“Now, Betsy dear, this is to be your book, and I have put the word ‘Manners’ and a motto,—‘Manner maketh the Man’, at the top. One of the most important things is the way we eat our meals, and I think it will be easier for you if I do not speak to you at the table. But afterwards we will come up to your room for a minute, all by ourselves, and I will tell you what you have done that is not just right, and you can write it down in this book. Then we will practice with knives and forks and spoons, and make believe eat. At the table I’ll watch you, and you may watch me, and if you see anything that seems queer to you, please ask me about it.”
“Don’t I eat all right?”
“Well,—you have some things to learn.”
“Ma never had time to learn me much. We just et, and that was all they was to it.”
“Have you noticed anything that we do differently here from what you have seen at home?”
“One or two, yes’m. That about the napkin, and, now, Uncle Ben, he don’t never eat his meat with his knife,—he just cuts it and takes it on his fork; and you don’t never turn your coffee in your saucer.”
“Good, Betsy! Why, you’ll learn so fast that it will be simply play.”
As Aunt Kate rose to leave the room her hand rested for a moment on the soft brown hair. At the new touch of tenderness the child looked up and met a glow in Aunt Kate’s eyes—a look of mother-yearning. Something stirred in Betsy’s heart,—an impulse to seize and hold that gentle hand in both her own. But she did not quite dare—yet. Down where Aunt Kate could not see she caught a fold of the muslin gown that brushed past her, and crushed it with timid fingers.
So the lessons in manners began. Grammar could wait a bit. Aunt Kate did not intend to cram Betsy, for a little at a time is easier to digest.
And in the meantime, down in New York City, something was happening that was to color all Betsy’s new life on the Hill-Top.