“Two mothers; one of whom he loves and one who loves him.”
Miss Foster started. “Oh, Mr. Derwent,” she gasped, and now her eyes met his in fright.
“Very well,” he said, “whoever it is, I think we shall be equal to the case without his help. They tell me you’re called Clever Betsy. Now let’s see whether you’re well-named. Let’s talk ways and means a little.”
And Betsy did talk: talk as she had seldom done since Irving’s mother went to sleep one night in her arms.
She told Mr. Derwent of a friend of her childhood, one Hiram Salter, and laid bare her designs on that mariner’s hearth and home.
Mr. Derwent listened, nodding sometimes, and when she had finished, he spoke.
“And this talent of Rosalie’s,—this elocutionary business? Would there be any field for her perhaps in Fairport, as a teacher?”
Betsy looked dubious. “Maybe. It’s a pretty well-to-do village all times o’ year; but that could come afterward. If I just once knew she was safe in a home! She could likely get into a school somewhere later.”
“Well-to-do, you say,” repeated Mr. Derwent thoughtfully. “Do the people there entertain? Parlor entertainments pay pretty well.”