Elsa’s face looked as if she also would rather walk; but Betty’s brown eyes were dancing with anticipation. She loved horses heartily, and next to going over the Danforth house she had wanted to ride behind that splendid gray steed. So she said, when Mrs. Danforth’s eyes rested upon her: “I should just love to ride with you,” and accordingly, Elsa’s grandmother drove off with Betty behind the spirited horse.
“Did you know I found a little girl out at the Convalescent Home who—who had Bettina?” Elsa said to Miss Ruth, as they walked along together over the hard, frozen road.
“Was it the little girl with the bright dark eyes, whom I saw you with?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Did you hear what she said?” Elsa asked.
“I didn’t hear what either you or the little girl said, because I was talking with Miss Hartwell; but I saw that you were greatly interested about something: and it was your own doll Bettina. Were you glad?”
“It—it was exciting to—to see Bettina,” Elsa said, swallowing a lump in her throat, “and then when—when I asked the little girl to—let me name the doll—I wanted her to be called Bettina—the little girl said that her nurse’s name was Bettina, but she had gone away. Do you suppose it could be my old Bettina,—Bettina March?” Elsa asked, looking anxiously into Miss Ruth’s face, half in hope, half in uncertainty.
“You did not think to inquire of Miss Hartwell?” questioned Miss Ruth.
“I—I thought, but I didn’t quite dare to,” Elsa replied desolately.
“Don’t think too much about the matter, Elsa, because it might be Bettina Smith or Bettina anybody; but I will find out for you,” said Miss Ruth, thinking how plucky Elsa had been about the doll.