But hardly had the mother disappeared when John Alden felt two tender arms about his neck, and heard a broken whisper,—
“Oh, father! I’m so sorry!”
“What! Betty, child, is’t thou? And crying! Nay, then, little woman, what is it all about? Come sit on father’s knee and tell him thy trouble. What makes thee sorry, my little maid?”
“I—don’t—know—father.”
“Don’t know! Nay, how canst thou be sorry and not know why? That’s naught but foolishness, Betty.”
“Please, father, will you speak to mother, and not have me carry the gentleman’s sarver into the fore-room, nor make his bed any more?”
“What! what!” exclaimed Alden, pushing the child back until he could look into her wet and troubled face. “Nay, then, Betty, I ’ll have the truth of thee; has the man been rude to thee, or said a word amiss?”
“I—oh, don’t look so angry, father; you frighten me.”
“But I will be answered, Betty! Why dost thou fear to go into this man’s room? What has he said to thee?”
“He’s said naught but kindness, father; he never spoke a cross word, not one. What should he scold me about?”