When she had reached the pantry she remembered something, and went back to her bed room, to place by Nancy's side her only remaining doll, a faded hairless beauty, Belinda, by name.
And she pinned a note upon the pincushion (all her heroines who fled from their early homes, left notes upon the pincushion) addressed to "Father and Mother," and as she passed their door she stroked it lovingly. In the pantry she was guilty of several sobs, while she cut the bread, it seemed so pitiful to her to be going away from her home in the grey dawn to seek a livelihood for her family. In truth her small heart ached creditably as she ate her solitary breakfast, and it might have gone on aching only that she suddenly bethought herself of time. Half-past five, John had said, and she remembered all that she had done since half-past four.
"It must be half-past five now," she said. "I'll eat this as I go," and she folded two pieces of bread and butter together.
Then she found her bonnet and the strip of paper with the song upon it, and grasping her half-pennies set forth.
She ran most of the way to the store, which, it may be remembered, occupied the corner, just before you come to Wygate School.
As Betty came in sight of it she saw John standing still there, and she thought gratefully how good it was of him to wait for her.
He wore a very old and very baggy suit, a dirty torn straw hat (of which it must be owned he had plenty), and neither boots nor stockings.
The children eyed each other carefully, noting every detail, and both in their own heart admiring the other exceedingly.
Betty's face had lost its traces of tears, but had not got back its happy look. Her mouth drooped sadly.
"What's up?" asked John as they turned their faces towards the silent south.