Barefooted and silent, Betsy opened the door and crept softly out into the hall. Feeling her way she went down the stairs, the soft rustle of her little nightgown being the only sound that broke the stillness of the house. Gently she turned the key in the lock and stepped out on the back veranda. In the tool-room Van was still rending deaf heaven. The door was unlocked, and Betsy gently pushed it open.
Instantly the wailing ceased. A scamper of little feet came toward her, and she felt the cold little pads on her own as Van dug his foreclaws into her nightgown, and tried to climb up. There was no one to look now, and her own little homesick heart leaped to meet his. Picking him up in her arms, she lifted the upper layer of the blanket bed, and sat down upon it, while the puppy nestled close, with his nose tucked into her neck, apparently asking for nothing better.
“I’m lonesome, too, Van. Maybe Aunt Kate’d be mad if I took you upstairs. I guess I’ll just stay here. There, you pore little feller,—it’s all right. Your Betsy’s here!”
When, in the morning, after a long, vain search for Betsy, Mrs. Johns opened the door of the silent tool-room, she did not speak. She went and hunted up Bob, who was taking a turn on the porch before breakfast. Together they peeped in, quietly.
“I wish Ben was here to see them!” she whispered. Then, as they turned softly away, she added,
“You needn’t take him away, Bob. That’s settled. It is the first thing that has really seemed to open the child’s heart. We needed just that key.”
“Swift as a bird, Betsy was there to meet him.”