Shep woke up with a snort and, getting off the couch, gamboled clumsily up to Betsy, wagging his tail and jumping up on her, ready for a frolic. That was almost too much for Betsy! To think that after tomorrow she would never see Shep again—nor Eleanor! Nor the kittens! She choked as she bent over Shep and put her arms around his neck for a great hug. But she mustn’t cry, she mustn’t hurt Aunt Frances’s feelings, or show that she wasn’t glad to go back to her. That wouldn’t be fair, after all Aunt Frances had done for her!
That night she lay awake after she and Molly had gone to bed and Molly was asleep. They had decided not to tell Molly until the last minute, so she had dropped off peacefully, as usual. But poor Betsy’s eyes were wide open. She saw a gleam of light under the door. It widened; the door opened. Aunt Abigail stood there, in her night cap, mountainous in her long white gown, a candle shining up into her serious old face.
“You awake, Betsy?” she whispered, seeing the child’s dark eyes gleaming at her over the covers. “I just—I just thought I’d look in to see if you were all right.” She came to the edge of the bed and set the candle down on the little stand. Betsy reached her arms up longingly and the old woman stooped over her. Neither of them said a single word during the long embrace which followed. Then Aunt Abigail straightened up hastily, took her candle very quickly and softly, and heavily padded out of the room.
Betsy turned over and flung one arm over Molly—no Molly, either, after tomorrow!
She gulped hard and stared up at the ceiling, dimly white in the starlight. A gleam of light shone under the door. It widened, and Uncle Henry stood there, a candle in his hand, peering into the room. “You awake, Betsy?” he said cautiously.
“Yes. I’m awake, Uncle Henry.”
The old man shuffled into the room. “I just got to thinking,” he said, hesitating, “that maybe you’d like to take my watch with you. It’s kind of handy to have a watch on the train. And I’d like real well for you to have it.”
He laid it down on the stand, his own cherished gold watch, that had been given him when he was twenty-one.
Betsy reached out and took his hard, gnarled old fist in a tight grip. “Oh, Uncle Henry!” she began, and could not go on.
“We’ll miss you, Betsy,” he said in an uncertain voice. “It’s been … it’s been real nice to have you here …”
And then he too snatched up his candle very quickly and almost ran out of the room.
Betsy turned over on her back. “No crying, now!” she told herself fiercely. “No crying, now!” She clenched her hands together tightly and set her teeth.
Something moved in the room. Somebody leaned over her. It was Cousin Ann, who didn’t make a sound, not one, but who took Betsy in her strong arms and held her close and closer, till Betsy could feel the quick pulse of the other’s heart beating all through her own body. Then she was gone—as silently as she came.
But somehow that great embrace had taken away all the burning tightness from Betsy’s eyes and heart. She was very, very tired, and soon after this she fell sound asleep, snuggled up close to Molly.
In the morning, nobody spoke of last night at all. Breakfast was prepared and eaten, and the team hitched up directly afterward. Betsy and Uncle Henry were to drive to the station together to meet Aunt Frances’s train. Betsy put on her new wine-colored cashmere that Cousin Ann had made her, with the soft white collar of delicate old embroidery that Aunt Abigail had given her out of one of the trunks in the attic.
She and Uncle Henry said very little as they drove to the village, and even less as they stood waiting together on the platform. Betsy slipped her hand into his and he held it tight as the train whistled in the distance and came slowly and laboriously puffing up to the station.
Just one person got off at the little station, and that was Aunt Frances, looking ever so dressed up and citified, with a fluffy ostrich-feather boa and kid gloves and a white veil over her face and a big blue one floating from her gay-flowered velvet hat. How pretty she was! And how young—under the veil which hid so kindly all the little lines in her sweet, thin face. And how excited and fluttery! Betsy had forgotten how fluttery Aunt Frances was! She clasped Betsy to her, and then started back crying—she must see to her suitcase—and then she clasped Betsy to her again and shook hands with Uncle Henry, whose grim old face looked about as cordial and welcoming as the sourest kind of sour pickle, and she fluttered back and said she must have left her umbrella on the train. “Oh, Conductor! Conductor! My umbrella—right in my seat—a blue one with a crooked-over—oh, here it is in my hand! What am I thinking of!”
The conductor evidently thought he’d better get the train away as soon as possible, for he now shouted, “All aboard!” to nobody at all, and sprang back on the steps. The train went off, groaning over the steep grade, and screaming out its usual echoing warning about the next road crossing.
Uncle Henry took Aunt Frances’s suitcase and plodded back to the surrey. He got into the front seat and Aunt Frances and Betsy in the back; and they started off.
And now I want you to listen to every single word that was said on the back seat, for it was a very, very important conversation, when Betsy’s fate hung on the curl of an eyelash and the flicker of a voice, as fates often do.
Aunt Frances hugged Betsy again
