“I don’t always use a pillow,” returned the girl evasively.
“You look kind o’ pale. I don’t believe you slept real good.”
“What does it matter?” Rosalie held her friend with wistful, glowing eyes. “Why should one lose the consciousness of happiness even for ten minutes?”
There was a little contraction of Betsy’s heart. So young a creature to be economical of happiness; but the intensity of the girl’s eyes disturbed her.
“Now you mustn’t get so wrought up over things, Rosalie. Make it a rule to be mejum in everything. I always have, and I find it the best way.”
A low laugh escaped the girl as she met the kind gaze. Had Betsy ever stood in the midst of roaring immensity, an atom in the whirl of colossal, dreadful beauty, and fallen from dire panic into the close embrace of safety, with the beat of a kingly heart upon hers? Poor Betsy! Poor everybody in the wide universe except Rosalie Vincent!
The good woman went on talking, and the girl heard not a word. She was back beneath the pines watching the eagles at their nest, in a rainbow chasm.
“Gracious, child!” said Betsy at last, laughing and pulling the suit-case out of Rosalie’s hands. “You look like a sleep-walker; let me put those things in there. And now you stay right here until I come back and tell you when to come downstairs. What have you got to keep you warm? It’ll be cold stagin’ to-day.”
“I had a sweater,” said Rosalie absently. “I lost it somewhere in the canyon.”