Betty hesitated. It seemed presumptuous for her to offer, for she well knew she didn’t look like Miss Whittier’s idea of a Goddess of Honor. But no one else volunteered, so she said:
“Miss Whittier, I don’t look right, I know, but I know every one of Constance’s lines perfectly.”
“You blessed child!” cried Miss Whittier; “do you really? Are you sure, Betty?”
For answer, Betty began rapidly, and with no attempt at dramatic effect:
“The Goddess of Honor I! To those who seek me I am hard to win. To those who nobly and unflinchingly——”
“That will do!” said Miss Whittier, smiling in spite of her anxiety. “Get out of that sailor suit, Betty, just as quick as you can, and get into Constance’s things.”
“Yes’m,” said Betty, her voice thrilling with intense excitement, “yes, Miss Whittier. I’ve been in them before, and I know just how they go.”
Several deft pairs of hands gave assistance; Miss Whittier herself gathered up Betty’s loose curls into a classic knot, and so well did she arrange it that, when the gilt crown was in place, the whole effect was harmonious, and Betty’s sparkling eyes lit up a face that any goddess might be pleased to own.
Mindful of Constance’s injunctions about tearing the delicate fabric, Betty gathered up her train and followed Miss Whittier to the stage.
As she passed, Dorothy took opportunity to whisper, “Oh, I am so glad”; and Jeanette gave her a loving pat as she went by.