Chapter VII: Book TWO: In Which Cricket Takes the Road to Manhood and Meets with (3)

When we started for Rushwater there were at least a score of the friends and schoolmates of my sister who went to the station for a last word with us. There was not a prettier miss in the north country than that very sister of mine--save Jo, the incomparable Jo!

The hand-made gentleman met us at the depot in Rushwater, and drove us to our new home with a fine coach and pair.

“What a change!” said my sister, when he had left us for the night. “He has grown positively handsome and is a real gentleman.”

Success and observation and right thinking, above all, had distinguished the man--James Henry McCarthy. Something--was it the tireless upreach of his thought?--had straightened his figure and raised his chin a little, and covered him with a strong, calm dignity, as with a robe of higher office, and tuned his voice for new appeals, so that even I was surprised and got a little touch of awe, and felt my smallness when I took his hand. I spoke of these things and of my feeling.

“Well,” said my mother, “the only real gentleman is 'hand-made,' as he puts it. After all, one cannot inherit much of that. One has to begin, soon or late, and build slowly and patiently, putting one stone on another, just as Mr. McCarthy has done.”