CHAPTER XIX
BETTY CONFESSES
Betty woke up the next morning with a sense of deadly depression weighing her down. For a few moments she lay staring up at the ceiling trying to collect her thoughts. Then the events of the day before came back to her and she frowned unhappily.
The whereabouts of poor little Dodo and Paul was still a mystery, and Will Ford, whom she had come to regard almost as a brother, was terribly wounded somewhere in France. She probably would never see him again.
And there was Allen too, to worry about every minute of the day and night. She had not heard from him in—oh, ages. Yes, it must be every bit of two weeks since she had read his last letter. For all she knew, he might be worse off than poor Will.
"Oh, well," she sighed, and, turning on her side, looked out of the window.
There was no relief there from the gloom of her thoughts, for the sky was leaden and overcast, looking as if it, too, were mourning for the troubles of the world, and the surf beat loud and threateningly on the shore.
"Guess it's going to rain and make things still more cheerful," she said, and at the sound Grace opened heavy eyes and turned over restlessly.
"What are you mumbling about?" she asked sleepily, closing her eyes again and sighing a little.
"Nothing but the weather," replied Betty, adding, with unusual gentleness: "It's early, so you can turn over and get forty winks."