“We had a real good time,” said Betsy, “and he praised the supper.”
“There are no suppers as good as yours. Nixie and I had made him hungry telling him about the dinner we had with you that day.”
“And my boy never broke bread with me once,” said Betsy sadly. “I couldn’t ask him away from Mrs. Bruce.”
“Betsy,” asked Rosalie wistfully, “whatever did happen?”
Betsy shook her head. “Nothin’ you need worry about, child.”
“But that’s just what troubles me. I’ve always believed it was about me.”
“Rosalie,”—Betsy lifted her eyes from her work for a minute,—“do you know it says in the Bible that God makes the wrath o’ man to praise him? or somethin’ like that? I’ve thought of it often since I’ve been livin’ here. There had to be some kind of an explosion for Hiram to get his rights. I see now he’s only got his rights.”
“But one thing is very strange,” said Rosalie. “The few times I’ve spoken with Mrs. Bruce this summer, she has been quite polite to me. Do you know about this cousin who is with her, this cunning little Miss Frost, more like a canary-bird than any one I ever saw? Well, she adores Mrs. Bruce, and do you know it has seemed to me that Mrs. Bruce is trying to live up to it. Wouldn’t that be strange?”