Betsy Foster was meanwhile enjoying the unwonted sole possession of the cottage. While she straightened the chaos in the young men’s rooms, a smile was on her lips, and a light of excitement burned in her eyes.
When all was neat within doors and she had eaten her simple supper, she went out on the veranda, and seating herself in the best rocker, rocked, and hummed one of Robert’s most abandoned two-steps.
While she was thus enjoying the dolce far niente of her unobserved evening, a light rain began to fall.
“I don’t know as I’m sorry if it does rain,” she murmured. “It’ll keep ’em in the house, and I want ’em all to be there. I’m sure it’ll please Mr. Derwent.”
While she thus reflected, a square-shouldered, sturdy, masculine figure entered the gate and came up the garden-path.
Betsy showed no surprise at his appearance. The pleasant light continued in her eyes as she arose.
“How do you do, Hiram?” she said, as he came up the steps. “Take the big chair.”
“Well!”
The sea-blue gaze scrutinized her as the guest’s hard hand held hers until she jerked it away with decision.