"You behaved scandalous, Bije Green, when you was here before, as well you know. But I'm willin' to let bygones be bygones, seein' things is how they is. You go get the wheelbarrow, and bring it here. Resigned 'Liz," she added, turning to her sister, "go on in, and pack up your things. I s'pose it's fitting I should see to you, from now on. You come home, and we'll see. Mebbe I used to be a little cuterin', sometimes—though you did try me."
"I know I did, sister!" Miss Resigned Elizabeth cried. "Most prob'ly the fault was mine, though I did feel your cuttin' up the hair bracelet. But there! I've been dretful lonesome sence Betsy went. I—I'd be real glad to come home, sister!"
"So that's all there is to it," said Miss Duty, in a final manner. "As for the other house—"
"Miss Bute!" cried Betsy Green, her eyes sparkling, her breath coming quickly. "We—we weren't so dretful set on goin' to Cortez. We'd enough sight ruther find a place nearer home. I never thought—" here she stopped short, being a truthful Betsy; for she had thought, and planned, and hoped in her kind little heart, and now here was everything coming out just as she hoped it would. "I'd ruther live here than anywhere else in the world!" she said simply. "'Twas here I saw Bijah first, and all; and you was real kind to me, Miss Bute, and I do love Brindle."
"Them cows has been treated scand'lous," said Bije, lifting up his testimony. "Whoever's had the doin' for 'em! All banged about, same as if the' was yaller dogs. I took a look at 'em as we come along, and I felt to pity 'em, now I tell you. I could take care of 'em, Miss Bute, jest as well as not, with what I had of my own, and they wouldn't suffer none. I think a sight of that red cow, and the other one, too."
"And I could do for both of you," cried Betsy, "all you'd want done—me and Bije together. I could run over every mornin' and afternoon, and clean up if you wasn't feelin' smart, and Bije could do the chores. And—and there'd be Baby for company!" she added, with a little downward look of heavenly pride,—the very look, I declare, of a certain Bellini Madonna, who holds her lovely state in Venice. But now the baby thought his turn had come, and after a careful scrutiny of the two elderly women, he held out his arms and fairly shouted at Miss Resigned Elizabeth.
"You blessed creetur?" cried the poor woman, pouncing upon him with the pathetic hunger of a woman who was meant for a mother. "Did he want to come, bless his heart? Well, he should!" and she took the child up, and hugged and cuddled it "real knowin'," as Betsy said to herself. Miss Duty looked on in amazement. She had not the mother nature. "Why, Resigned 'Liz, you're fairly childish. The idea!" She paused, feeling rebuked, she knew not why, by the joy in her sister's pinched and faded face. Miss Resigned Elizabeth had not had a joyous life.
"Well, if 't is to be so," Miss Duty continued, after a pause, during which Betsy and the younger sister held their breath and Bije thought about the cows. "If 't is to be so, so it will be, I s'pose. I dono' but you can go right in, Betsy, if it's so you can stay. My sister ain't goin' to spend another night there. Perhaps you'll help her lay her things together. And Bije, if you feel to milk the cows to-night—I'm free to say I should like to send that John Peaslee about his business, after the hectorin' he's give us this late. You'll find the pails—"
But Bijah was already gone, whistling joyously. As if he didn't know where the milk-pails were!
"Betsy," Miss Duty continued, turning back to instruct the new tenant as to her course of action. But Betsy was gone, too; flown into the house with her baby, like a bird into its nest. Only Miss Resigned Elizabeth remained, looking at her with eyes that seemed to grow more plaintive and more helpless every minute, as the burden of responsibility dropped from her tired shoulders.