“It’s better,” prevaricated John.
“No,” said Betsy, “it ain’t. Something is gone. I can’t do things any more.”
John thought a moment.
“Like when you reach out in the dark for something you know is there and it ain’t and you shiver,” he said then. “I used to do that at night on the ground—reach out for—you!”
“John!” cried Betsy, in her old manner, “I never heard you say so much at one time before—nor so nice. What’s the matter?”
“You don’t say so much,” said John. “I’m evening up now.”
“Yes—yes—yes—dear John!” said Betsy, with a tear, she did not know for what—quite. “I must talk more.”
“We’ve lost something and we’ve gained something—at another place,” John went on. “I don’t know what it is—but it’s something.”
“John, I know, and I’ll tell you.”
She came and knelt at his side and tried to reach his neck with her short arms.