Betty lived in a little cottage about half a mile from Lavender House. She was a sturdy, apple-cheeked, little old woman, and had for many a day added to her income—indeed, almost supported herself—by means of the girls at Lavender House. The large cherry trees in her little garden bore their rich crop of fruit year after year for Mrs Willis’s girls, and every day at an early hour Betty would tramp into Sefton and return with a temptingly-laden basket of the most approved cakes and tarts. There was a certain paling at one end of the grounds to which Betty used to come. Here on the grass she would sit contentedly with the contents of her basket arranged in the most tempting order before her, and to this seductive spot she knew well that those little Misses who loved goodies, cakes, and tartlets would be sure to find their way. Betty charged high for her wares; but, as she was always obliging in the matter of credit the thoughtless girls cared very little that they paid double the shop prices for Betty’s cakes. The best girls in the school, certainly, never went to Betty; but Annie Forest, Susan Drummond, and several others had regular accounts with her, and few days passed that their young faces would not peep over the paling and their voices ask—
“What have you got to tempt me with to-day, Betty?”
It was, however, in the matter of stolen picnics, of grand feasts in the old attic, etc, etc, that Betty was truly great. No one so clever as she in concealing a basket of delicious eatables, no one knew better what school-girls liked. She undoubtedly charged her own prices, but what she gave was of the best, and Betty was truly in her element when she had an order from the young ladies of Lavender House for a grand secret feast.
“You shall have it, my pretties—you shall have it,” she would say, wrinkling up her bright blue eyes, and smiling broadly. “You leave it to Betty, my little loves; you leave it to Betty.”
On the occasion of the picnic to the fairies’ field Betty had, indeed, surpassed herself in the delicious eatables she had provided; all had gone smoothly, the basket had been placed in a secure hiding-place under the thick laurel. It was to be fetched away by Betty herself at an early hour on the following morning.
No wonder Susan was perplexed as she paced about and pretended to warm herself. It was a June evening, but the weather was still a little cold. Susan remembered now that. Betty had not come to her favourite station at the stile for several days. Was it possible that the old woman was ill? As this idea occurred to her, Susan became more alarmed. She knew that there was very little chance of the basket remaining long in concealment. Rover might any day remember his pleasant picnic with affection, and drag the white basket from under the laurel-bush. Michael the gardener would be certain to see it when next he cleaned up the back avenue. Oh, it was more than dangerous to leave it there, and yet Susan knew of no better hiding-place. A sudden idea came to her: she pulled out her pretty little watch, and saw that she need not return to the house for another half-hour. “Suppose she ran as fast as possible to Betty’s little cottage, and begged of the old woman to come by the first light in the morning and fetch away the basket?”
The moment Susan conceived this idea she resolved to put it into execution. She looked around her hastily; no teacher was in sight, Miss Good was away at the lodge, Miss Danesbury was playing with the little children. Mademoiselle, she knew, had gone indoors with a bad headache. She left the broad walk where she had been desired to stay, and, plunging into the shrubbery, soon reached Betty’s paling. In a moment she had climbed the bars, had jumped lightly into the field, and was running as fast as possible in the direction of Betty’s cottage. She reached the high road, and started and trembled violently as a carriage with some ladies and gentlemen passed her. She thought she recognised the faces of the two little Misses Bruce, but did not dare to look at them, and hurried panting along the road, and hoping she might be mistaken.
In less than a quarter of an hour she had reached Betty’s little cottage, and was standing trying to recover her breath by the shut door. The place had a deserted look, and several overripe cherries had fallen from the trees and were lying neglected on the ground. Susan knocked impatiently. There was no discernible answer. She had no time to wait, she lifted the latch, which yielded to her pressure, and went in.
Poor old Betty, crippled, and in severe pain with rheumatism, was lying on her little bed.
“Eh, dear—and is that you, my pretty Missy?” she asked, as Susan, hot and tired, came up to her side.