Solution Manual for Small Business Management

Entrepreneurship and Beyond 6th Edition Hatten 128586638X

9781285866383
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Chapter 6 Taking Over an Existing Business

TRUEFALSE

1. Existing businesses do not have to be scrutinized carefully to determine whether they are a
worthwhile investment of time and money.

(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (B)

2. The fact that a business's image is difficult to change is a distinct advantage when taking over an
existing business.

(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (B)

3. Buying an existing business is becoming a more popular way to own a small business.

(A) True

(B) False

Answer : (A)

4. A major advantage of purchasing an existing business is that the customers are familiar with the
location.

(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (A)

5. If an existing business is purchased, the buyer may be potentially liable for past business
contracts.
(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (A)
6. Having an established supplier relationship is an advantage of buying an existing business.

(A) True

(B) False

Answer : (A)

7. When the owner of a business decides to sell, the reasons the owner tells prospective buyers may
be somewhat different than the actual reasons.

(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (A)

8. Word-of-mouth information through friends and family may turn up business opportunities that do
not appear through formal channels.

(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (A)

9. Real estate brokers may be a good source of potential businesses for sale since their listings may
include business real estate.

(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (A)

10. Asking the owner of a business where you have been a regular customer whether the business is
for sale may be one source of finding a potential new business.

(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (A)

11. You should never ask the owners of a business where you are a customer whether they are
interested in selling their business.

(A) True
(B) False

Answer : (B)

12. Brokers take classes and pass examinations to become certified business intermediaries.

(A) True

(B) False

Answer : (A)

13. It is important not to let emotions cloud judgment when making business purchase decisions.

(A) True

(B) False

Answer : (A)

14. Due diligence is the process of fact finding to determine the total condition of a business being
considered for purchase.

(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (A)

15. When discussing the purchase of an existing business, it is not necessary to get verbal
understandings in writing from the seller.

(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (B)

16. When analyzing the financial statements of the business, it is important to rely most heavily on
the most recent year of operation.

(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (B)

17. There are not as many factors that could contribute to the sale of a business as there are
reasons for business liquidations.

(A) True

(B) False

Answer : (B)

18. Industry averages exist comparing expenses to sales for every size and type of business.

(A) True

(B) False

Answer : (A)

19. Determining the price offered for a business should begin by adding the value of the tangible
and intangible assets with the sales potential of the business.

(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (B)

20. A key factor in business valuation is review of what other companies in the industry have sold
for.

(A) True (B)

False

Answer : (A)

21. Goodwill is an example of a tangible asset.

(A) True

(B) False

Answer : (B)

22. Inventory is an example of a tangible asset.

(A) True

(B) False

Answer : (A)
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hasten the day when Judge Lynch shall be spoken of with a shudder, as a
hideous memory.
“This pitiful people, our former slaves, if instructed by intelligent
ministers and teachers, might be delivered from the cramped mind, freed
from the brutalized spirit which causes these crimes among us. They are
naturally a religious people and this principle, which seems to be strong
within them, under the guidance of an earnest enlightened ministry,
might prove to be the key to the race problem find open up a social and
political reformation, unequalled in modern times.
“Already the negro race is doing much for its own advancement and
good. To-day there are thirty-five thousand negro teachers in the
elementary schools of the South. Six hundred ministers of the gospel
have been educated in their own theological halls. They own and edit
more than two hundred newspapers. They have equipped and maintain
more than three hundred lawyers and four hundred doctors and have
accumulated property which is estimated at more than two hundred and
fifty millions. I note this fact with pleasure. It makes them better citizens
by holding a stake in their community. Let us show our appreciation of
what they have already done by helping them to do more.”
 CHAPTER VII.
The strange faces, the new scene, the suddenness of the call had
shaken Elliott’s self-possession, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he
finished his speech.
The mayor and municipal council crowded around him with
outstretched hands, foremost amongst them, an old man with Roman
features.
“I was interested in your speech, young man,” said he, “but wait until
this thing strikes home before you condemn our code.”
“You’re right, Mr. Carr, you’re right!” cried several voices in chorus.
The old gentleman talked on during the intervals of greetings and
ended by inviting young Harding to his home, where a lawn party was to
be held that night.
As the volume of general applause lessened, the cry of “Holmes!
Holmes!” was kept up with an insistence which might have induced a
less capable man to respond. Nor would the enthused throng be quieted
until John Holmes mounted the platform.
“It had not been my purpose, ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “to
address you to-day upon the subject touched upon by Mr. Harding, but,
since he has modestly lectured us on our barbarity, I must say a word in
defense of the South and southerners. He intimates that the curse of
slavery still rests upon the southern states. I wonder if Mr. Harding
knows whether or not the curse of slave-trade, which to be accurate is
called ‘the sum of all villainies,’ really rests upon Great Britain, who was
the originator of the inhuman system and not upon us southerners?
“The most careful statistics show that in the beginning over
19,000,000 Africans were imported into the British West Indies and so
severely were they dealt with that when emancipation came, only a little
over 600,000 were left to benefit by it. The slave trade was fastened on
the American colonies by the greed of English kings, who, over and over
again, vetoed the restrictive legislation of the Colonial Assemblies on the
ground that it interfered with the just profits of their sea-faring subjects.
Is there no work for Nemesis here?
 “That the system of slavery, as it existed in the southern states, was
accompanied by many cases of hardship and cruelty, we freely admit;
that its abolition is a proper ground for sincere rejoicing, we do not
hesitate to affirm. But, it is nevertheless true, that, looked at in a large
way, slavery was a lifting force to the negro race during the whole period
of its existence here. The proof lies just here—when the war of
emancipation came, the 4,000,000 negroes in the southern states stood
on a higher level of civilization than did any other equal number of
people of the same race anywhere on the globe.
“As to the mental and moral advancement of the negro, we have not
done enough to render us boastful or self-satisfied, but enough to dull the
shafts of the mistaken or malicious who would convict us of heathenish
indifference to his elevation. We have from childhood had a lively
appreciation of the debt we owe to the race. Nobody owes them as much
as we do; nobody knows them as well; nobody’s future is so involved in
their destiny as our own. Is it not natural that we should help them in
their pathetic struggle against poverty, ignorance and degradation?
“Mr. Harding, in speaking of their progress, intimates that these
results have been reached by their own unaided efforts. The fact is that
the elementary schools of which he speaks are sustained almost entirely
by the southern white people, who, in the midst of their own grinding
poverty, have taxed themselves to the extent of $50,000,000 to educate
the children of their former slaves. The colored churches of to-day are
the legitimate fruit of the faithful work done amongst the slaves before
the war by white missionaries.
“Two hundred and fifty millions is a vast sum. Could a race gather
and hold so much in a commonwealth where its rights are being trampled
upon with impunity? The question answers itself. There is, in truth, no
place on earth where the common negro laborer has so good an
opportunity as between the Potomac and Rio Grande. Here he is
admitted to all the trades, toils side by side with white workmen, and is
protected in person and property so long as he justifies protection.
“As to the statement that one thousand have been lynched in the past
ten years, doubtless Mr. Harding accepts without further examination the
crooked figures of partisan newspapers. But, granting this horrible record
to be true, it must be acknowledged that the man does something to call
forth such treatment. Along with the telling of our alleged
bloodthirstiness, there should be related the frequency and atrocity of his
outrages against our homes. The south willingly appeals to the judgment
of civilized mankind as to the truth of her declaration that the objects of
enlightened government are as well secured here as on any portion of the
globe.
“That Mr. Harding and his sympathizers are actuated by excellent
motives, I do not mean to question.
“We are as mindful as others of the dangerous tendency of resorting
to lawlessness, but strangers cannot understand the situation as well as
those who are personally familiar with it and have suffered by it. It is
much to be regretted, of course, that lynchings occur, but it is far more to
be regretted that there are so many occasions for them. When the sanctity
of woman is violated, man, if man he be, cannot but choose to avenge it.
If the villain did not commit the crime for which this penalty is inflicted,
then we would not be inflamed to summary vengeance. The perpetrator
of this deed, the most heinous of all crimes and to which death is often
added, need not complain when vengeance is visited upon him in a swift
and merciless manner, according with the teaching of his own villainy.
“Unquestionably it would be better if judicial formalities could be
duly observed, but the law should make special provisions for summary
execution when such grave offenses occur. Then, too, there is something
to be said for the peculiar indignation which such cases incite. This anger
is the just indignation of a community against a peculiarly vile class of
criminal, not against a race, as Mr. Harding and others have grown to
believe and to set forth. That it has seemed a race question with the
south, has been because for every negro in the north we have one
hundred here.
“Mid the stormy scenes a quarter of a century ago, when the bugle
called the sons of the south to war, they went, leaving their wives,
mothers, children and homes in the hands of the slaves who, though their
personal interests were on the other side, were true to their trust,
protected the helpless women and children and earned for them their
support by the sweat of their own brow, and with a patience unparalleled
left the question of freedom to the arbitrament of war. Their behavior
under manifold temptations was always kindly and respectful, and never
one raised an arm to molest the helpless. In the drama of all humanity,
there is not a figure more pathetic or touching than the figure of the
slave, who followed his master to the battle-field, marched, thirsted and
hungered with him, nursed, served and cheered him—that master who
was fighting to keep him in slavery. This subject comprises a whole vast
field of its own and if the history of it is ever written, it will be written in
the literature of the south, for here alone lies the knowledge and the love.
“Who has taught him to regard liberty as a license? Who has sown
this seed of animosity in his mind? Until they who have sown the seed of
discord shall root up and clear away the tares, the peace and prosperity
that might reign in this southern land can be but a hope, a dream. It is
this rooting of the tares, and this more surely than anything else, that will
bring nearer the union and perfect good fellowship which is so greatly
needed. Sound common sense and sterling Americanism can and will
find a way to prosperity and peace.”
 CHAPTER VIII.
The sun had set; off beyond the glistening green woodline, the sky
was duskily red. The air was full of that freshness of twilight, which is so
different from the dew of morning.
Elliott left the bran-dance by a new road which was plain and
characterless until he had passed through an unpretentious gate and was
driving along the old elm avenue, a part of the Carr domain, which was
undeniably picturesque. Shortly the elm branches came to an end and he
entered a park, indifferently cared for, according to modern ideas, but
well stocked with timber of magnificent growth and of almost every
known native variety. Perhaps the oaks dominated in number and
majesty, but they found worthy rivals in the towering elms.
Neglect is very picturesque in its effect, whether the thing neglected
be a ruined castle or an unkept tangle. The unpicturesque things are those
in which man’s artificial selection reigns supreme.
Had Elliott’s order-loving mother been with him, she would have
observed that this park was ill-maintained, and that she would dearly
love to have the thinning out and regulating of its trees. Whereas, to his
less orderly fancy, it presented a most agreeable appearance. There was
Nature’s charm wholly undisturbed by man, and what perhaps added the
finishing touch to his satisfaction was the exceeding number of maples,
in the perfect maturity of their growth. These straight and goodly trees so
screened the house that he was very close before it could be seen. Even
at the instant and before he had looked upon more than its gray stone
frontage almost smothered in Virginia creepers, up to the very top of its
rounded gables, Elliott was pleased.
It was a secluded place. Its position was, according to his taste,
perfect. It had the blended charm of simple, harmonious form and
venerable age. It faced almost southeast, the proper aspect for a country
house, as it ensures morning cheerfulness all the year round, and the full
advantage of whatever sunshine there is in winter from dawn practically
to sundown and the exquisite effects of the rising of the moon.
Low-growing lilies breathed seductive fragrance, and the softness of
the air permitted the gay party assembled to indulge in what would have
been indiscretion in a more northerly climate. Young girls discarded their
straw hats and danced upon the smooth, green lawn, while elderly
chaperons could retire to the halls and porches if they feared the chill
night air.
As Elliott approached the moonlit crowd of figures, Dorothy Carr
came out to greet him. A young woman, tall and slight, with a figure
lithe and graceful, made more perfect by ardent exercise. A skin which
had never been permitted to lose its infant softness, with lips as pure as
perfect health and lofty thoughts could make them. Her blown gold hair
was lustrous and soft, and she carried herself with the modesty of the
gentlewoman. Her blue eyes were dark, their brows pencilled with
delicate precision combining a breadth that was both commanding and
sweet.
“I am delighted to see you again, Mr. Harding,” Dorothy Carr said,
graciously.
“And I am delighted to be here,” replied Elliott, as he turned with his
fair hostess to a rude seat fixed about the bole of an oak.
“It was upon your grounds that we last met,” she added after a slight
pause.
“Yes, and I have waited with some impatience for an invitation here,
which came just to-day. You see how quickly I accepted.”
“What a dainty reproof,” she said, laughing. “But I have been away
all the summer or you should have been invited here long ago.”
A few such commonplaces passed between them, then Dorothy
referred to Elliott’s speech, which she had listened to with interest.
“I was so suddenly called upon that I did little justice to the subject,
and it is a subject of such grave responsibility. But perhaps it is just as
well that I did not have time to present it more strongly for it appears to
have been already misunderstood, and I hear that not a few have branded
me with all sorts of bad names. I trust I have not fallen under your
condemnation.”
“Well, to be frank, I think you exhibited a somewhat fanatical anxiety
to lecture people differently circumstanced,” she answered gravely. “Yet
I did not condemn you. I hope you give me credit for more liberality than
that. You are new to our land, and have much to grow accustomed to. We
should not expect you at once to see this matter as we do,” was the
evasive reply.
“She certainly does not lack the courage of her convictions,” he
thought. Then aloud:
“You evidently think I shall alter my views?” this in his airily candid
manner; “I stated the true conditions of affairs, just as I understand
them.”
“There is the trouble. The true condition is not as you and many
others understand it.”
“Then let us hope that I may fully comprehend before a great while. I
at least intend to make the best of this opportunity, for, as you may know,
I have settled permanently in Georgetown.”
She looked up with a beautiful aloofness in her eyes. The brave
mouth, with its full, sensitive lips, was strong, yet delicate.
“I am glad to hear that, for then you can hardly fail, sooner or later,
to feel as we do about the subject of your to-day’s discussion. I hope to
help you to think kindly of your new home.”
“Nothing could be more comforting than this from you,” he assured
her, with that frank manner which suited well the fearless expression of
his face. “I am now delightfully quartered with my kinsman, Mr. Field,
whose acres join yours, I believe; so we shall be neighbors.”
Then they laughed. “We are really to be neighbors after all our
quarrel in the mountains? Well!” she added, hospitably, “a cover will
always be laid for you at our table, and you shall have due warning of
any entertainment that may take place. It shall be my duty to see that you
are thoroughly won over to the South; to her traditions as well as her
pleasures.”
“But changing this flippant subject to one of graver importance, just
now; there is one thing absolutely necessary for you Kentuckians to learn
before you win me.” His face lighted with a charming smile.
“What is that?” she asked.
“You must first know how to make Manhattan cocktails.”
She answered with a pretty pout, “I—we can make them now; why
shouldn’t we? Doesn’t all the good whiskey you get up North come from
the bluegrass state?”
 Amused at her loyalty, Elliott assented willingly: “That is a fact. And
I like your whiskey,—a little of it—I like your state—all of it—its
bluegrass, its thoroughbreds, and its women. But, you will pardon me,
there is something wanting in its cocktails, perhaps—it’s the cherry!”
“A fault that can be easily remedied, and—suppose we did succeed,
would you belong to us?”
“I’m afraid I would,” he agreed smilingly.
Here the music of the two-step stopped, and Uncle Josh, the old
negro fiddler, famous the country over for calling the figures of the
dance, straightened himself with dignity, and called loudly:
“Pardners for de las’ waltz ’fore supper!”
Dorothy could not keep the mirth from her lips. Uncle Josh was not
measuring time by heartbeats but the cravings of his stomach; his
immortal soul was his immortal appetite. However, whatever motive
inspired him to fix the supper time, it proved efficacious, and partners
were soon chosen and the dancing began again as vigorously as ever.
Dorothy and Elliott were not slow in joining the other dancers and
glided through the dreamy measures which Uncle Josh, despite his
longing to eat, drew forth sweetly from his old, worn fiddle. He was the
soul of melody and had an eye to widening his range of selections and
his inimitable technique appreciating the demands upon his art. When,
with an extra flourish, Uncle Josh eventually brought the music to an
end, Mr. Carr, with his easy Southern manner, courteously invited every
one in to supper. He led the way, accompanied by Elliott Harding and
Dorothy.
How pretty the dining-room looked! Its half-light coming through
soft low tones of pink. Big rosy balls of sweet clover, fresh from the
home fields, were massed in cream tinted vases, bunched over pictures
and trailed down in lovely confusion about the window and straggling
over door frames. Upon the long table stood tall candlesticks and
candelabras many prismed, with branching vines twisted in and out in
quaint fashion, bearing tall candles tipped with pink shades. From the
centre of the ceiling to each corner of the room first, then to regular
distances, were loosely stretched chains of pink and white clovers. Large
bows of ribbon held these lengths in place where they met the chair
board. In each corner close to the wall were jars which, in their pretty
pink dresses of crinkled paper held in place by broad ribbon sashes,
would scarcely be recognized as the old butter pots of our grandmothers’
days. From these jars grew tufts of rooted clover. Even the old fireplace
and broad mantel were decked with these blossoms.
At each side of the table stood two glass bowls filled with branches
of clover leaves only; one lot tied with pink ribbon, the other with white.
When supper was served these bowls were passed around while Dorothy
repeated the pretty tradition of the four-leaf clover. Then commenced the
merry hunt for the prize that only two could win. Bright eyes and deft
fingers searched their leaves through.
While this went on, in the dining-room just outside, under the moon
and the maples, near the kitchen door, was another scene as joyous, if not
so fair. At the head of the musician’s banquetting board sat Uncle Josh,
hospitably helping each to the good things Aunt Chloe had heaped
before them in accordance with the orders of “her white folks.” She was
considered one of the most important members of the Carr household,
having been in the service of the family for thirty years, being a blend of
nurse, cook and lady’s maid.
As Uncle Josh’s brown, eager hands greedily grasped the mint julep,
and held it sparkling between him and the light, with a broad smile on
his beaming face, he exultantly exclaimed:
“De Lawd love her soul, Miss Dor’thy, nebber is ter fergit we all.
Talk erbout de stars! She’s ’way ’bove dem.”
While he and his companions drank mint julep in token that his
grateful sentiment was recognized as a toast to the fine hostess, the
dining-room was ringing with laughter and congratulations over Elliott
Harding’s victory, he having found one of the four-leaved trophies.
“Where is its mate?” was the eager question as nimble fingers and
sharp eyes searched over the little bunches right and left again, anxious
to find this potent charm against evil. The search, however, was vain.
Some one asked if its loss meant that Mr. Harding should live unwedded
for the rest of his days.
The evening closed with jokes of his bachelorhood.
By midnight the dining-room was still, the table cleared, the only
sign of what had been was the floor with its scattered leaves.
All tired out with the long hours of gayety, Dorothy had hurried off
to bed. There was a little crushed four-leaved clover fastened upon her
nightgown as she lay down to her sweet, mysterious, girlish dreams.
 CHAPTER IX.
Dorothy’s father, Napoleon Carr, was a man well known and greatly
respected throughout the south country where he had always lived. His
existence had been a laborious one, for he had entered the lists heavily
handicapped in the matter of education. Intellectual enjoyment, dimly
realized, had never been his; but he struggled that his family might have
a fairer chance. Much of his comfortable income of late years had been
generously devoted to the education of his daughter.
He had been happily wedded, though long childless. At length, when
Dorothy was born it was at the price of her mother’s life. This was a
terrific blow to the husband and father. He was inconsolable with grief.
The child was sent to a kinsman for a few months, after which time Mr.
Carr felt that he must have her ever with him. To him there was nothing
so absorbing as the tender care of Dorothy. He was very prideful of her.
He watched her daily growth and then, all at once, while he scarcely
realized that the twilight of childhood was passing, the dawn came, and,
like the rose vine by his doorway, she burst into bloom.
With what a reverential pride he saw her filling the vacant place,
diffusing a fragrance upon all around like the sweet, wet smell of a rose.
He was a splendid horseman and crack shot, and it had been one of
his pleasures to teach her to handle horse and gun. Together they would
ride and hunt, and no day’s outing was perfect to him unless Dorothy
was by his side.
It was not surprising, therefore, to find her a little boyish in her
fondness for sport. However, as she grew to womanhood, she sometimes,
from a fancy that it was undignified, would decline to take part in these
sports. But when he had started off alone with dogs and gun, the sound
of running feet behind him would cause him to turn to find Dorothy with
penitent face before him. Then lovingly encircling his neck with arms
like stripped willow boughs, the repentant words: “I do want to go. I was
only in fun,” would be a preface to a long day of delight.
In time these little moods set him thinking, and he began to realize
that their beautiful days of sporting comradeship were in a measure over.
How he wished she might never outgrow this charm of childhood.
 Ah! those baby days, not far past! How often of nights the father
went to her bedroom, just touching his child to find out if the covering
was right and that she slept well. How many, many times had he leaned
over her sleeping form in the dim night light, seeming to see a halo
around her head as he watched the dimpling smile about her infant
mouth, and, recalling the old nurse saying, that when a baby smiles,
angels are whispering to it, took comfort in the thought that maybe it was
all true, that the mother was soothing her child to deeper slumber, and so,
perhaps, was also beside him. All unconsciously she had slept, never
hearing the prayer to God that when the day should come when she
would leave him for the man of her heart, death might claim his lone
companionship.
How it hurt when the neighbors would says “You have a grown
daughter now,” or “Dorothy is a full fledged woman.” It was not until
then that Mr. Carr had let his daughter know that it would almost break
his heart if she should ever leave him for another. But he made
absolutely no restrictions against her meeting young men.
Of course this rare creature had sweethearts not a few, for the
neighboring boys began to nourish a tender sentiment for her before she
was out of short dresses. Her playmates were free of the house; their
coming was always welcome to her and encouraged by her father though
this past year, when a new visitor had found his way there, the father
took particular note of her manner toward this possible suitor. The kind
old eyes would follow her with pathetic eagerness, not reproaching or
reproving, only always questioning: “Is this to be the man who shall
open the new world’s doors for her; who shall give her the first glimpse
of that wonderful joy called love?”
Yet so truly unselfish was her nature,—despite the unlimited
indulgences when, visiting in congenial homes where she was petted and
admired, full of the intoxication of the social triumphs, she had out of the
abundance of her heart exclaimed: “Oh, I am so happy! happy!
happy!”—there was sure to follow a time of anxious solicitude, when she
asked herself, “But how has it been with him—with dear old father?”
It was so generous of him to spare so much of her society; so good of
him to make her orphan way so smooth and fair. She could read in his
pictured face something of the loneliness and the disappointments he had
borne; something of the heartaches he must have suffered. All this she
recalled, the pleasure of it and the pain of it, the pride and joy of it. What
a delight it was to make her visit short, and surprise him by returning
home before he expected her.
 CHAPTER X.
Time went swiftly. The seasons followed each other without that
fierceness in them to which one is accustomed in the North. The very
frosts were gentle; slowly and kindly they stripped the green robes from
tree and thicket, gave ample warning to the robin, linnet and ruby-throat
before taking down the leafy hangings and leaving their shelter open to
the chill rains of December. The wet kine and horses turned away from
the North and stood in slanting rains with bowed heads.
Christmas passed, and New Year. Pretty soon spring was in the
valleys, creeping first for shelter shyly, in the pause of the blustering
wind that was blowing the last remnants of old winter from the land.
There was a general spreading of dry brush over the spaded farm
country; then the sweet, clean smell of its burning and a misty veil of
thin blue smoke hanging everywhere throughout the clearing. As soon as
the fear of frost was gone, all the air was a fount of freshness. The earth
smiled its gladness, and the laughing waters prattled of the kindness of
the sun. When the dappled softness of the sky gave some earnest of its
mood, a brisk south wind arose and the blessed rain came driving cold,
yet most refreshing. At its ceasing, coy leaves peeped out, and the
bravest blossoms; the dogwoods, full-flowered, quivered like white
butterflies poised to dream. In every wet place the little frogs began to
pipe to each other their joy that spring was holding her revel. The heart
of the people was not sluggish in its thankfulness to God, for if there
were no spring, no seed time, there would be no harvest. Now summer
was all back again. Song birds awakening at dawn made the woods
merry carolling to mates and younglings in the nests. All nature was in
glad, gay earnest. Busy times, corn in blossom rustling in the breeze,
blackberries were ripe, morning-glories under foot, the trumpet flower
flaring above some naked girdled tree. Open meadows full of sun where
the hot bee sucks the clover, the grass tops gather purple, and ox-eyed
daisies thrive in wide unshadowed acres.
“Just a year ago since I came to the South,” mused Elliott Harding, as
he walked back and forth in his room, the deep bay window of which
overlooked a lawn noticeably neat and having a representative character
of its own.
 As a rule, South country places in thickly settled regions are
pronounced unlovely at a glance, either by reason of the plainness of
their architecture or by the too close proximity of other buildings. Here
was an exception for the outhouses were numerous but in excellent
repair and red-tiled like the house itself. The tiles were silvered here and
there with the growth and stains of unremoved lichens. There was not an
eye-sore anywhere about this quiet home of Mr. Field.
Elliott’s intimates had expressed a pity for him. Surely this quiet
must dull his nerves so used to spurring, and he find the jog-trot of the
days’ monotony an insupportable experience. That Elliott belonged to
the world, loved it, none knew better than himself. He had revelled in its
delights with the indifferent thought, “Time enough for fireside
happiness by-and-by.” His interest in life had been little more than that
which a desire for achievement occasions in an energetic mind.
In spite of his past association, his past carelessness, this moment
found him going over the most trivial event that had the slightest
connection with Dorothy Carr. He tried to recall every word, every look
of hers. Often when he had had a particularly hard day’s work, it rested
him to stop and take supper with the Carrs. The sight of their home life
fascinated him. He had never known happy family life; he had little
conception of what a pure, genial home might be. The simple country
customs, the common interests so keenly shared, the home loyalty—all
these were new to him, and impressed him forcibly. And how like one of
them he had got to feel walking in the front hall often, hanging up his
hat, and reading the evening papers if the folks were out, and sometimes
when Aunt Chloe told him where Dorothy had gone, he felt the natural
inclination to go in pursuit of her. He remembered once finding her ankle
deep in the warm lush garden grasses, pulling weeds out from her
flowers, and he had actually got down and helped her. That was a very
happy hour; the freshness of the sweet air gave her unconventional garb
a genuine loveliness—gave him a sense of manliness and mastery which
he had not felt in the old life. How infinitely sweet she looked!
Something about her neatness, grace and order typified to him that
palladium of man’s honor and woman’s affection—the home. She
appealed to the heart and that appeal has no year, no period, no fashion.
Daylight was dying now; he looked longingly towards the gray
gables, the only indication of the Carr homestead. Afar beyond the range
of woodland the day’s great stirrup cup was growing fuller. Up from the
slow moving river came a breath of cool air, and beyond the landline
quivered the green of its willows. Dusk had fallen—the odorous dusk of
the Southland. In the distance somewhere sounds of sweet voices of the
negroes singing in the summer dark, their music mingling with the warm
wind under the stars. The night with its soft shadings held him—he
leaned long against the window and listened.
 CHAPTER XI.
“Whar’s dat bucket? Whar’s dat bucket? Here it is done sun up an’
my cows aint milked yit!”
Aunt Chloe floundered round in a hurry, peering among the butter
bowls and pans on the bench, in search of her milk bucket.
“I’se ransacked dis place an’ it kyant be paraded,” she said, placing
her hands on her ample hips to pant and wonder. Meanwhile she could
hear the impatient lowing of the cows and the hungry bleating of the
calves from their separate pens. Presently her thick lips broadened into a
knowing smile.
“Laws ter gracious! If Miss Dorothy aint kyard my las’ ling’rin
basket an’ bucket to dem cherry trees. She ’lowed to beat de birds dar.
Do she spec me to milk in my han’? I’m gwine down dar an’ git dat.”
Here she broke off with a second laugh, and with a natural affection
in the midst of her hilarity, which had its tender touch with it.
“I’se lyin’! I’d do nuthin’ ob de sort. If she’d wanted me ter climb
dem trees myself I’d done it even if I’d knowed I’d fall out and bust my
ole haid.”
Again Aunt Chloe looked about her for something which would do
service for a milkpail. Out in the sun stood the big cedar churn, just
where she had placed it the night before that it might catch the fresh
morning air and sunshine. At sight of it she looked relieved.
“Well! dis here doan leak, and aint milk got to go in it arter all?” So
shouldering the awkward substitute, she hurried to the “cup pen” with
the thought: “Lemme make ’aste an’ git thro’, I’se gwine ter he’p Miss
Dorothy put up dem brandy cherries.”
Down in the orchard Dorothy was picking cherries to fill the last
bucket whose loss had caused Aunt Chloe’s mind such vexation, and
whose substitute—the churn—was now causing her a vast deal more, as
the cow refused to recognize any new airs, and so moved away from its
vicinity as fast as she set it beside her.
 Presently Dorothy heard the sound of a horse’s tread, at the same
time a voice called out:
“Oh, little boy, is this the road to Georgetown?”
Elliott Harding had drawn in rein, and was looking up through the
leaves.
“How mean of you!” she stammered, her face flushing. “What made
you come this way?”
He only laughed, and did not dare admit that Aunt Chloe had been
the traitor, but got down, hitched his horse, and went nearer. Dorothy
was very lovely as she stood there in the gently swaying tree, one arm
holding to a big limb, while the other one was reaching out for a bunch
of cherries. Her white sunbonnet with its long streamers swayed over her
shoulders. Her plenteous hair, inclined to float, had come unplaited at the
ends and fell in shimmering gold waves about her blue gingham dress.
Nothing more fragrant with innocent beauty had Elliott ever seen, as her
lithe, slim arms let loose their hold to climb down. She was excited and
trembling as she put out her hands and took both his strong ones that he
might help her to the ground.
“I suppose it is tomboyish to climb trees,” she commenced, in a
confused sort of way. “But, the birds eat the cherries almost as fast as
they ripen, and I wanted to save some nice ones for your cocktails.”
A look of embarrassment had been deepening in Dorothy’s face. Her
voice sounded tearful, and looking at her he saw that her lips quivered
and her nostrils dilated, and at once comprehended that the frank
confession was prompted by embarrassment rather than gayety.
Remembering her diffidence at times with him, he quickly reassured her,
feeling brutal for having chaffed her.
“It is all right to climb if you wish,” he said. “I admire your spirit of
independence as well as your fearlessness. You are a wholesome-minded
girl; you will never be tempted to do anything unbecoming.”
As he stood idly tapping the leaves with his whip, a strange softening
came over him against which he strove. He wanted to find some excuse
to get on his horse and ride away without another word. He looked off
toward the path along which he had come. At the turn of it was Aunt
Chloe’s cabin, half hidden by a jungle of vines and stalks of great
sunflowers. Festoons of white and purple morning-glories ran over the
windows to the sapling porch around which a trellis of gourd vines
swung their long-necked, grotesque fruit. Flaming hollyhocks and other
bits of brilliant bloom gave evidence of the warm native taste that
distinguished the negro of the old regime. The sun flaring with blinding
brilliancy against the white-washed fence made him turn back to the
shade where he could see only Dorothy’s blue eyes, with just that
mingling of love and pain in them; the sweet mouth a little tremulous,
the color coming and going in the soft cheeks.
“And a cocktail with the cherry will be perfect.” He had almost
forgotten to take up the conversation where she had left off. “But your
dear labor has brought a questionable reward. You will remember the
cherry was the one thing lacking to make me yours?”
“Oh, yes!” her face lightening with a sudden recollection. “Now you
do belong to us.”
“If ‘us’ means you, I grant you that I have been fairly and squarely
won.”
Dropping his whip, Elliott leaned over and took Dorothy’s face
between his hands bringing it close to his own, their hearts and lips
together for one delicious moment.
“Dorothy, we belong to each other,” he said, gazing straight into her
eyes.
She had been beautiful to him always, but loveliest now with the
look of love thrilling her as he felt her tapering wrists close around his
neck.
“It seems as though I have loved you all my life, Elliott.”
“Oh, if in loving me, the sweetness of you, the youth, the happiness
should be wasted! Shall I always make you happy, I often ask myself. I
want to know this, Dorothy, for I hope to make you my wife.”
At the word “wife,” delicate vibrations glided through her, deepening
into pulsations that were all a wonder and a wild delight, throbbing with
the vigor of love and youth that drenched her soul with a rapturous sense.
“Oh, Elliott! Elliott! You are mine. All mine.”
 CHAPTER XII.
Happy weeks! Happy moons! uncounted days of uncounted joys! For
Elliott and Dorothy the summer passed away in blissful Arcadian
fashion. She was to him that most precious and sustaining of all good
influences—a woman gently wise and kindly sympathetic, an influence
such as weans men by the beauty of purity from committing grosser sins
and elevates them above low tastes and its objects by the exquisite
ineffable loftiness of soul, which is the noblest attribute of pure
womanhood.
There was a bond between these two, real eternal, independent of
themselves, made not by man, but God.
With the hope of sparing her father sorrow over the fact that another
shared her affection, Dorothy did not at first tell him of her engagement,
and Elliott was not unnaturally reticent about it, having so often heard
that Mr. Carr would feel it a heavy blow to have his daughter leave him
alone.
September was now well advanced and the equinoctial storms were
bold and bitter on the hills. Many trees succumbed to their violence,
broken branches filled the roads and tall tree trunks showed their
wounds. The long blue grass looked like the dishevelled fur of an animal
that had been rubbed the wrong way. There were many runnels and
washouts trending riverward in the loose soil. By the time the storm
showed signs of abating, considerable damage had been done. Many
barns, cabins and even houses were unroofed or blown down. Among
other victims of the wind was Mr. Field, inasmuch as the old homestead
which he had purchased of Elliott was one of the buildings wrecked.
It happened that the morning after the storm, Elliott was to drive into
town with Dorothy. As they passed along, they noted here and there the
havoc wrought. Finally, as they approached the old Harding place, they
saw that the fury of the storm had counted it among its playthings. Elliott
gazed lingeringly and sadly at the wreck. Then he stopped the horses and
helping Dorothy out of the vehicle he tied the team and together they
went up the pathway, looking often at each other in mute sorrow. She felt
that any words of consolation would be out of place while the first shock
lasted, so kept silent, letting her eyes tell of her sympathy. For a time
they stood and looked at the scene of devastation, the ruins covered with
abundant ivy that gleamed and trembled in the light of the sun. Then
Elliott said slowly:
“My father’s wish is now beyond the reach of possible denial. Nature
has destroyed it, just as he wished it should be done.”
Walking about, looking now at this, now at that remnant of the
wreck, he kept biting his lips to keep back the tears, but the sight was so
like looking upon a loved one dead, that he could not long keep them
back—hot tears came in a passionate gush, and he must allow himself
relief of them.
Business successes eventually rendered it possible for Elliott to
gratify his old ambition about the homestead and thinking that the time
for action had come the next day, when his uncle dropped into his office
to talk over the storm and its destroying of the old homestead, Elliott
suggested:
“Uncle Philip, I have a mind to buy that lot from you. Would you sell
it?”
“Why do you ask? Are you going to get married?”
“If I can ever get the father’s blessing of the woman I love, I am,”
was Elliott’s straightforward reply.
Mr. Field looked solemn. “I am afraid no man will ever get his
willing consent, if you refer to Mr. Carr,” he remarked.
“Well, never mind, that has no connection with this proposition. I
have long had a desire to do something to perpetuate my father’s
memory. Since fate has removed the house, I have an idea of erecting a
building and presenting it as an institution for the manual education of
colored children.”
The astonished look on Mr. Field’s face gave place to one of
admiration as Elliott proceeded and he quickly interrupted:
“My dear boy, I am glad to say I have anticipated you. The bank has
in its safe keeping a deed already made out in your name. The property
has always been and now is yours to do with as you please.”
“Uncle Philip, you overwhelm me with surprise and gratitude,”
exclaimed Elliott grasping the old man’s hand firmly in his. “You are too
good to me.”
Mr. Field rested his face in his hand and regarded his nephew with all
the fondness of a parent. After a pause, Elliott continued:
“Since you have so greatly aided me by giving me such a generous
start, I will myself erect the building, but together we will make the gift
of it in my father’s name, and call it the ‘Richard Harding Institute.’”
Mr. Field showed the warmth of his appreciation by grasping his
nephew’s hand, and together they discussed at length the plan of the
buildings.
 CHAPTER XIII.
As Elliott drove briskly home that evening, hope pointed
enthusiastically forward. The two ambitions he was about to realize had
long been interwoven with the whole tenor of his existence. The
possibility of making a fitting memorial to his father’s name had been
unexpectedly brought about, and following close upon this good luck
came the gratifying news that the book he had been so long at work upon
had been favorably received by the publishers, who were assured not
only of its literary merit, but of its commercial value as well, since it
dealt with the popular side of the lynching evil, as viewed by the outer
world. His subject was at the time attracting so much attention and
causing so many heated discussions, that he had hardly dared to hope
that his first attempt in serious literature would meet with the success of
acceptance.
When he got home he found his uncle looking over the manuscript
which had been returned to him for final review and quietly took a seat
beside him to listen to his comments while awaiting the supper hour.
Mr. Field laid the papers on his knee.
“This is very good, as a story. I can truthfully say that I am more than
pleased with it from a literary standpoint. But that alone is no reason for
publishing. This haste to rush into print is one of the bad signs of the
times. Your views as herein expressed are more pardonable than
reasonable, for they are your inheritance rather than your fault.”
“I have been conscientious, am I to blame for that?”
“Who is to blame?” asked his uncle. “First, your mother had
something to do with the forming of your opinions. She had the training
of your mind at that critical age when the bend of the twig forms the
shape of the tree, and no doubt the society in which you have been
thrown has helped to make you an agitator.”
“Society must then take the consequences of its own handiwork. As
for my mother, I will say in her defense, that if her teachings were not
always the best, she aimed toward what she considered a high ideal.”
 Mr. Field knew there was a deep sincerity, an almost fanatical
earnestness in his nephew, and he respected him none the less for it. He
was at that critical season of life in which the mind of man is made up in
nearly equal proportions of depth and simplicity.
“I see your convictions are real, yet I strongly advise you to give
more time to the matter and make further investigation before you give
your views to the world.”
“The more I search, the more I find that condemns lynching.” Elliott
spoke in a deferential tone, for despite his own strong convictions, the
soundness of his uncle’s views on other matters made him respect his
opinion of this.
“I wish you would give over reading those unprincipled authors, my
boy, whose aim is to excite the evil passions of the multitude; and shut
your ears to the extravagant statements of people who make tools of
enthusiastic and imaginative minds to further their own selfish ends. An
intelligent conservatism is one of the needs of the day.”
“I am profoundly sorry that my work is so objectionable to you. My
publishers tell me it is worth printing, and as evidence of their assurance,
they offer me a good round sum, besides a royalty.”
“I grant the probabilities of the book being a pecuniary success, but
there are other considerations. You must recollect that all your prospects
are centered in the South, and now the affections of your heart bind you
here; therefore you should give up all this bitter feeling against us. As
you know more of this race, you will find that it is by no means as ill
used as you are taught to believe. I advise you most earnestly, as you
value your future here, to suppress this book, which would do the South
a great injury and yourself little credit.”
Mr. Field leaned wearily back on the high armchair. He had swayed
Elliott in some things, but it was clear that in one direction one would
always be opposed to that which the other advocated. They could never
agree, nor even affect a compromise. The nephew was grieved, yet his
purpose was fixed, and he fed on the hope of one day winning
reconciliation through fame if not conviction, and in reuniting the sister
and brother in the mutual pride of his success.
With half a sigh Elliott began rearranging the pages, when a finely
written line in an obscure corner of one page caught his eye. Holding it
toward the light he read:
 “Are you my country’s foe, and therefore mine?”
At her urgent request, he had allowed Dorothy to read the
manuscript, and had been happy in the thought that she had returned it
into his own hands without a word of criticism. As he read this question,
he felt and appreciated both her love for him and her loyalty to her
people. And, while she had not openly condemned his work, he knew he
had not her approval of its sentiment. He felt a growing knowledge that
any success, no matter its magnitude, would be hollow unless she shared
his rejoicings.
As soon as the quiet meal was done, he set out for the Carr’s.
Twilight was well advanced. A white frost was on the stubble fields and
the stacked corn and the crimson and russet foliage of the woodside had
the moist look of colors on a painter’s palette.
At the window, Dorothy stood and watched her sweetheart come.
The same constancy shone in her gentle face for him as ever and her
greeting was as warm as his fondest anticipations could have pictured.
“Have I displeased you? You do not share a pride in my work,
Dorothy?”
“Since you guess it,” she answered, “I may be spared the pain of
confessing.”
Elliott was silent for a time, but his expression showed the deep
disappointment he felt.
At length in an undertone, he said:
“Don’t reproach me. Of course you have not felt this as I feel it,
being so differently situated and looking at it from another point of
view.”
Seeing that he paused for her answer, Dorothy replied: “I have
considered all this. But do you not see what a reflection your clever plot
is upon us, or what a gross injustice it will do the South?”
“Cold facts may sound harsh, but you will be all the better for your
chastening. The South will advance under it.”
“I wish I could believe it; the chances are all against us. Why did you
ever want to take such a risk?” and the air of the little, slender,
determined maiden marked the uncompromising rebel.
 Elliott deliberately arose. His face was earnest and full of a strange
power.
“It hurts me to displease you, Dorothy, but I must direct my own will
and conscience. To hold your respect and my own, I must be a man,—
not a compromise.”
There was such lofty sentiment in that calm utterance from his heart
that Dorothy, acknowledging the strength of it, could not resist the
impulse of admiring compassion and stifling any lingering feeling of
resentment, she quietly laid her hand on his and looked into his face with
eyes that Fate must have purposed to be wells of comfort to a grieving
mind. At her touch Elliott started, looked down and met her soothing
gaze.
“If it were not for our mistakes, failures and disappointments, the
love we bear our treasures would soon perish for lack of sustenance. It is
the failures in life that make one gentle and forgiving with the weak and
I almost believe it is the failures of others that mostly endear them to us.
Do what you may, let it bring what it will, all my love and sanction goes
with it,” she said softly.
 CHAPTER XIV.
October days! The sumacs drabbled in the summer’s blood flaunt
boldly, and green, gold and purple shades entrance the eye. The mullein
stands upon the brown land a lonely sentinel. The thistle-down floats
ghost-like through the haze, and silvery disks of a spider’s web swing
twixt the cornrows.
Sunday. Elliott remained at home until late in the afternoon. While he
feared the result, he still held to his fixed resolve to go that day and
definitely ascertain what was to come of his love for Dorothy. He said to
Mr. Field, as he started off, “I shall not be back to supper—I am going to
see Mr. Carr.” His voice was hopeful and his face wore a smile.
His nephew’s assumed hopefulness had long been more painful to
Mr. Field than this despondency he sought to cover by it. It was so unlike
hopefulness, had in it something so fierce in its determination—was so
hungry and eager, and yet carried such a consciousness of being forced,
that it had long touched his heart.
Dorothy knew the object of this call, and when her father came into
the parlor she withdrew, full of sweet alarm, and left the two together. A
tender glance, a soft rustling of pretty garments, and Elliott knew that he
and her father were alone. He had scarcely taken his chair, when he
began:
“Mr. Carr, I have come upon the most sacred and important duty of
my life.”
“Draw your chair closer, I cannot see you well,” said Mr. Carr. “I am
growing old and my sight is failing me.” And the way his voice faded
into silence was typical of what he had said.
Elliott obeying his request, continued:
“I have had the honor of being received in this house for some time
—nearly two years now, and I hope the topic on which I am about to
speak will not surprise you.”
“Is it about Dorothy?”
 “It is. You evidently anticipate what I would say, though you cannot
realize my hopes and fears. I love her truly, Mr. Carr, and I want to make
her my wife.”
“I knew it would come. But why not a little later?” he said,
pathetically.
It was so like a cry of pain, this appeal, that it made Elliott’s heart
ache and hushed him into silence. After a little, Mr. Carr said, solemnly:
“Go on!”
“I know, after seeing you together from day to day, that between you
and her there is an affection so strong, so closely allied to the
circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it has few parallels. I
know that mingled with the love and duty of a daughter who has become
a woman, there is yet in her heart all the love and reliance of childhood
itself. When she is clinging to you the reliance of baby, girl and woman
in one is upon you. All this I have known since first I met you in your
home life.”
With an air of perfect patience the old man remained mute, keeping
his eyes cast down as though, in his habit of passive endurance, it was all
one to him if it never came his turn to speak.
“Feeling that,” Elliott went on, “I have waited as long as it is in the
nature of man to do. I have felt, and even now feel, that perhaps to
interpose my love between you and her is to touch this hallowed
association with something not so good as itself, but my life is empty
without her, and I must know now if you will entrust her to my care.”
The old man’s breathing was a little quickened as he asked,
mournfully: “How could I do without her? What would become of me?”
“Do without her?” Elliott repeated. “I do not mean to stand between
you two—to separate you. I only seek to share with her her love for you,
and to be as faithful always as she has been; to add to hers a son’s
affection and care. I have no other thought in my heart but to double with
Dorothy her privileges as your child, companion, friend. If I harbored
any thought of separating her from you, I could not now touch this
honored hand.” He laid his own upon the wrinkled one as he spoke.
Answering the touch for an instant only, but not coldly, Mr. Carr
lifted his eyes with one grave look at Elliott, then gazed anxiously
toward the door. These last words seemed to awaken his subdued lips.
 “You speak so manfully, Mr. Harding, that I feel I must treat your
confidence and sincerity in the same spirit.”
“With all my heart I thank you, Mr. Carr, for I well understand that
without you I have no hope. She, I feel sure, would not give it, nor would
I ask her hand without your consent.”
The old man spoke out plainly now.
“I am not much longer for this world, I think, for I am very feeble,
and of all the living and dead world, this one soul—my child—is left to
me. The tie between us is the only one that now remains unbroken,
therefore you cannot be surprised that its breaking would crowd all my
suffering into the one act. But I believe you to be a good man. I believe
your object to be purely and truthfully what you have stated, and as a
proof of my belief, I will give her to you—with my blessing,” and
extending his hand, he allowed Elliott to grasp it warmly.
“God bless you for this, Mr. Carr,” was all that he could say.