“It’s true,” said Coltfoot. He sketched the story. Rosalind, who had been sagging picturesquely, sat up straight. Betsy listened incredulously at first, then with knitted brows.
“I mean to ship her back to the old farm,” added Annan. “She needs a wet-nurse——”
“I want to see her,” said Miss Blythe abruptly.
“Well, she isn’t on exhibition,” returned Annan in a dry voice.
“Can’t I see her?”
“Put yourself in her place. Would you feel comfortable, lying in the guest bed of a strange man? And would you care to have a fashionably gowned girl come flying in to stare at you?”
Betsy gazed at him scarcely listening. She turned to Rosalind:
“If she’s got as much nerve as that, couldn’t you or I do something?”
“All right,” nodded Rosalind.
“You’d better let her go home,” said Annan. “She has pluck and perhaps talent, but she hasn’t the sense to take care of herself. You let her alone, Bet, do you hear?”