Betsy was the first to speak, and I’m very proud of her for what she said. She said, loyally, “Dear Aunt Frances! She was always so sweet to me! She always tried so hard to take care of me!”
For that was what Betsy had found up by the brook under the big red maple-tree. She had found there a certainty that, whatever else she did, she must not hurt Aunt Frances’s feelings—dear, gentle, sweet Aunt Frances, whose feelings were so easily hurt and who had given her so many years of such anxious care. Something up there had told her—perhaps the quiet blue shadow of Windward Mountain creeping slowly over the pasture toward her, perhaps the silent glory of the great red and gold tree, perhaps the singing murmur of the little brook—perhaps all of them together had told her that now had come a time when she must do more than what Cousin Ann would do—when she must do what she herself knew was right. And that was to protect Aunt Frances from hurt.
When she spoke, out there in the orchard, she broke the spell of silence. Cousin Ann climbed hastily down from her tree, with her basket only partly filled. Uncle Henry got stiffly off his ladder, and Aunt Abigail advanced through the grass. And they all said the same thing—“Let me see that letter.”
They read it there, looking over each other’s shoulders, with grave faces. Then, still silently, they all turned and went back into the house, leaving their forgotten bags and barrels and baskets out under the trees. When they found themselves in the kitchen—“Well, it’s suppertime, anyhow,” said Cousin Ann hastily, as if ashamed of losing her composure, “or almost time. We might as well get it now.”
“I’m a-going out to milk,” said Uncle Henry gruffly, although it was not nearly his usual time. He took up the milk pails and marched out toward the barn, stepping heavily, his head hanging.
Shep woke up with a snort and, getting off the couch, gamboled clumsily up to Betsy, wagging his tail and jumping up on her, ready for a frolic. That was almost too much for Betsy! To think that after tomorrow she would never see Shep again—nor Eleanor! Nor the kittens! She choked as she bent over Shep and put her arms around his neck for a great hug. But she mustn’t cry, she mustn’t hurt Aunt Frances’s feelings, or show that she wasn’t glad to go back to her. That wouldn’t be fair, after all Aunt Frances had done for her!
That night she lay awake after she and Molly had gone to bed and Molly was asleep. They had decided not to tell Molly until the last minute, so she had dropped off peacefully, as usual. But poor Betsy’s eyes were wide open. She saw a gleam of light under the door. It widened; the door opened. Aunt Abigail stood there, in her night cap, mountainous in her long white gown, a candle shining up into her serious old face.
“You awake, Betsy?” she whispered, seeing the child’s dark eyes gleaming at her over the covers. “I just—I just thought I’d look in to see if you were all right.” She came to the edge of the bed and set the candle down on the little stand. Betsy reached her arms up longingly and the old woman stooped over her. Neither of them said a single word during the long embrace which followed. Then Aunt Abigail straightened up hastily, took her candle very quickly and softly, and heavily padded out of the room.