And Betty hesitated no longer. Her only point of pride at this age lay in assuming bravery whether she had it or not. "We Bruces are afraid of no one," being her favourite speech, and as inspiriting to her as the sound of the war-drum to a warrior bold.
She stood straight and her brown eyes looked straight into his brown eyes.
"Elizabeth Bruce," she said.
The old man's anger blazed fiercely.
"Look here my girl," he said, "you can tell your father it's a bit late in the day for these games. Tell him I've got the only grandchild here that ever I want. Now—go."
But Betty stood her ground.
"My father didn't send me," she said, and her face went from red to white. "He didn't know I was coming at all—and—sure's death! he never knew anything about the ghosts. I came to get Cyril adopted because he's getting tired of cutting wood an' only getting a penny a week."
The old man broke into a hoarse laugh.
"And this time to get yourself adopted," he said.
But Betty shook her head vigorously.