“That was good of you. He was not out yesterday, and to-day has been so snowy. But he is no worse; a little better and brighter, if anything. But all the same, I want you to stay.”
“Well, I don’t care if I do a spell. You must be hard up for company to be so glad to see me.”
Miss Betsey sat down by the fire, and took her knitting from her pocket. There were tears in Elizabeth’s eyes which Betsey pretended not to see, and which Elizabeth did her best to keep back. She went into her father’s room for a minute, and looked cheerful enough as she took her seat on the other side of the hearth opposite her cousin, with her work in her hand. But when she began to answer Betsey’s questions about her father—his appetite, his strength, his nights, his days—the tears came again, and this time they fell over her cheeks. For she found herself sorrowfully telling that though he had comfortable days, and days when he seemed just as he used to do, it was evident that his strength was failing more rapidly than it had ever done during any winter before. She let her work fall on her lap, and leaning her elbow on the table, covered her face with her hands.
“He is an old man,” said Betsey, gravely.
“Yes. But he is all I have got,” said Elizabeth, speaking with difficulty.
“He is your father, but he is not all you’ve got. Don’t say that.”
“There is no one else that cares very much about me. If I were sick or in trouble, I think I would have a better right to come to you, Cousin Betsey, than to any one else in the world.”
“Well, and why not? You ought to have had a sister,” said Betsey.
Elizabeth laughed a little hysterically.
“I have—Jacob’s wife,” said she.