“There’s one trellis I wish I could have,” said Rosalie wistfully, gazing at her friend, “and its name is Betsy Foster.”
“Come now, Rosalie; that’s pretty hard.” The older woman’s lips twitched. “I’ve got some flesh on my bones.”
“O Betsy! Dear Betsy!” burst forth the girl lovingly. “Clever Betsy, as Captain Salter calls you.”
“You know Hiram, do you?”
“Yes, indeed; and when I first came to Fairport,—it was the winter before Mrs. Bruce sent me to school,—he told me about you, and told me you’d be there in summer with this rich family, and that if I could get you for a friend it would be the best thing that could happen to me; and it has been, Betsy—except that it did give me that bitter-sweet school experience.” The girl put her arm around her companion. “Captain Salter told me so much about you—how you had always managed to do for people in the village. He thinks you’re a wonder.”
Miss Foster started to speak, but changed her mind and merely grunted. Then, after a silent moment of endurance of the girl’s embrace, she changed the subject.
“Unwind that tendril now,” she said, taking Rosalie’s hand and moving her away; “and be careful, child, who you do reach out to,” she added seriously.
“Oh, are you going, Betsy?” exclaimed the girl, troubled.
The woman hesitated. “You let me go tell Mrs. Bruce that I’ll walk back to the hotel so they won’t wait for me. They’re probably all in the wagon by this time, and wonderin’ where I am.”
“I’ll wait right here,” returned Rosalie eagerly, and she stood watching Betsy’s retreating figure with wistful eyes.