"It's all through you and your ghosts," Cyril was saying grumblingly. "I know I'd have done my lessons only for you, Betty Bruce."
"What is the matter with Nancy?" asked their father, leaning over the window sill once more. "Why was she crying?"
"'Cause she thinks she'll be late," said Betty easily. "She always cries if she thinks she's late."
Down the road they went, Nancy hurrying and crying, Cyril grumbling, Betty silent.
To none of them had Monday morning come exactly right—fresh and uncrumpled.
Betty sat down, just outside her grandfather's gate, to lace her boots, and Cyril went grumbling on about a hundred yards behind Nancy.
Then did a fresh crease get into the new week's first day for Betty. Looking under her arm as she bent over her boot, she beheld three figures walking down the road, and at the first glimpse of them her face grew hot.
"Geraldine and Fay!" she exclaimed.
The centre figure was dressed in a lilac print, and wore a spotless apron and a straw hat. Upon either side of her walked a little golden-haired girl, one apparently about Betty's age, and one Nancy's. Their dresses were white and spotless, and reached almost to their knees; their hats were flat shady things trimmed with muslin and lace. Their hair was beautifully dressed and curled, their boots shining—and buttoned, and their faces smiling and happy-looking.
They were Betty's ideals! Little rich girls, who rode ponies, and drove—sometimes in a village cart with a nurse, and sometimes in a carriage with a lady who invariably wore beautiful hats and dresses. Sometimes, again, they were to be seen in a dog-cart with a dark man who seemed a splendid creature indeed to Betty.