"Wouldn't it be beautiful," sighed Jean, "if Bettie could only come too? This air would do anybody good."
"Yes," mourned Marjory, "nothing seems quite right without Bettie."
The girls, a trifle saddened, went slowly down the hill.
"We must certainly steer clear of Mrs. Malony," warned Henrietta, as the egg-woman's house became visible. "Another dose of her hot milk would drive me from Lakeville."
"There she is now!" exclaimed Mabel. "I recognize her by her cow; she's driving it home."
"Perhaps it ran away to look for summer," offered Marjory. "The lady seems displeased with her pet."
"An' how are the darlin' childer?" cried Mrs. Malony, greeting her friends while yet a long way off. "'Tis a sight for a quane to see, so manny purty lasses. But where's me little black-oiyed Bettie—there's the swate choild for yez? Sure Oi heard she was loike to die, wan while back. Betther, is ut? Thot's good, thot's good. An' wud yez belave ut, Miss Mabel,—'tis fatter than iver yez are, Oi see—Oi had yez in me moind all this blissid day."
"Why?" asked Mabel, rather coldly.
"Well, 'twas loike this, darlin'," explained Mrs. Malony, dropping her voice to a more confidential tone and nodding significantly toward a distant chimney. "'Twas siven o'clock the mornin' whin Oi seen smoke risin' from the shanty beyant. All day Oi've been moinded to be goin' acrost the p'int an' lookin' in at thot windy to see if 'twas thot big-eyed Frinch wan come back wid the spring."
"You don't mean Rosa Marie's mother!" gasped Mabel.