“With my compliments, Miss Foster,” he said with a bow.
“For me!” burst forth Betsy, flushing under her mingled emotions.
“A souvenir,” he returned. “It is really pretty.”
“Oh, it’s a gem, and I do thank you!” exclaimed Betsy. “Oh dear, how can I now!” was her mental moan. “It’s exactly like sayin’ one good turn deserves another. I hate to be those kind o’ folks that give ’em an inch and they’ll take an ell.”
While she hesitated, fearing every moment that the prize would turn and saunter back to his people, Mr. Derwent lingered.
“I have been very glad,” he said, regarding Betsy’s narrow, excited face, “of your kindness to the little Miss Vincent.”
Now Rosalie was not little. She was an upstanding daughter of the gods, meriting their trite description; and the adjective warmed Betsy’s heart and filled her with courage. That, and the tone of the words, gave her a welcome cue. She looked wistfully into the kind eyes.
“It’s one o’ the hardest things I’ve ever done to leave Rosalie at that inn,” she said.
“I didn’t like it either,” responded her companion quietly. “Let us come over in this corner and talk a bit.”