But soon another leaf had been turned in Betsy’s book of life by a letter from a distant relative, known vaguely to Betsy as “Aunt Kate Johns.” Betsy was invited to come and stay a year with her.
Betsy had cried a little in secret over this, because it was something unknown and consequently something fearful. But one must take what comes,—so the poor little belongings were packed in a “carpet-bag,” and Betsy took her first railway journey all alone. It would have been a marvelous undertaking, but Betsy’s eyes were still blinded with the tears of her loss.
And now here she was, and what would come next?
She had never seen “Uncle Ben,” and Aunt Kate had been simply a vision of lovely color and soft silken draperies. Once or twice she had whirled into the little red house, and away again. Well, after all, it would be something new. Betsy plucked up her courage and dried her last tear as the hack turned in at a gate.
Up a wide avenue went the hack, under stately trees and between wonderful flower-beds and sunny reaches of grass and dandelions. The dandelions looked homely and dear, but the prim magnificence of the great, park-like place awed Betsy too much for other emotions. Uncle Ben and Aunt Kate would probably be as stiff and unlovable as that trimmed hedge over there. She braced herself for the worst.
Now they drove past a great stone building, full of winking eyes, which were really windows peering into the sunset through a riot of vines. That was the “Hospital,” no doubt, of which Uncle Ben was superintendent. It looked huge and mysterious, and out of the unknown future Betsy felt a chill of loneliness creep over her. The driver stopped at last before a pretty brick house standing by itself in the park. It was all nooks and gables, and around two sides of it ran a porch delightfully shaded by honeysuckle. Betsy did not know honeysuckle, but its sweet smell hung heavy over her, and somehow it heartened her as she mounted the steps.
She needed all the heartening she could get, for Betsy had never before been beyond her own New Hampshire valley. She wavered a little, and there was a queer, wooden-y feeling in her legs as she lifted her hand and rapped on the dark expanse of the door—she knew nothing of doorbells or knockers, and did not even look for them.
Almost immediately the door swung open, and a trim maid said:
“Is this Miss Betsy? Come right in. Mrs. Johns is sick with a headache, but she heard the carriage, and sent me to bring you up to her. Give me your bag, Miss.”
Betsy gave up the carpet-bag doubtfully.