For the only time in his life Brian Kent was almost angry at Auntie Sue. “By all that was consistent, and reasonable, and merciful, and safe,” he told himself, “if it was absolutely necessary for the dear old lady to disappear so mysteriously, why had she not taken Betty Jo along?”
In the meantime, while Brian was confiding his grievances to his four-footed companions in the barn, Betty Jo was expressing herself in the kitchen.
“Betty Jo,” she began, as she raked the ashes from the stove preparatory to building the fire, “it appears to me that you have some serious considering to do, and”—with a glance toward the barn, as she went out to empty the ash-pan—“you must do it quickly before that man comes for his breakfast. You were very right, last night, in your decision, to go away. It is exactly what you should have done. I am more than ever convinced of that, this morning. But you can't go now. Even if Auntie Sue had not taken your pocket-book and every penny in it, you couldn't run away with Auntie Sue herself gone. If she hadn't wanted you to stay right here for some very serious reason, Betty Jo, she would have taken you with her last night. Auntie Sue very pointedly and definitely expects you to be here when she returns. And she will be away several days,—several days, Betty Jo.” She repeated the words in a whisper. “And during those several days, you are to keep house for the man you love;—the man who loves you;—the man whom you must keep from telling you his love,—no matter how your heart pleads for him to tell you, you must not permit him to speak. He will be coming in to breakfast in a few minutes, and you will sit down at the table with him,—across the table from him,—facing him,—Betty Jo,—just like—”
She looked in the little mirror that hung beside the kitchen window, and, with dismay, saw her face flushed with color that was not caused by the heat of the stove. “And you will be forced to look at him across the table, and he will look at you,—and—and you must not,—” she stamped her foot,—“you dare not look like THAT, Betty Jo.
“And then there will be the dinner that you will cook for him, and the supper; and the evenings on the porch. O Lord! Betty Jo, what ever will you do? How will you ever save the fineness of your love? If you were afraid to trust yourself with the help of Auntie Sue's presence, what in the world can you do without her—and you actually keeping house with him? Oh, Auntie Sue! Auntie Sue!” she groaned, “you are the dearest woman in the world and the best and wisest, but you have blundered terribly this time! Why DID you do such a thing! It is not fair to him! It is not fair to me! It is not fair to our love!
“All of which,”—the practical Betty Jo declared a moment later, wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron, and going into the other room to set the table for breakfast,—“all of which, Betty Jo, does not in the least help matters, and only makes you more nervous and upset than you are.
“One thing is certain sure,” she continued, while her hands were busy with the dishes and the table preparations: “If we can endure this test, we need never, never, never fear that anything nor anybody can ever, ever make us doubt the genuineness of our love. Auntie Sue has certainly arranged it most beautifully for Brian Kent and Betty Jo Williams to become thoroughly acquainted.”
Betty Jo suddenly paused in her work, and stood very still: “I wonder,” she said slowly,—“can it be,—is it possible,—what if Auntie Sue has brought about this situation for that very reason?”
“Breakfast ready?” cried Brian at the kitchen-door, and his voice was so hearty and natural that the girl answered as naturally: “It will be as soon as you are ready for it. I forget, do you like your eggs three minutes or four?”
They really managed that breakfast very well, even if they did sit opposite each other so that each was forced to look straight across the table into the face of the other. Or, perhaps, it was because they looked at each other so straight and square and frankly honest that the breakfast went so well.