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GETTING INSIDE JAVA -
EGINNERS GUIDE

BY

F5 DEVELOPERS
ISBN 978-93-5438-645-9

© F5 Developers 2020

Published in India 2020 by Pencil

A brand of

One Point Six Technologies Pvt. Ltd.

123, Building J2, Shram Seva Premises,

Wadala Truck Terminal, Wadala (E)

Mumbai 400037, Maharashtra, INDIA

E connect@thepencilapp.com

W www.thepencilapp.com

All rights reserved worldwide

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or
introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form,
or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of
the Publisher. Any person who commits an unauthorized act in
relation to this publication can be liable to criminal prosecution
and civil claims for damages.

DISCLAIMER: The opinions expressed in this book are those of the

authors and do not purport to reflect the views of the
 Author biography

Destiny drew Prem Kumar towards computers when the IT

industry was just making a big evolution in India. Having
completed his education from Silli Polytechnic in Computer
Science Engineering. He moved on with his higher studies
from Gandhi Institute for Technology, Bhubaneshwar.

Prem has a passion for exploring IT knowledge and is founder

of well-growing, a startup company "F5 Developers". He is a
much sought after speaker on various technology subjects and
is a regular columnist for Open Source and OSE Hub. His
current affiliations include being a Founder of F5 Developers, a
multi-service provider company including the subsidiary
companies of F5, i.e, THOR, F5 Initiative and OSE Hub. In
recognition to his contribution Microsoft awarded him the
prestigious “Microsoft Technology Associate” award in 2019 for
Java Programming. He can be reached at
 Contents

Module I – Introduction to Java Programming

Java – An Overview

History of Java

Features of Java

Getting Started with Java

Module II – JDK, JRE and JVM

Difference between JDK, JRE and JVM

JVM Architecture

Variables, Data Types, Operators

Module III – OOPs using Java

Concept of OOPs

Classes and Objects

Inheritence

Polymorphism

Encapsulation

Abstraction

Methods and Constructors

Module IV – Multithreading

Overview of Multithreading

Lifecycle and States of a Thread

Main Thread
Thread Priority

Garbage Collection

Module V – Java Misc.

Java Applets

Exception Handling
 Epigraph

“Simplicity does not precede complexity, but follows it.

Prem Kumar
 Acknowledgements

It is a journey of almost a new beginning with the stage the

book idea of “Getting Inside Java – Beginners Guide” is
conceived up to the release of its First Edition. During this
journey I have met so many students, developers, professors,
publishers and authors who expressed their opinions about
Java. They have been the main motivators in my effort to
complete this book. In particular I am indebted to Miss Priya
who had a faith in this book idea, believed in my writing
ability, whispered the words of encouragement and made
helpful suggestions from time to time. I indebted to God for
having such supporting parents, without them I was unable to
gain a bit of knowledge. With this, I would like to thank my
father, Dr. Rajan Mahto and my mother, Mrs. Manju Devi for
making me such able.

During this course people like R.K.Raja, Mohit Kumar, Rohit

Kumar, and Priya helped in writing programs, spotting bugs,
drawing figures and preparing index. I trust that with their
collective acumen all the programs would run correctly in all
situations. I would like to thanks to all the members of F5
Developers, my startup company. I am hopeful that their
dream has been realized. I thank Priya, my friend, for her
friendship and for her contributions in everything that I do in
IT in ways more than she could ever guess. Though she is a
CSE Alumni by profession she has the uncanny ability to come
up with suggestions that make me feel “Oh, why didn’t it
occur to me”. And finally my heartfelt gratitude to the
countless students who made me look into every nook and
cranny of Java. I would forever remain indebted to them.
 Introduction

This textbook was written with two primary objectives. The first
is to introduce the Java programming language. Java is a
practical and still-current software tool; it remains one of the
most popular programming languages in existence, particularly
in areas such as embedded systems. Java facilitates writing
code that is very efficient and powerful and, given the ubiquity
of Java compilers, can be easily ported to many different
platforms. Also, there is an enormous code-base of Java
programs developed, and many systems that will need to be
maintained and extended for many years to come. The second
key objective is to introduce the basic concepts of OOPs. At
one-level this is Java-specific: to learn to design, code and
debug complete Java programs. At another level, it is more
general: to learn the necessary skills to design large and
complex OOP systems. This involves learning to decompose
large problems into manageable systems of modules; to use
modularity and clean interfaces to design for correctness, clarity
and flexibility.
 Module I
Introduction to Java Programming
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 She smoothed down her disordered garments, and dusted off
her grimy palms, before venturing to search, in the darkness, for the
bell. She found it readily enough, but it was some time before she
heard the chain-bolt withdrawn from within, a key turned in a
resisting lock, a door unlatched. Then, the door swung open inward,
on its heavy hinges, and Martha found herself face to face with what
she described next day to Cora as, "the livin' image o' that marble
statute in the Metropolitan Museum, down home. The girl in the
flowin' robes, holdin' a queer-lookin' thing, which its own mother
wouldn't reco'nize it for a lamp, in her hand. You told me her name.
Sykey, you said it was, though not spelled that way on the slob she
stood on, I noticed. But, I take your word for it. Well, if this young
lady wasn't just like Sykey, lamp an' all! You'd never know the
difference, exceptin' for complexion."
"I'm Mrs. Slawson," Martha announced at once. "You told my
boy, Sammy, you'd like him run for a doctor."
Sykey paused a moment, bewildered. "Oh, yes. This afternoon.
I remember, now. I thought he had forgotten." She spoke in the
subdued voice one uses when there is sickness in the house.
"No, he didn't forget. My husband is fetchin' the doctor. But I
come on ahead to see if I couldn't help out some, in between times.
My husband an' me is superintendent for Mr. Frank Ronald, two
miles or so down the main road. You know'm prob'ly."
The girl nodded. "My grandmother was taken sick at about four,
this afternoon. She seems stiff on one side. She can't move her arm,
or her leg, and when she talks it sounds as if her tongue were thick.
I got her to bed as well as I could, and I haven't dared leave her
since for more than a minute at a time. We've no telephone. This
little branch road is out of the line of general travel, and we've no
one to send on errands. I've sat at the window all the afternoon,
hoping a team would pass, but nobody went by but your little boy. I
thought I saw you come in a while ago, and I hurried down to the
door, to let you in. But when you were nowhere to be seen, I gave
up in despair. I thought my last chance was gone. I'd have to spend
the night alone with grandmother, and——"
"The door? Ain't this the right door to come in by?" queried
Martha.
There was a moment of hesitation before the answer came.
"Oh, yes. It's the right door for carriages. People afoot generally
prefer the front way—on account of the veranda-steps, you know."
Martha gazed at her companion a moment in silence, then
quietly doubled over, in a fit of irrepressible merriment.
"If you'd just as lief, I'd prefer you wouldn't tell Sammy, I mean
Mr. Slawson," she said, when she could enunciate. "He'd never get
over my thinkin' I'm carriage-comp'ny. An' he'd kill himself laughin'
at the sight o' me, climbin', hands an' knees, up your high stoop-
with-no-steps, which the back view, lookin' at me from behind,
certaintly musta been funny. But I've no business detainin' you away
from your gran'ma. D'you think she'd think me pushin', if I give her a
hot bath, an' a brisk alcohol rub? Sam may not get the doctor right
off, an' a bath an' a alcohol rub is as good as anythin' I know of for a
str—for a——"
Katherine Crewe searched her face. "For a what?" she
demanded uncompromisingly.
"A poor circulation," Martha returned imperturbably.
 "I've no alcohol. There's no running water in the house. I let the
fire in the kitchen range go out hours ago."
"Never you mind about that. I got some alcohol by me, an' if
you show me the kitchen range, I'll show you a fire in it, all right, all
right."
"I don't know how it is," sighed Miss Crewe, leading the way
through dark passages, past shadowy doors, "but, somehow, a great
load seems lifted off my heart, now you're here. I've never seen you
before, but I feel you're able to set everything right."
"You go on feelin' that way. It'll help me no end with the settin'.
An', now, don't you wait here. You run on up to the ol' lady, an' I'll
be along presently. I'm used to kitchens. I can find all I need in'm,
an' when I got the hot water, I can find my way out."
"I'm afraid you'll think the floor isn't very clean," the girl
observed regretfully, pausing, with her hand upon the doorknob, to
gaze back dubiously. "I suppose it needs a long-handled scrubbing-
brush, and——"
By the light of the lamp Miss Crewe left behind her when she
went, Martha made a quick survey of the premises. "'A long-handled
scrubbing-brush,'" she quoted quizzically. "A long-handled Irish
woman, more likely. My, but it's a caution, if you turn up your nose
at work, how the dirt will gather under it. It's like to take me all
night to make a impression on this place. The grate chock-full o'
clinkers, an' the kettles—say, but I didn't say I'd give the ol' lady a
hot mud-bath."
For a few moments the kitchen resounded with thunderous
echoes to the vigorous efforts of Mrs. Slawson toward
reconstruction. Then followed other sounds, those of crackling wood,
igniting coals, bubbling water, escaping steam. In the midst of it all,
Sykey appeared in the doorway.
"Oh, Mrs. Slawson," she deplored, before she had fairly crossed
the threshold. "I'm afraid it's no use. Grandmother won't have it. I
told her about your coming and offering to help, and—she won't
have it."
Martha nodded reassuringly. "Well, we won't worry her talkin'
about it, an' we won't worry our-selves thinkin' about it. Have you
gotta bath-tub handy?"
"Yes, but——"
"Plenty o' towels—bath-towels? The fuzzy-wuzzy, warm kind
which they call'm Turkish or Russian, I don't know which, but that
gets up a gentle irritation when applied, just like some folks."
The girl nodded.
"Then, the best thing you can do is, get'm ready. It'll keep your
mind off'n her not bein' willin'. We want everything laid out handy,
so's we won't have to go on a still-hunt the last minute. I got plenty
o' water, steamin' hot. If you'll go along up, an' kinda perpare for the
worst, I'll folla along presently, an'—we'll have it."
A single shaded lamp left the great bedroom in partial shadow,
but as Martha approached the majestic four-poster, about five
minutes later, she made out the figure of a diminutive old woman,
stretched full length beneath the spare coverings. There could be
nothing formidable in such a tiny figure. It was only when Mrs.
Slawson looked down upon the face, that she met a pair of eyes that
fairly held her at bay.
"I'm Mrs. Sammy Slawson," she announced, a shade less
confidently than usual. "I live down the road a ways—superintendent
for Mr. Frank Ronald, me an' my husband is."
The little body on the bed might be half dead, but the great
eyes were fiercely alive. They measured Mrs. Sammy Slawson from
head to foot, with a stare of icy insolence.
Martha did not quail. She met the stare with a perfectly
unflinching gaze, then went on talking as she worked, as calmly as if
she were not being challenged in mortal combat.
"I s'pose you don't like the idea of a trained nurse? Many don't.
I ain't trained, but I'm a nurse all right, all right, an' if not one of the
red, cross kind, why that's only because, as I tell Sammy, I had so
much exper'ence with Ma an' the childern that, be this an' be that, I
learned to keep my shirt on, an' not fly out, when tried. Folks that's
ailin' has enough bother on their chests, without havin' to be
pationate, into the bargain. It's up to them that's tendin'm, to do the
pationate ack. Now, take me, for instance. You couldn't ruffle me, if
you took a flutin'-iron to me. That's what come o' bein' sixteen years
married, with a mother-in-law threw in, for good measure. It learns
you to keep your temper. You might need it for the nex' time. I don't
blame you a mite if you feel like bitin' the head off a tenpenny nail.
To have your circulation go back on you, like, is a kind of nuisance,
no doubt about it. But, sakes alive! It might happen to anybody, as
Ma always says when she breaks things she hadn't oughta touched,
in the first place. The best thing I know of, for poor circulation, is a
hot bath, an' a alcohol rub—just for a starter. I got plenty o' hot
water handy, an'—now don't you stir, nor bother your head worryin'
about givin' your gran'daughter an' I trouble! We got the bath-tub all
ready, an' yes—them towels is just the right things! Couldn't be
better! An'—here goes!"
 Martha averted her face, as she bent over the helpless form, to
escape the furiously battling eyes. She felt as mean as if she had
been taking base advantage of a defenseless creature to do it harm,
instead of good; but, in spite of this, and in spite of the inarticulate
sounds that came from between the twisted lips at the touch of her
hands, she gently lifted the old woman in her strong arms, stripped
her, as she would a baby, and put her in the tub.
Tears of helpless rage oozed from between the closed lids, but
Mrs. Slawson pretended not to see. She kept up a cheerful babble,
what time her poor little antagonist simmered, and again during all
the time her firm, strong fingers were plying away at the nerveless
flesh.
"Don't you try to lug that heavy tub, Miss Crewe, dear. Wait till I
can lay hand to it. If you must be doin' somethin', s'pose you
smooth down the sheets, an' see there's no crumbs in the bed.
There's nothin' like crumbs in the bed for keepin' you from feelin'
lonesome, but I guess your gran'ma willa had enough comp'ny, by
the time she gets rid o' me. Poor ol' lady! I been like a grain o' sand
in her eye, which it don't help her none, to say I'm sorry.

"'Little drops o' water, little grains o' sand.'

"Guess she'll think she's had her dose o' both, to-night, all right.
Say! Hark! Is that a auta-horn? Sounds like Sammy's."
"Then he's brought Dr. Driggs!" Kate Crewe cried joyously.
"Well, you can take it from me he's brought Dr. Somethin'. It
mayn't be Dr. Driggs, but Sammy wouldn't have the face to come to
me, 'less he'd got somethin', that'd, at least, pass for what I sent'm
out for," observed Mrs. Slawson suavely.
 As it happened, it was not Dr. Driggs whom Sam had brought.
Kate Crewe, going to the door to admit them, saw, even in the dark,
that neither of the men before her was of the familiar build of the
old physician she knew so well. But there was no time for regret,
and, after a few brief words of self-introduction, she led the way
upstairs.
Meanwhile, Martha had made what she called "a fist" at clearing
away all traces of her recent ministrations, so, when the doctor
appeared, he found an orderly room, from which she quietly slipped
as he entered.
Downstairs she found Sam.
"You see, Dr. Driggs was off somewheres, up the mountain, and
no one could find him," he explained. "I couldn't make out to get
him, the best I could do. Then I asked wasn't there some other
doctor in the place, but short of Burbank, twenty-five miles off, there
wasn't. Dr. Driggs has all the practice 'round these parts. Then, all at
once, somebody happened to think of a young fellow from Boston,
here for his health—same as I, I guess. He's a M.D. all right—laid up
for repairs, as you might say. He's boarding at the Fred Trenholm's.
A wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse, and off I went to Milby's
Corners. At first, Dr. Ballard—that's his name—said he didn't know
about coming. But, after a bit, he decided he would. He's a fine,
outstepping young gentleman, as ever you saw. You'd never think
his lung had a spot in it, more's the pity."
"Neither would you think yours has," Martha rejoined simply.
Sam searched her face for a moment. "Say, you're not worrying
about me, are you, mother?" he put to her gently.
 Mrs. Slawson turned to fill her scrubbing pail with hot water
from one of the kettles on the stove.
"Worryin' about you? Sure I'm not. What'd I be worryin' about
you for? You're chesty enough, ain't you, goodness knows. An' your
cough has almost went. I like sleepin' outdoors nights. The wide,
wide world ain't too big a bedroom for me. An' this air certaintly is
more healthy for the childern, than down home—I should say, New
York."
"Only—you kind of miss the old town, eh, mother?"
Martha scrubbed away in silence for a moment. "Well, not as
you might say miss. Certaintly not. But I guess I'd find it hard work
to live in any place else, so long as I lived in New York (havin' been
born there), an', that bein' the case, a body thinks back to it oncet in
a while—which, of course, thinkin' is by no means missin'."
Sam considered. "How'd you like to take a day off, and go down
with me, after Mr. Ronald gets back? There's some things he wants
me to see about, I'll have to look into myself in the city, and you
might as well come along. We'll leave the children with Ma, and just
go off on a spree—us two."
Martha sat back on her heels, and looked up at her husband out
of a face that glowed.
"Say, Sam, could we? Somehow, it don't seem as if we could.
We two never been alone any time, since we begun keepin' comp'ny.
Firstoff, there was Gilroy! He wouldn't believe I perferred you to him,
till the marriage-lines was ackchelly read over our heads. He was
always hangin' 'round. Then, there was Ma, an' then come the
childern. So, take it all in all, we certaintly been, what Mrs. Sherman
'd call, 'carefully chaperoned.' Are you sure it'd be proper, the two of
us goin' off alone, like that?"
Sam grinned.
"Let's us go," said Martha. "It'll be like the weddin'-tour we
didn't have, when we was married."
Again Sam smiled. "Sure we'll go. You fairly earned a day off,
mother. All these sixteen years, working like Sam Hill, and never a
grouch out of you. Yes, we'll go—and, I tell you what's more, we'll
spend some. We'll just let go for once, and spend some, on
something we don't have to. I haven't made out to do as well by you
as Peter Gilroy would, Martha. He used to say, if you'd marry him,
he'd put velvet under your feet. It's been more than I could do,
sometimes, to put good shoe-leather."
"Well, I never been Little Barefoot, yet, have I?" inquired Martha
blandly.
Sam shook his head. "Since we been up here, we made out to
save a bit and, by this and by that, we got more coming to us. We
never could seem to fix things, before, so's we could lay by. Couldn't
square the bills, and save, but——"
"It's a kinda stunt to square your bills, an' lay by when, every
week, nothin's comin' in."
"Sure," said Sam.
Martha meditated in silence for a moment. "If Cora knew what's
goin' on inside me this minute, it'd be my finish in the bossin'
business, so far as she's concerned. She's almost got to the place,
now, where she feels she could give Moses points on the Fifth
Commandment. She's pretty near caught on to the little game that
parents is a grand bluff, an you're wastin' time to bother with their
figaries. But she'd do it sure, if she knew how I feel at present—just
as much of a silly kid as her."
Sam's satisfaction broadened. "Good work!" said he.
"An' talkin' o' work," his wife took him up quickly, in an altered
tone, "we better get busy on ours, or we won't be done this side o'
mornin'. You get a move on, Sammy, an' bring in a good stock o'
wood, out o' the shed there. An' when you got that done, we'll talk
about coal from the cella."
"What's the matter with the old lady hiring her own help?"
inquired Sam practically. "She's got money to burn, hasn't she?"
"Sure. But, she don't burn it. It's to keep the young lady from a
wintry chill, I'm lendin' a hand. An' if it comes to that, a body as
close as ol' lady Crewe, you'd have to feel sorry for her, on her own
account. She must be cold comfort to herself, with a heart like that
inside her. Them kind, that's so wrapped up in their money, some
part of'm's bound to go bare. A thing like money won't reach all the
way 'round a human creature, not by a long sight, an' you can't
make it. Them kind needs help in their nakedness, as much, an'
more, than the rest of us."
Sam making no attempt to dispute it, the two worked on in
silence, until they were interrupted by the abrupt opening of the
door.
"Mrs. Slawson!"
Martha raised herself slowly from her kneeling posture, at sound
of Katherine Crewe's cry of appeal.
"The ol' lady—she ain't—worse?"
"Not worse, but—unmanageable. She won't let Dr. Ballard go
near her. We can't do a thing with her. Won't you, please, come up
and try what you can do. You made her mind about the bath, you
know."
Martha rinsed off her soapy wrists with soapier hands in a
gesture, as of one preparing for the fray. "Now, what do you think o'
that!" she observed calmly. "The size of her! No bigger than a
minute, an' gettin' the best of a able-bodied pair, like you an' that
fine-appearin' young gen'lman upstairs. Don't it beat all?"
Katherine did not stop long enough to admit that it did, but
hurried on ahead, leaving Mrs. Slawson to follow closely in the rear,
pausing outside the sick-chamber door, where the doctor stood like a
sentinel on guard. Martha passed them both without a word,
entered the room, and made directly for the bed. She slid a gentle
arm beneath the narrow old shoulders, drew out the pillow, and
replaced it, shaken into more comfortable shape.
"There! That's a whole lot better, ain't it?" she inquired amiably.
No answer. The old woman glared up at her hostilely, but it was
noticeable that the worst fire had been drawn from the angry eyes.
Martha picked a thread from the carpet, and, winding it neatly
about her forefinger, put the tiny coil into her apron pocket.
Presently she plunged an exploring hand beneath the bed-covering.
"Say, them hot-water bags ain't been a mite o' good to you.
Your feet's like two lumps o' ice. They extend clear up to your knees.
Did the doctor know, before he went, you had cold feet like that?"
No answer.
"He can't be much of a doctor, an' no mistake, to go off, an'
leave a patient with such a chill on 'er, so even arthurficial heat
couldn't get in its fine work. I'm surprised! My husband was the one
brought'm here, I must confess. He couldn't do no better, I guess.
Dr. Driggs wasn't home, an' poor Sam took what he could get. When
nothin's left, the king can't choose. But wouldn't you think any fella
that called himself a doctor would know enough not to leave a lady,
so the ones about her wouldn't know how to handle her case, an'
she'd get worse by the minute, so to speak, for want of a stitch in
time, that'd save her nine—meanin' doctors from the city, per'aps,
an' trained nurses, night an' day, so the expense alone would kill her,
not to mention other complercations. I call it a shame!"
It was not impossible for a shrewd observer to follow the mental
processes of the active old brain, for they were clearly enough
revealed in the passionate, too-expressive eyes.
Mrs. Slawson, appearing to notice nothing, bided her time,
while, little by little, her "ol' lady" betrayed herself, in all her mean
guises of misanthropic distrust, growing self-doubt, and, last—
overwhelming all—susceptibility to the suggestion of fear, response
to the stimulus of—money.
"Call—that—man!"
The words were rapped out with the brevity and precision of a
military command.
"Eh?" said Martha, appearing to rouse from a spell of complete
inattention.
"Call—that—doctor!"
Mrs. Slawson moved her massive frame slowly in the direction
of the door.
"Miss Katherine! Miss Katherine!" she shouted past the two
silent figures, just outside the threshold, "Say, Miss Katherine! Are
you downstairs? Yes? The doctor gone yet? Say, hurry! Get Sam to
go after'm, an' see can he call'm back! Your gran'ma wants'm!"
 CHAPTER III

Katherine Crewe awoke next morning to find Mrs. Slawson standing

by her bedside, bearing a breakfast tray.
"It's earlier than I'd 'a' chose to disturb you," Martha explained
apologetically, "but I gotta go home an' feed my fam'ly, an' see the
raft o' them gets a good start for the day."
"But you haven't had any rest! You made me go to bed, but you
must have sat up all night." The girl spoke with compunction,
looking regretfully at Mrs. Slawson's heavy eyes.
"Me? Now, don't you worry your head about me," Martha
returned, as she placed the tray in a convenient position, and
arranged the pillows back of Miss Crewe, so they gave her
comfortable support. "I got along all right. An' your gran'ma slep'
fine. I went parolin' 'round, every oncet in a while, to see if she'd
need anythin', an' each time she was breathin' as peaceful as a
baby. You'll think I'm awful, but whenever I remember las' night, an'
me carryin' things with a high hand against her will, I almost kill
myself laughin'. Poor ol' lady! the way she looked at me! It was like
a song they learn the childern to sing, down home—I should say
New York, in the high school Cora went to.
"'Drink to me only with thine eyes——,' whatever that means.
With your gran'ma it was, Cuss at me only with thine eyes. She
didn't open her head to say a word, but what she meant was plain
as preachin'—only not quite so pious."
 Miss Crewe bit her lip to keep from smiling. "You've been very
kind to us, Mrs. Slawson. I don't know how to thank you," she said.
When Martha had gone the girl rose, hurriedly bathed and
dressed, then made her way to her grandmother. She did not know
much about nursing, but she knew she must not carry a long face
into a sick-room, and the question was, how to help it. Her heart
was very heavy. Ever since the attack yesterday afternoon, her mind
had been going over and over what this sickness was bound to
entail. Things had been hard enough before, but she saw how this
might add intolerable burdens, and, in the face of it, she must look
cheerful, give no sign of the discouragement she felt.
That was the way it was with everything in her life, she
brooded. She was continually under some sort of crushing necessity
to hold in, and hold back. She had never been free, as most girls of
her age are, and there seemed no prospect that she ever would be.
On the contrary, there was every likelihood she would be more and
more confined and restricted, as the years went on, if, as the doctor
had said, this was but the beginning of the end. The future looked
desperately black. As for the past, she could remember a time, away
back, when she was a little girl, when things had been very different.
A child's mind does not measure and weigh according to scale,
and Katherine could not fix the precise degree of her mother's grace,
her father's dashing beauty, the luxury of the home in which they, all
three, lived. But she had more than her memory to rely upon. There
were likenesses, there were relics, there were the continual jibes of
her grandmother through recent years, to the effect that she "had
been brought up like a fool; it was time she learned better."
 At her mother's death, her father had carried her to his parents'
home. Looking back, she had no sense of having suffered surprise or
disappointment by the change. The new home must have compared
favorably with the old. She could remember her grandfather's table
—a most formidable function, to which she was conducted, at
dessert, by a nervous nurse, "afraid of her life there'll be a to-do if
you don't look right, an' hold up your head, an' speak out when
you're spoken to, Miss Kath'rine."
Her father's sudden death had made no change in outward
conditions. It was when her grandfather passed away that there was
a difference. Then, suddenly, she seemed to wake one morning to a
realization of lack. She could not be at all certain her impression was
correct. The alteration might have been so gradual, she had failed to
notice it, and it was her consciousness of the fact, and not the fact
itself, that came upon her abruptly. The way did not matter, the fact
did. It all summed itself up to this, that the grudging hand was
certainly not her grandfather's, much less her father's. They had
been open-handed to a fault. The one who stinted, of whom the
country-people 'round about said: "She'll pinch a penny till the eagle
screams," was—
"Katherine!"
The girl started guiltily at the sound of the thick, labored
syllables.
"Yes, grandmother." She was at the bed's side in a moment.
"That doctor—— He's not to come again, understand? Call
Driggs."
"Yes, grandmother. But perhaps Dr. Driggs will refuse to come.
You found fault with his bill last time, you know, and he didn't like it
very well."
"Tush! He's forgotten that by this time. But——"
"Well?"
"If he should refuse, and I have to have—the other, understand,
you're not to have anything to do with him. I forbid it!"
"Yes, grandmother."
"Ballard! I know the tribe. Leave him alone, and see he leaves
you alone."
"Please don't excite yourself, grandmother. I'm sure the doctor
wouldn't want you to."
"Where's that woman?"
"You mean Mrs. Slawson? Gone home. She has a family to see
to. She told you, didn't she, she's the wife of Mr. Ronald's new
superintendent?"
"How much'll she charge?"
"Us, you mean? For what she did last night, and this morning?"
"Uh-huh."
"Nothing, grandmother."
"Nonsense! Compel her to set price. If she won't, it's because
she hopes you'll pay more than's the custom. I know the trick. Don't
be caught. Pay her regular price, and say she mustn't come, 'less we
send. Won't pay, when we don't send."
Katherine felt herself flushing furiously from neck to forehead. "I
wouldn't dare offer Mrs. Slawson money, grandmother. I can't
imagine what she'd do, if I did. She came to help us out of pure
friendliness. She did more than we could ever pay her for. She's put
me under deep obligation."
 "Pooh! Obligation! One in that class! When you've paid her,
you've paid her."
Katherine turned her face away. "Let's not discuss it,
grandmother. You oughtn't to talk much, just yet. Let's see! First, I'll
get a basin and warm water, and give you a lovely bath, and
afterwards, you can have your breakfast. I'll go down myself and
prepare it, as soon as——"
Madam Crewe gave vent to a sound Katherine was painfully
familiar with—something between a sneer, a snort, and a groan of
exasperation.
"How many lovely baths d'you calculate I can stand in twelve
hours? One last night. Another five A.M. and, now, you want to give
me a third!"
"Mrs. Slawson bathed you before she went?" Katherine
demanded incredulously.
"Yes, and what's more, gave me breakfast. Good breakfast!
Better than you can p'pare."
"She couldn't have slept a wink all night," the girl mused self-
reproachfully.
Madam Crewe made no rejoinder. Apparently, she did not
consider it necessary for one in Mrs. Slawson's class to sleep a wink
all night.
Katherine turned away, pretending to busy herself with setting
the room in order. In reality, she was very differently employed. Her
stern young mind had constituted itself court, counsel, and jury, to
sit in judgment upon her grandmother, and, according to the
findings, convict her without privilege of appeal. She could see
nothing that was not contemptible in the old woman's mode of
living, her view of life. If she were poor, it would be different. There
might be some excuse then, for this paltry measuring of everything
by the standard of a copper cent. But, her grandmother had plenty,
and more than plenty. If she stinted, it was merely to add more to
an already ample fortune. And, meanwhile, youth, hope, dreams, all
were vanishing. The best of life was being wilfully sacrificed to a
mean whim. She knew the people 'round about, the "natives,"
turned up their noses at "ol' lady Crewe," and pitied her, Katherine,
for being the granddaughter of a "tight-wad." It made her shrink
from meeting the commonest acquaintance, when she considered
how odious her position was, and how well every one knew it.
The doctor came early, while she was still smarting with a sense
of her wrongs.
"I've brought a battery," he explained, indicating the instrument
Sam Slawson was assisting him to unearth from the bowels of the
runabout. "It's not my own. Dr. Driggs kindly lent it. I had a chat
with him over the 'phone last night, after I got home, and he agrees
with me that electricity will be——
"If Dr. Driggs is back, why didn't he come himself?" Katherine
interrupted, so sensitively on edge that the most innocent
suggestion jarred.
The young man before her looked blank for a moment. Then a
tolerant smile stole into his fine, wholesome face.
"Precisely the question I put to him. But, he said he'd thank me
kindly if I'd go on with the case."
Katherine winced. She knew why Dr. Driggs was not keen on
coming to Crewesmere.
 Dr. Ballard noticed the painful twitching of her brows, and
instantly regretted his reply. To mend matters he began, at once, to
explain why he was obliged to borrow of a fellow-practitioner, and to
call upon Sam Slawson to be his charioteer.
"You see, I'm not here in the village in my official capacity. I
only came for—well, on a sort of venture. But I like it, and I've sent
for my—I mean, I've sent for a machine to get about in, by myself. I
was feeling a bit seedy. I'm here for repairs. I belong in Boston—my
office is there, and my heavy artillery's in it. But if electric treatment
seems to agree with Madam Crewe, I'll send, and have my portable
battery shipped on with the motor. It's quite at her service, as I am.
It's rather more modern than this, and—more—effective."
As Sam Slawson remarked to his wife later, he was surprised at
the manner in which Miss Crewe received the doctor's friendly
advance.
"She gave him a look, like he'd trod on her toes, and hurt her
bad, besides taking the shine off her patent leather."
Martha smiled. "Anybody'd know you'd been a strap-hanger,
Sam Slawson. You give yourself dead away."
"Well, she gave him the look, and said she: 'Thanks, but please
don't send. My grandmother is much improved. She may not require
the services of any doctor, very long.'"
Mrs. Slawson nodded. "She's sore on the subjec' of her gran'ma.
She knows her peculiar-rarities, an' she knows she's got to stand by
the ol' lady, but it kinda gives her a turn, every time she thinks
anybody's noticin' her doin' it. If Dr. Ballard wasn't such a great
innercent of a fella, he wouldn't 'a' give it away that Dr. Driggs is on
to the little madam, and just as lief dodge her, if convenient. A party
with more tack to'm than Dr. Ballard would 'a' kep' that dark. But
there's where you can't have everything at oncet, in human bein's. If
a fella's got a lotta tack, an' the kind o' light fantastic toe that, every
time he opens his mouth, he don't put his foot into it, he's more
than like to be the kind that thinks twicet before he speaks, which, it
may be wise, but ain't as hearty, an' uncalkerlatin' as I'd like in a
husband. On the other hand, a fella that speaks, without stoppin' to
count the costs, why, it's ten to one, a woman'll have to pay 'em, in
the end, but anyhow she'll have the comfort o' knowin' his heart's in
the right place, which, it ain't forever takin' the elevator up to the
top floor, to consult with his brains. I'm sorry them two young things
got in wrong as regards each other. But it won't stop the course o'
human events, so far as they're concerned, even if it does delay it
some. I'm not a bit worried."
Sam paused in the act of pulling off a boot.
"Say, Martha, you don't mean you're at it again?"
"'At it'! Me? No! What I mean is, Nature's bound to get in her
fine work, no matter what kinda mater'al's handed out to her. You
remember Miss Claire an' Lord Ronald? They started in complercatin'
the pattren, as hard as they could, but 'twas no use. They couldn't
get the best o' Nature, an' the consequence is, we're lookin' for 'em
home from their weddin' tour any time now, an' if we don't get busy,
the decorations won't be ready for my celebration proceeding."
The morning of the great day on which the Ronalds were
expected to arrive, Martha was astir at sunrise, summoning her
brood with the call: "Miss Claire's comin' home! Miss Claire's comin'
home!"
 "I'd call her Missis, considering," suggested Sam, yawning as he
tucked his pillow more comfortably beneath his rough cheek.
"All right, call her it, if it's a comfort to you. Only get a move
on," his wife replied, plucking the pillow unceremoniously out from
under, giving it a mighty shake, and setting it across the sleeping-
porch rail to air.
"You can take it from me, my hands is full this day. I've no time
to parley, fussin' over my articles of speech. Besides, Miss Claire
knows me an' my ways. If I was any diff'rent from what she's used
to, she'd be disappointed."
"I thought Mrs. Peckett was making you over. To say nothing of
Cora, and Ma. Perhaps Mrs. Ronald will take a hand at it, too. You
never can tell."
"True for you, you never can," Martha admitted. "Who'd 'a'
thought, now, ol' lady Crewe would ever be troublin' her head about
me, an' yet one o' the first things she said, when she got her power
back, an' could pronunciate clearly, was—'You'd oughta keep a cow!'
Knowin' the risks run by those that does, from the effects o' hoofs
an' horns, an' simular attachments, I mighta thought she wanted to
see my finish, because o' the way I lit in, an' give her a rub-down
against her will, the night she was took sick. But she didn't. She
don't bear no ill will. It was just she thought keepin' a cow would be
cheaper for our fam'ly, than keepin' the milkman. She wants to turn
me into a farmer, an' who knows! You never can tell, as you say.
That's what I may turn into before I'm done. But what I'm occupied
with at the present moment is—did you get that la'nch fixed up good
last night, like I told you to? As soon as the breakfast dishes is
washed, I wanta take the childern, an' go acrost the lake to get
laurel for my decorations."
Sam paused in the act of shaving, to turn his lathered cheek
toward her.
"The launch is O.K., but I'm uneasy every time you take her out
on the water alone, mother. I'm not sure you understand the motor.
And if a squall blew up sudden——"
"Now, don't you worry your head over me, that's a good fella. I
understand that la'nch, an' the auta, as good as if all three of us
hada been born an' brought up by the same mother. The things I
can't seem to get a line on is animals. Hens, an' cows, an' so forth.
They take my time! O' course, to look at 'em, you'd know hens ain't
very brainy.—Look at the way they behave in front o' autas, or
anythin' drivin' up! They're as undecided as a woman at a bargain-
counter, thinkin' will she buy a remlet o' baby-blue ribbon, or go to
Huyler's an' get a chocolate ice-cream soda. They're hippin' an'
hawin', till it'd be a pleasure to run 'em down. Cows ain't got that
trick, but they're queer in their own way, an' the both o' them is too,
what Mrs. Sherman calls, temper-mental to suit me. Now, who'd 'a'
thought all them chicks woulda died on me, just because they got
damped down some, that cold, wet spell we had along in March? If
they'd 'a' told me they wanted to come in outa the wet, I'd 'a'
fetched 'em indoors, or I'd 'a' went out an' held their hands. Anythin'
to oblige. But not on your life! They was mum as oysters. They just
up an' died on me, without so much as a beg to be excused—the
whole bloomin' lot o' them. The Lord tempers the cold to the shorn
lamb, but I notice it aint reggerlated much of any in the case o'
chickens. An' talkin' o' chickens, I wonda if that same Sammy done
what I told'm an' whitewashed the henhouse thora inside. Mrs.
Peckett says you gotta do it every oncet in a while, to keep the
vermin down. The quicklime kills 'em."
Breakfast well under way, Mrs. Slawson went out on a tour of
inspection. Evidently what she found did not satisfy her, for, when
the family had had its meal, and was about to rise and disperse, she
held Sammy back with a detaining hand.
"Say, young fella, how about that henhouse you was to fresco
with whitewash yesterday?"
"I did it, mother."
"Well, you let the brush kinda lick down the walls, but what I
call a thora coat you did not give it! Now, I like my jobs done thora.
There's a good pail o' whitewash waitin' for you outside, to say
nothin' o' the brush to lay it on with. An', while the girls an' me goes
over to the other side o' the lake to get laurel, you get busy on the
inter'or o' that hen-residence, my son. An'——"
"Oh—oh, mother-r!" Sammy's wail came from a stricken heart.
It failed to make the slightest impression apparently.
"You knew you was botchin' all the time," Martha pulled him up
short. "After a while, you'll get on to it that you can't palm off
careless work on me—I know too much about it."
"I did what you told me, mother," the boy managed to bring
out, between heavy sobs.
"What did I tell you?"
"You told me—do the inside o' the henhouse, an' I done it!"
"Yes, but how about the roosts? You never touched brush to the
roosts. It's a pity if a child o' mine's gotta be told do every last thing,
when he knows better. You can take it from me, I ain't bringin' you
childern up to be the kind o' household pets servants is, nowadays. I
wanta learn you to think for yourselves, sometimes, an' do a thing
the right way, because it's right to do it that way. Never mind if
anybody sees it, or not. Now, you listen to me, since you're so
partic'lar: You go into that hen-house, with your pail, an' your brush,
an' you whitewash down every last thing in it, roosts an' all. Don't
you leave a thing go free. Do you understand me?"
Sammy's pitiful face moved his father to raise a voice in his
behalf.
"Say, mother, Sammy knows he's been a bad boy an' he's got to
take his punishment. He's got to do the henhouse over. There's no
doubt about that. But suppose he passes his word of honor to you,
as man to man, that he'll do it thorough next time, will you be easy
on him, for this once, and let him go across the lake with you and
his sisters, and do the whitewashing later?"
Martha shook her head.
"Sorry I can't accommodate you, but when anythin's to do,
there's no time like the present. If Sammy learns his lesson this trip,
he won't have it to learn again, on another occasion, when p'raps
he'd miss more than goin' acrost the lake. Besides, he's got some
other little trifles hangin' over'm, I let him off easy on, at the time.
We'll just settle up his account now, for them an' the henhouse, all
together, an' call it square."
There was a terrible finality in his mother's words and aspect,
that dried Sammy's tears, quenched his sobs. Where was the good
of struggling? Sammy was a small boy, but he had sagacity enough
to realize he was face to face with fate. He turned away mournfully,
and disappeared in the direction of the henhouse.
 Mrs. Slawson's severity fell from her, as if it had been a mantle.
"The poor fella," she said commiseratingly. "I'd give a lot to
leave'm go along. But with childern, you got to strike while the iron
is hot, or you'll be forever warmin' their poor little hides, which
constant naggin' is death to their dispositions. But if I'd 'a' had my
choice, I'd 'a' selected a differnt way to punish'm. For, firstoff, I won't
enjoy the fun, knowin' he's left behind, an', second, I really need his
help with the laurel and with the la'nch. But p'raps I need a
punishment on my own account, for leavin'm grow to this age
without knowin' he can't string his mother. If I do, you can take it
from me, I got it."

CHAPTER IV

Miss Claire's entry into her new domain was triumphal.

As the motor approached the lodge-gate, she plucked
impulsively at her husband's sleeve.
"Look, Frank, look! See! An arch of pink laurel! Flags! And—and
—what's this?"
A quartette of children's voices singing brought the motor to a
halt on the hither side of a wonderful, lettered strip, stretched, like
an unrolled scroll, to span the driveway, from the tips of two lofty
uprights. Mr. Ronald bent forward attentively. Immediately his firm
jaw began to twitch, and, as he spoke, his lowered voice betrayed a
treacherous tremolo.
 "They're singing Hail to the Chief. But its own mother wouldn't
know it."
Claire threw him a reproachful glance, as, to the consternation
of the new footman, she flung open the door of the car herself,
alighted unaided, and impetuously clung about Martha Slawson's
neck.
"Oh, Martha, Martha!" she cried.
There were tears of joy in Martha's eyes.
"God bless you, Miss Claire, ma'am! God bless you, dear."
"I say, Martha, which of us are you hailing? Which of us is
Chief?" broke in Mr. Ronald lightly, nodding a salutation toward Sam,
Ma, and the children drawn up by the driveway in martial array.
Martha laughed. "Between youse be it, sir. Time'll tell. Sam
didn't want me put it up, but I says to him, you both started in with
a fair field, an' no favor, an' let the best man win. Guessin' which of
you'll come out ahead, maybe'll relieve the monoterny of married life
for you some."
If Sam Slawson had been a boy, he could not have felt more
eager to "show the boss" what he had made of the place during his
absence. While the two of them were exploring, the children and Ma
busy with the treasures their fairy princess had brought home to
them from the other side of the world, Martha devoted herself to
"mothering" Miss Claire.
"My! To be brushin' your hair like this takes me back to a
Hunderd-an'-sixteenth Street, an' no mistake!"
Mrs. Ronald's eyes, peering through her bright veil, met Mrs.
Slawson's in the mirror.
 "Tell me, Martha, you miss the city sometimes, don't you?
Would you like to go back?"
Martha's reply was prompt. "I am goin' back, for a day or two,
with Sam, when Mr. Ronald sends'm down on business next month.
That is, I'm goin', if I can raise the price o' my ticket. We're goin' on
a spree. Just us two, all alone by ourselves."
Mrs. Ronald clapped her hands. "Good!" she cried
enthusiastically. "But you haven't answered my question. I'll put it
another way. Do you feel quite contented up here? Does the country
suit you?"
This time Mrs. Slawson paused to consider. "I like the country
first-rate," she brought out at last. "I like it first-rate, notwithstandin'
it ain' just exackly the kinda pure white, Easter-card effect it's
gener'ly cracked up to be. When you think o' the country, you
naturally think o' daisies, an' new-mown hay, an' meddas, an' grass
which it don't have signs all 'round to keep off of it, an' blue skies
you ain't gotta break your neck peekin' out o' the air-shaft ground-
floor winda to see. Well, true for you, the whole outfit's here all
right, all right, but so's more or less o' human bein's, an' whenever
you get human bein's picnicking 'round, complercations 's sure to set
in. Human bein's, if they ain't careful, clutters up the landscape
dretful. An' they do it in the country, same as down home. You're
goin' to slip up on it fierce, if you think the city's got a corner on all
the rottenness there is. There's a whole lot o' news ain't fit to print is
happenin' right up here in this innercent-lookin' little village. You
wouldn't believe it, unless you knew. There's parties bein' bad, an'
other parties bein' good. Folks doin' mean tricks, an' folks doin' the
other kind. It's all just about the same's in the city, when you get
right down to it. Only, there ain't so much of it. But it makes me
tired to hear Mrs. Peckett behavin' as if the country was the whole
thing, an' New York wasn't in it. New York is bad in spots, but it's
good in spots too, an' don't you forget it!"
Mrs. Ronald smiled. "You're a loyal soul, Martha. But you'll love
the country better, when you know more about the birds, and the
insects, and the flowers. I'm going to set about directly teaching
you. I'm going to make a naturalist of you, do you know it?"
Mrs. Slawson's smile was large, benign. "Certaintly. I'd like to be
a nateralist. Mrs. Peckett's goin' to make a New England
housekeeper outa me, an' ol' lady Crewe is tryin' to turn me into a
farmer. If I get all that's comin' to me, it looks as if I'd be goin'
some, before I get through."
"'Old lady Crewe'?"
"Why, don't you remember? That little ol' party looks like a china
figga you'd get at Macy's, down in the basement. They have'm
leanin' against tree-stumps, for match-boxes, an' suchlike. White
hair, an' dressed to beat the band, in looped-up silk, with flowers
painted onto the pattren. Ol' lady Crewe reminds you of one o'
those. She was 'born a Stryker,' they tell me—whatever that is—an'
her folks owned about all the land in these parts Lord Ronald's folks
didn't, in the ol' days. She's got no end o' money, but——" Martha
hesitated.
"Oh, I recollect now. She's the one they say is a miser."
"Now, I wouldn't call her that," said Mrs. Slawson slowly. "I
kinda hate to clap a label onto a body. It's bound to stick to'm, no
matter what. It's like a bottle. Oncet it's had POISON marked on it,
it's under suspicion, an' you wouldn't make free with it, no matter
how careful it's been washed. Ol' lady Crewe certaintly is savin', that
no one can deny, an' I'm sorry for Miss Katherine, but——"
Again Mrs. Ronald let her curiosity escape in the repetition of
the name Martha had just mentioned. "Miss Katherine?"
"Miss Katherine's the ol' lady's granddaughter, an' you can take
it from me, you wouldn't see a han'somer in a day's travel."
"Oh, Martha, Martha!" cried Miss Claire, pretending jealousy,
"I've got a rival. I see it! I know it! You don't like me best any more."
Mrs. Slawson laughed. "'Like you best'! Well, I guess you won't
have to lose no sleep on that account, Miss Claire. But Miss
Katherine's certaintly good-lookin', I'll say that for her. When I come
home the next mornin', after seein' her firstoff, Cora says to me,
'What did she look like? was she anything like Miss Claire?' An' I told
her: 'Miss Katherine's the han'somest appearin', but Miss Claire is the
delicatest. Miss Claire's the most refinder-lookin'. An' that's God's
truth. Miss Katherine's tall. The sorta grand, proud-lookin', I-would-
n't-call-the-queen-my-cousin kind. An' you——! Well, you'll know
how a body feels about you, when the blessed lamb comes home in
August, which, believe me, the news of it is the joyfulest ever I
heard in my life. You'll know how a body feels about you, by the way
you feel about it. Like pertectin' it, an' caressin' it, an'—an'—keepin'
harm away from the innercent heart of it. If you don't believe me,
ask Lord Ronald."
"'Ask Lord Ronald,' what?"
Mrs. Slawson turned composedly to face the master of the
house, as if his appearance in the doorway, just at that precise
moment, had been "according to specifications." "I was tellin' Miss
Claire—beggin' your pardon, Mrs. Ronald—about ol' lady Crewe, up-
the-road-a-ways."
Mr. Ronald disposed of his long person in a cretonne-covered
lounging chair.
"Do you know her, Frank?" As Claire spoke she slipped into her
adjoining dressing-room, to arrange her hair and put on a fresh
frock.
"Why, yes—and no," he replied. "Of course all the neighborhood
knows about Madam Crewe. I used to hear my father talk about her.
But she is rather a formidable little person. She is not to be
approached lightly. I doubt if any one knows her. She was Idea
Stryker. An only child. 'Very beautiful,' the governor said,—'a great
match.' Her father was exceedingly high and mighty. An English
younger son, with feudalistic notions. Nobody over here was good
enough for him, except my father, with whom he was uncommonly
friendly. Stryker was difficult, a choleric, fiery-tongued individual,
much disliked in the state, though, my father always said, he meant
well."
"Somehow, I ain't no use for folks that mean well," observed
Mrs. Slawson. "That is, o' course, I don't mean I ain't no use for'm,
but I think they're kinda nuisances. When you have to explain that a
fella means well, you can take it from me, he ain't makin' himself
very clear on his own account."
Mr. Ronald laughed. "Well, perhaps that's true. In any event,
Squire Stryker made himself so cordially disliked that when, one day,
he and his bailiff, as he called him, had a big scene, and Ballard, the
bailiff, was turned out, neck and crop, public sympathy was all on his
side, though no one knew anything about the facts in the case. My