Poor Betsy! At night, after many wakeful hours, she cried herself to sleep. When morning came things did not seem so black. She felt sure that the Emperor would not do what he had no right to do, keep her pretty dress. He would surely send it back to her. But the morning wore away, and, contrary to his habit, Napoleon did not come near his neighbors of The Briars. Betsy sent several strongly appealing messages, but to them all came only one reply:
"The Emperor is sleeping, and cannot be disturbed."
So strong indeed was the dignity with which Napoleon had hedged himself, that even the daring Betsy did not venture to intrude upon him when he was resting.
Afternoon came, and at last it was almost time to start for the valley. The family were to ride there on horseback, carrying their ball-dresses in tin cases, and they were to dress at the house of a friend.
The horses were brought around, the black boys came up with the tin cases that held the dresses—the dresses of the rest of the party—but nothing of poor Betsy's. The little girl's cup was full to overflowing; she, the courageous, began to cry.
She turned to one of the servants:
"Has my dress been packed?"
"Of course not; we didn't have it to pack."
"Then I cannot go."
Her tears had ceased. She was now too angry to cry longer.