"That's right, my girl. God bless you, Betty!" he says, heartily, and now at last a bright smile lights up his careworn face.
"Here we are!" says father, presently, and he signals to the driver. The bus pulls up at the entrance to a small street, father shoulders the bag, and Betty, scrambling down after him, soon finds herself standing on the shabby little front doorstep of her home.
A narrow, dull street it is; closely packed with dull houses, all built in one pattern, all alike grey with smoke, all looking as though no breath of spring air, or gleam of spring sunshine, could ever find their way through the close-shut windows.
All too swiftly Betty's thoughts travel back to the white cottage in the hills, to the sunny garden, the fresh moorland breezes.
The contrast is too much for her; a big lump seems to rise in her throat. Her eyes fill with tears; her good resolutions fade away.
She doesn't want to be at home—Oh, that she were with Grannie now!
Father has found his key at last, and fits it into the lock. At the same moment there is a rush of noisy feet within, the loud clamour of excited voices. Directly the door is flung open Betty is surrounded by a boisterous crowd of younger brothers and sisters—they seize her, they dance round her, shouting out their rough welcome.
"We knew it was you! Mother, here's our Betty! Come along, Betty." And they almost drag her down the passage into the family sitting-room.
Tea is set on the round table. Betty's quick eye notices that the tray is slopped with milk, and the stained cloth askew. "How different from Grannie's tea-table," she thinks bitterly.
"Where's mother?" she asks, after kissing her brothers and sisters all round.