edward Seventh" or "Adelina Patti" or "P. T. Barnum."
"Who's he?"
"He's my father, for one thing. I suppose you know who he is as well
as anybody else."
"I never heard of him," Caroline said carelessly, "are you all
ready, now, Mrs. Winterpine?"
"He is the greatest mining expert in the world," the girl declared
emphatically, "and I don't know where you've lived not to know it.
You--" with a look at the woman, "you know him, of course?"
"I don't know anybody of that name, no," the woman admitted; "but
then, you know, we don't know much, 'way off here, about city
people."
"There hasn't been a daily paper for ten days that hasn't had his
name in it," the girl remarked dryly.
Mrs. Winterpine wiped her face, flanked the ham with the potatoes,
assembled an incredible array of sweets and relishes in odd, thick
little glass dishes, and with a wave of her hand indicated her
guests' places.
"We take the _Lockwood's Corners Clarion_," she explained
pacifically.
They addressed themselves to the meal, a strange trio. Caroline,
usually a hopeless chatterbox, fell somehow and inevitably into the
listener's seat.
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