"It's my birthday!" cries Betty, "and you've all forgotten—and I did think things would be better to-day, and now they'll be worse than ever!"
"Your birthday, child? So it is, I declare! Well, I can't think how I came to forget it! If I'd thought now, I would have tidied up a bit—but there's so much to do in this house—just no end to it, and yet there's no peace, and everything in a muddle——"
"It's all because no one wants things to be better!" sobs Betty.
"If you mean me, Betty, let me tell you you've no right to speak like that to your mother——"
"I mean everybody! I just hate everything, everything!" cries Betty, stamping her foot, and sobbing so wildly that Mrs. Langdale is alarmed.
She forgets her own grievance directly, in true motherly anxiety.
"Come, come, Betty, don't give way like this; you've been working too hard, my dear; keeping too close to the house. Clara and I will manage the sweep; just put on your hat, and go for a walk."
"I can't, my head aches dreadfully," sobs Betty.
"Then you must lie down a bit. Come, come, you'll make yourself quite ill."
Betty's head is aching so badly now that she can scarcely think. Presently, lying on her bed, she grows calmer.