"That's nice," returned Bettie, who, however, no longer seemed interested in Rosa Marie's mother. "But my ears are tired now; don't tell me any more."
After this failure, Mr. Black followed crestfallen Jean downstairs; he drew her into the shabby Rectory parlor.
"Now, Jean," demanded he, sternly, "is there a solitary thing in this whole world that Bettie wants? Is there anything that could possibly happen that would wake her up and bring her back? I'm dreadfully afraid she's slipping away from us, Jean; and she's far too precious to lose. Now think—think hard, little girl. Has she ever wanted anything?"
"Why," responded Jean, slowly, as if some outside force were dragging the words from her, "right after Christmas there was something, I think. A big, impossible something that nobody could possibly help. She didn't talk about it—and yet—and yet—— Perhaps she did worry."
"Go on," insisted Mr. Black, "I want it all."
"She seemed to get used to the idea so—so uncomplainingly. Still, she may have cared more than anybody suspected. She's like that—never cries when she's hurt."
"What idea?" demanded Mr. Black. "Cared for what? Make it clear, child."
"You see," explained Jean, "all of us—Henrietta, Marjory, Mabel and I—have been talking a great deal about going away to boarding school—we're all going. But Bettie—Bettie, of course, knew that she couldn't go. There was no money and her father said——"
"And why in thunder," shouted Mr. Black, forgetting the invalid and striding up and down the room with his fists clenched, "didn't somebody say so? What do folks think the good Lord gave us money for? Why didn't—Come upstairs. We'll settle this thing right now."