Somehow or other at that instant Betty’s eyes filled with tears. Her heart felt red-hot, and she couldn’t speak. Here was the lost Cup; but she could only remember poor Paul who had tried to “do something” for her; poor Paul who had evidently watched her devotedly from the hollow hiding-place in the ditch while she cleaned the Cup, who had listened to her words, and who had put his own simple construction on them, and who had, so unintentionally, helped to bring so much trouble!
The doctor may have noticed her tears, or he may not; he said nothing, but he bent down and lifted up the Cup. “We’ll take it back, just as it is,” he said, “and explain to Miss Carey. Oh yes, I know all the ins and outs of the story from Rene, and I believe you Daisies will hold the Cup next year after all now, because——”
But Betty burst in with a choky half-sob. “It isn’t that. I don’t believe the Daisies will even think of that when they see it again! I don’t believe any of the Guides will, though it will be so lovely to have it. It’s—oh, it’s all so beautiful and sad, all mixed up together, for the Cup really to come back on Cup Day, and for me to be invested with the Cup there, and yet for Paul—” She broke off. “That’s what we’ll think of,” she choked.
“Look here, then,” said the doctor, placing the Cup in her hands. “Here’s an idea. I understand from Rene that you’re giving up mascoting to-day when you become a Tenderfoot, eh? Well, there’s poor Paul, who hasn’t any one to care much about him, and who seems to think an uncommon lot of you Guides; suppose you adopt the poor chap as mascot after this, eh?” The doctor’s voice was very cheery and kind. “I know Miss Carey, and I rather think——”
“Oh!” cried Betty in her most motherly voice, clasping the silver Cup with its burden of withered flowers while tears of happiness and trouble chased themselves down her cheeks. “Oh! do let’s hurry back to St. Benedick’s. I truly believe that Sybil and all the Guides will say that that would make everything beautiful and right!”
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