The girl trembled and bent her head, cowering under the pitiless words; then, in a half-dazed way, she rose from her seat, and, without looking at Sanford, said in a tired, hopeless voice, as if every word brought a pain, “I think I’ll go, Mr. Sanford.”
Sanford watched her silently as she drew her cloak about her and turned to the door. The pathos of the shrinking girlish figure overcame him. He began to wonder if there were something under it all that even Captain Joe did not know of. Then he remembered the tones of compassion in Mrs. Leroy’s voice when her heart had gone out to this girl the morning before, as she said, “Poor child, her misery only begins now; it is a poor place for a tired foot.”
For an instant he stood irresolute. “Wait,” he said. “Wait a moment.”
Betty stood still, without raising her head.
Sanford paused in deep thought, with averted eyes.
“Betty,” he murmured at last in a softened voice, “you can’t go out like this alone. I’ll take you, child, where you will be safe for the night.”
CHAPTER XI—CAPTAIN JOE’S TELEGRAM
The morning after Betty’s visit to Sanford’s apartments, Captain Joe was seen hurrying up the shore road at Keyport toward his cottage. His eyes shone with excitement, and his breath came in short, quick puffs. He wore his rough working-clothes, and held a yellow envelope in his hand. When he reached the garden gate he swung it open with so mighty a jerk that the sound of the dangling ball and chain thumping against the palings brought Aunty Bell running to the porch.
“Sakes alive, Cap’n Joe!” she exclaimed, following him into the kitchen, “whatever’s the matter? Ain’t nobody hurted, is there?”
“There will be ef I don’t git to New York purty quick. Mr. Sanford’s got Betty, an’ them Leroy folks is a-keepin’ on her till I git there.”