V. — THE MAJOR LOSES HIS TEMPER
When Betty reached home the dark had fallen, and as she entered the house she heard the crackling of fresh logs from the library, and saw her mother sitting alone in the firelight, which flickered softly on her pearl-gray silk and ruffles of delicate lace.
She was humming in a low voice one of the old Scotch ballads the Governor loved, and as she rocked gently in her rosewood chair, her shadow flitted to and fro upon the floor. One loose bell sleeve hung over the carved arm of the rocker, and the fingers of her long white hand, so fragile that it was like a flower, played silently upon the polished wood.
As the girl entered she looked up quickly. “You haven't been wandering off by yourself again?” she asked reproachfully.
“Oh, it is quite safe, mamma,” replied Betty, impatiently. “I didn't meet a soul except free Levi.”
“Your father wouldn't like it, my dear,” returned Mrs. Ambler, in the tone in which she might have said, “it is forbidden in the Scriptures,” and she added after a moment, “but where is Petunia? You might, at least, take Petunia with you.”
“Petunia is such a chatterbox,” said Betty, tossing her wraps upon a chair, “and if she sees a cricket in the road she shrieks, 'Gawd er live, Miss Betty,' and jumps on the other side of me. No, I can't stand Petunia.”
She sat down upon an ottoman at her mother's feet, and rested her chin in her clasped hands.
“But did you never go walking in your life, mamma?” she questioned.