"I heard the doctor say so," answered Betty. "He told mother that I had consumption, and that though, with good care, I might last on for a year or two, I should never be well, and I might be taken worse at any time."
"Why, Betty!" exclaimed Martha. "Do you believe it? Didn't it make you feel dreadfully?"
"It did, just at first," said Betty; "but I don't mind it so much now, only for mother's sake."
"I don't think the doctor ought to have said so!" said Martha. "He cannot know for certain."
"I believe he feels quite sure," replied Betty. "You know they have ways of finding out those things. He did not tell me, either. I only heard it by accident; but after all I am glad I know the truth. Come into our garden and let me give you some roses."
"I am not fit to be seen!" said Martha, glancing at her dress.
"I am sure you look very nice in that pretty calico dress and white apron. Besides there is no one to see you. Do come in!"
Martha yielded, and Betty led her from walk to walk, culling roses and other flowers with an unsparing hand. As Martha was going away, Betty detained her.
"Martha, there is one thing I wish to say to you now, because—because—something might happen that I should never see you again." She paused a moment, and went on in a firmer voice: "Martha, I know that you have never liked me, and that you think I do things to spite and mortify you; but, indeed, indeed it is not so. I have always wanted to be friends with you, for I liked you from the first, but if I have ever done or said anything to hurt your feelings, I am sorry, and I beg your pardon. I cannot afford to have any quarrels now, you know," she added, with a sad smile. "I must be in charity with all men."
"You never did, Betty—never but once," said Martha, as soon as she could speak. "I mean when you told Miss Lyman about my walking in the lane with my cousin instead of coming to school. I did wrong, I know, but it did not seem fair that you should tell of me."