“You mustn’t bang it. I’ve got two fresh eggs in it for Aunt Kate.”
Up a broad winding stair Betsy followed the maid, and into a room all delicate green and gold, with painted iris growing on the walls, up from a thick carpet that was almost like the grassy lawn. From a low couch came a soft voice.
“Come here, Betsy.”
The little figure stood stiffly before the couch,—a thin, small wisp of a maid, with brown hair of the silky kind that never stays “put”; the natural sallowness of her complexion was deepened by the tan of out-of-door life; the little hands were reddened and roughened with dishwashing and scrubbing,—for Betsy had mothered her mother ever since she was big enough to bring in kindlings from the wood-pile. A faded black frock, fashioned hurriedly from an old skirt of her mother’s, made a pitiful attempt at mourning.
Most unpromising she was, at the first glance, and Aunt Kate’s heart sank, until her eyes met the two brown ones,—so deep and soft that she gave a start. Pools of liquid darkness they were, and out of them shone a soul to be trusted. Aunt Kate held out two arms, lace-covered and delicate, to enfold the small waif.
But Betsy did not accept the invitation. She stood there, crossing her ankles, and not knowing what to do with her hands. Caresses she had never known. In a voice shrill with the excitement of the interview, she said:
“I’ve brought you two eggs,—they’re fresh. Speckly and Banty done ’em for you.”
Out of her poverty the child had come with gifts! Aunt Kate’s eyes dimmed a little, and her hand closed gently over the little red one that hung limply at Betsy’s side.
“Did you bring them to me? I am so glad. I love fresh eggs.”
