But it was too late. Mrs. Skinner's spare figure was already at the door. She was dressed in her wedding gown and bonnet, and came to Joy's bed, standing there like a grey spectre, her bonnet and face all of the same dull grey as the gown.
Joy turned up her wistful eyes to the hard, deeply-lined face, and her lips quivered.
"If you please," she said, "I am glad you will spare Bet, while Goody is so busy."
But Mrs. Skinner did not speak—not a word. "I am getting better," Joy continued; "at least the doctors say so; but—but I can't stand or walk yet, so I am glad to have Bet."
Mrs. Skinner had all this time been scanning little Miss Joy's features with a keen scrutiny. Then, after a few minutes, she jerked out:
"I hope you'll soon get about again; you are welcome to keep Bet;" and then she turned, and her footfall on the stairs was heard less and less distinct, till the sound ceased altogether.
"Your grandmother is—is not like other people," little Miss Joy ventured to say. "I don't like her; but I beg your pardon, I ought not to say so to you."
"And do you think I like her?" Bet exclaimed vehemently. "At first I thought I'd try, and I did try; but she was always so hard. She loves Uncle Joe, I think, though she is angry with him for marrying Miss Pinckney, and lately I have heard high words between them."
And now Bet took off her wedding bonnet, and sat down by Joy's side, perfectly content that she was thought worthy to be her companion.
"You'll tell me if you want anything," she said. "And you won't mind if I am stupid and blunder, will you?"