Her father does not speak again until they are safely seated on the top of a homeward-bound bus; and even then, before he speaks a word, he turns to his daughter, and looks searchingly in her face.
There is a change in Betty's face that tells of more than the mere return of health and strength.
"Aye, well, my girl!" he says softly.
Betty smiles confidingly into his eyes, and nestles closer to his side.
He half smiles in return, and then turns away with a sigh. For he thinks, "It is the country air and her Grannie's care that have made such a change in my Betty, and now she will have neither."
"Well, how did you leave your Grannie?" he says aloud.
"Oh, ever so well! And she sent lots of love and messages—and other things—for the children, you know. The other things are in the bag. Be careful you don't smash the jam-pots! I'll tell you the messages as I remember them. And the love—Oh, father, Grannie showed me what real love is; and, father, I——" Betty comes to a full stop.
"Well, well, my girl, what is it?" asks her father, turning his eyes inquiringly to her face.
"Grannie has taught me so many things," she goes on, in a low voice, "and somehow, without saying much, she made me understand how selfish I have been; how through all these years I have been trying to do without God. And—and she took me to The Army Meetings, and last night I—I asked God to forgive me and make me as good as Grannie."
Betty's voice has sunk to the merest whisper, but father hears it above all the roar of the traffic.