“That girl was the child o’ luxury,” went on his companion,—“lost everything, parents included, and came to be practically a servant in the home of a poor relation. Got so persecuted by the attentions of a skinflint man who wanted her to be his drudge that she ran away, and somehow drifted into waitin’ on hungry folks in the Yellowstone!”
Irving smiled. “She told a story well, anyway. She has missed her vocation. Some one ought to tell her the pen is mightier than the knife and fork.”
“It’s easy to tell the truth,” returned Betsy, nettled by his tone.
Irving laughed. “For Clever Betsy, I do believe; but for most people always difficult, and usually unsafe.”
“H’m,” returned his companion, “this girl was tellin’ the truth and I know it.”
Here the stage stopped and the passengers dismounted to see a pool of great beauty which was out of sight from the road; and when they returned, Betsy’s abstraction had vanished; and although she evidently enjoyed Irving’s companionship on the long drive, not another word on the subject of her companion of yesterday could be elicited from her.
Once Mr. Derwent turned around and met her eyes.
“Where is your young friend?” he asked.