“That’s natural, dear, when you’re so anxious and worried about her. But, truly, I believe we’ll get her yet. You see, everything points to the theory that she is alive.”
“I’m so tired of theories,—they don’t help any.”
“Oh, yes, they do, dear. Now, try to get up a little more hope. Take it from me,—you’ll see Betty again! She’ll come dancing in, just as she used to do,—say, Mrs Varian, why did she and her father squabble so?”
“I can’t explain it. I’ve thought over it often, but it seems to me there was no reason for it. He admired Betty, he was proud of her beauty and grace and accomplishments, but there was something in the child that he didn’t like. I hate to say this, but he seemed to have a natural dislike toward her that he honestly tried to overcome, but he utterly failed in the attempt.”
“How very strange!”
“It surely is. I’ve never mentioned it to any one before, but you are so sympathetic, I want to ask you what you think could have been the reason for anything like that?”
“Did Betty feel that way toward him?”
“Oh, no! I mean, not naturally so. But when he would fly at her and scold her for some little, simple thing, of course she flared up and talked back at him. It was only petty bickering, but it was so frequent.”
“Wasn’t Mr Varian pleased when he learned that you expected another child?”
“Yes, he was delighted. He feared it might not live,—as the others hadn’t, but he was pleased beyond words at the prospect, and we both hoped for a healthy baby. He was so careful of me,—so devoted and loving, and so joyful in the anticipation of the new baby.”