"No, I surely can't object to—to running an errand for you," laughed Betty, as she rose to her feet, a pretty color in her face. "And I—I'll try to bring mother."
It was in a tumult of excitement and indecision that Betty hurried down the long Denby walk that February morning. What would her mother say? How would she take it? Would she consent? Would she consent even to go to luncheon—she who so seldom went anywhere? It was a wonderful thing—this proposal of Mr. Denby's. It meant, of course,—everything, if they accepted it, a complete metamorphosis of their whole lives and future. It could not help meaning that. But would they be happy there? Could they be happy with a man like Mr. Denby? To be sure, he said he would be willing to be—trained. (Betty's face dimpled into a broad smile somewhat to the mystification of the man she chanced to be meeting at the moment.) But would he be really kind and lovable like this all the time? He had been delightful once before—for a few days. What guaranty had they that he would not again, at the first provocation, fall back into his old glum unbearableness?
But what would her mother say? Well, she would soon know. She would get the magazine, then hurry home—and find out.
It was between trains at the station, and the waiting-room was deserted. Betty hurriedly told the newsstand woman what she wanted, and tried to assume a forbidding aspect that would discourage questions. But the woman made no move to get the magazine. She did not seem even to have heard the request. Instead she leaned over the counter and caught Betty's arm in a vise-like grip. Her face was alight with joyous excitement.
"Well, I am glad to see you! I've been watchin' ev'ry day fur you. What did I tell ye? Now I guess you'll say I know when I've seen a face before! Now I know who you are. I see you with your mother at Martin's grocery last Sat'day night, and I tried ter get to ye, but I lost ye in the crowd. I see you first, then I see her, and I knew then in a minute who you was, and why I'd thought I'd seen ye somewheres. I hadn't—not since you was a kid, though; but I knew yer mother, an' you've got her eyes. You're Helen Denby's daughter. My, but I'm glad ter see ye!"
Betty, plainly distressed, had been attempting to pull her arm away from the woman's grasp; but at the name a look of relief crossed her face.
"You are quite mistaken, madam," she said coldly. "My mother's name is not Helen Denby."
"But I see her myself with my own eyes, child! Of course she's older lookin', but I'd swear on my dyin' bed 'twas her. Ain't you Dorothy Elizabeth?"
Betty's eyes flew wide open.
"You—know—my—name?"