Rosalie twisted the curtain tassel and looked out at the sea.
“Yes,” she answered after some moments. “If I hadn’t known—if you hadn’t told me that—even if he were, the ending of the summer would end his remembrance, I might have been—well, pretty silly a good many times.”
Betsy looked up. “I hope I haven’t made a mistake, or spoiled any o’ your good times, dear.”
“No,” answered the girl. “I’ve been more than glad of all your warnings. Everybody has been so kind, and there have been so many people who wanted to do things for me, that it was made easy in one way. I could avoid him without it’s looking strange to him, or any one else.”
“Was there,” asked Betsy, “was there any other o’ the young men that you liked—just as well?”
Rosalie turned and gave her a look. There was the darkening of the eyes that Betsy remembered, and the lip was caught under the girl’s teeth.
Betsy fumbled with her darning-egg, dropped her eyes, and cleared her throat.
“That child won’t ever learn to be mejum!” she thought.
“You’ve worked and played pretty hard, I guess,” she said, presently. “You’re some thin, Rosalie. I’ve been noticin’ it lately. I hope you feel real good.”
“Never better,” was the reply. “I’m eager to go to work—real work. I hope I can make the girls like me.”