Part 16 (2/2)

”Thank the goodness!” said Serena. ”Only don't let your pa bring his talking-machine to save up everybody's foolish speeches. Your aunt said this morning that what I ought to ha' said into it was, 'Miss Leicester, we're all out o' sugar.' But the sugar's goin' to last longer when you're gone. I expect we shall miss you,” said the good woman, with great feeling.

Now, everything was to be done next summer: all the things that Betty had forgotten and all that she had planned and could not carry out. It was very sad to go away, when the time came. Poor Aunt Mary fairly cried, and said that she was going to try hard to be better in health, so that she could do more for Betty when she came next year, and she should miss their reading together, sadly; and Aunt Barbara held Betty very close for a minute, and said, ”G.o.d bless you, my darling,” though she had never called her ”my darling” before.

And Captain Beck came over to say good-by, and wished that they could have gone down by the packet boat, as Betty came, and gave our friend a little bra.s.s pocket-compa.s.s, which he had carried to sea many years. The minister came to call in the evening, with his girls; and the dear old doctor came in next morning, though he was always in a hurry, and kissed Betty most kindly, and held her hand in both his, while he said that he had lost a good deal of practice, lately, because she kept the young folks stirring, and he did not know about letting her come back another summer.

But when poor Mrs. Foster came, with Nelly, and thanked Betty for bringing a ray of suns.h.i.+ne into her sad home, it was almost too much to bear; and good-by must be said to Becky, and that was harder than anything, until they tried to talk about what they would do next summer, and how often they must write to each other in the winter months between.

”Why, sometimes I have been afraid that you didn't like me,” said Betty, as her friend's tears again began to fall.

”It was only because I didn't like myself,” said dear Becky forlornly.

It was a most sad and affectionate leave-taking, but there were many things that Becky would like to think over when her new old friend had fairly gone.

”I never felt as if I really belonged to any place, until now. You must always say that I am Betty Leicester of Tideshead,” said Betty to her father, after she had looked back in silence from the car window for a long time. Aunt Barbara had come to the station with them, and was taking the long drive home alone, with only Jonathan and the slow horses. Betty's thoughts followed her all along the familiar road. Last night she had put the little red silk shawl back into her trunk with a sorry sigh. Everybody had been so good to her, while she had done so little for any one!

But Aunt Barbara was really dreading to go back to the old house, she knew that she should miss Betty so much.

Papa was reading already; he always read in the cars himself, but he never liked to have Betty do so. He looked up now, and something in his daughter's face made him put down his book. She was no longer only a playmate; her face was very grave and sweet. ”I must try not to scurry about the world as I have done,” he thought, as he glanced at Betty again and again. ”We ought to have a home, both of us; her mother would have known. A girl should grow up in a home, and get a girl's best life out of the cares and pleasures of it.”

”I am afraid you won't wish to come down to the hospitalities of lodgings this winter,” said Mr. Leicester. ”Perhaps we had better look for a comfortable house of our own near the Duncans.”

”Oh, we're sure to have the best of good times!” said Betty cheerfully, as if there were danger of his being low-spirited. ”We must wait about all that, papa, dear, until we are in London.”

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