“Our way. Did you? I see your horse hitched over at the store. I've an arrand,—sewin'-thread and pearl buttons,—and so I'll git my bonnet and you can tell me on the way.”
The lovers said farewell, and Betsy Lavender accompanied Gilbert, proposing to walk a little way with him and get the articles on her return.
“Gilbert Potter,” she said, when they were out of sight and ear-shot of the village, “I want you to know that I've got eyes in my head. I'm a safe body, as you can see, though it mayn't seem the proper thing in me to say it, but all other folks isn't, so look out!”
“Betsy!” he exclaimed, “you seem to know everything about everybody—at least, you know what I am, perhaps better than I do myself; now suppose I grant you're right, what do you think of it?”
“Think of it? Go 'long!—you know what you want me to say, that there never was such a pair o' lovyers under the firmament! Let my deeds prove what I think, say I—for here's a case where deeds is wanted!”
“You can help me, Betsy—you can help me now! Do you know—can you guess—who was my father?”
“Good Lord!” was her surprised exclamation—“No, I don't, and that's the fact.”
“Who was Martha Deane's mother?”
“A Blake—Naomi, one o' the Birmingham Blakes, and a nice woman she was, too. I was at her weddin', and I helped nuss her when Martha was born.” “Had Dr. Deane been married before?”
“Married before? Well—no!” Here Miss Betsy seemed to be suddenly put upon her guard. “Not to that extent, I should say. However, it's neither here nor there. Good lack, boy!” she cried, noticing a deadly paleness on Gilbert's face—“a-h-h-h, I begin to understand now. Look here, Gilbert! Git that nonsense out o' y'r head, jist as soon as you can. There's enough o' trouble ahead, without borrowin' any more out o' y'r wanderin' wits. I don't deny but what I was holdin' back somethin', but it's another thing as ever was. I'll speak you clear o' your misdoubtin's, if that's y'r present bother. You don't feel quite as much like a live corpse, now, I reckon, hey?”