It was a season of content. Betsy could not doubt it as she looked at the deepening roses in the girl’s cheeks, and the way her eyes sparkled as she came into the house, stamping the snow from her boots, on the return from some errand with Hiram.
Mr. Beebe, learning of her presence, took the biggest sleigh from the inn stable and gave them a long exhilarating ride into the country, and an oyster supper when they returned.
On the last evening of the year Rosalie sat before the open fire with Betsy. Captain Salter had gone out on some errand in the village, and Rosalie, on her favorite little stool, leaned her head against Betsy’s knee and watched the leaping flames. How remote, on an evening like this, seemed the great world from this little cottage-by-the-sea!
“One has so much time here, to think, Betsy,” said the girl.
The other gave her one-sided smile. “Well, yes,—holidays, we do,” she rejoined.
“You are always busy,” admitted Rosalie. “How happy you and the captain are!”
“We think we couldn’t be happier,” returned Betsy. “It’s been a wonderful year for both you and me, Rosalie.”
“Yes, it has,” returned the girl dreamily. “A year ago to-night—No! I must forget all that.”
Betsy patted her shoulder. “Yesterday is dead,” she said quietly.
Rosalie’s eyes lifted slowly to the other’s face.