“Are you ready now?” he asked.
For answer she rose, and together they moved down to the floating wharf, and Hiram handed her into the row-boat by which they went out to the Clever Betsy.
It took some time to unfurl the sails and put them up, and Betsy went into the little cabin and made acquaintance with her namesake.
It was queer, she thought, that it didn’t seem queerer to be here, and irresponsible of all things earthly except Hiram. Even Rosalie did not need her. Last night’s arraignment was proof positive of her success.
Her duty was here now, and nowhere else; and the wonderful feature of the position was that it seemed so natural, and—yes, so sweet. As the boat bounded forward, borne on strong white wings, Betsy’s heart seemed to soar also into some new and freer region. Some wireless message from a New England ancestry reached her.
“Is it right to be so happy?” she asked herself. Suddenly she turned and met Hiram’s eyes.
“This is a long leg, Betsy,” he said quietly. “Come over and sit against this cushion. I want to get my hand on ye and know it ain’t a dream.”
“Yes, it’s right!” answered Betsy’s heart, and she obeyed.