“Old Kill-joy that I am!” thought poor Betsy as she lay awake that night, and knew that Rosalie was awake beside her; but the very effect of her words convinced her that it was necessary to have spoken them; and when she supplemented this by her appeal to Irving later in the garden, she felt that she had done her worst, and her best; and whatever came, her conscience was clear.
As Rosalie stood in the living-room of the inn to-night, her hand within Mr. Derwent’s arm, she was too excited to be conscious that it was his action which heightened the effusiveness of the guests. They might laugh and weep under her efforts to entertain them, but many who would not have taken her hand afterward advanced graciously when it was quickly whispered that the man beside her was Henry Derwent of Boston.
“Your brother is a trump!” murmured Irving to Mrs. Nixon.
The lady looked resigned.
“When Henry takes it into his head to befriend any one,” she said, “he carries his point. Since the day he found, out there in the Park, that this girl was the daughter of his old friend, I suppose he has never really forgotten her. It is like him to be so rejoiced in this change in her fortunes that he immediately takes her under his wing.”
“He’s a trump!” repeated Irving.
Mrs. Nixon was dimly aware that Mrs. Bruce would be fuming at her action, for she had overheard her refusal of Irving’s request.
“I can’t do otherwise than stand by my brother,” thought Mrs. Nixon. “I can’t help it if she is offended.”
And now they had reached Rosalie, and for the first time Irving noticed that she was very pale.