The little maiden's vanity prompted her to go, but her pride urged her to remain, lest Rotha should think her too vain. Pride conquered, and Bessy hung down her pretty head and smiled. Rotha turned wearily about and said, “I'm very thirsty, and I can't bear that well water of Mrs. Garth's.”
“Why, she's not got a well, Rotha.”
“Hasn't she? Now, do you know, I thought she had, but it must be 'Becca Rudd's well I'm thinking of.”
Bessy stepped outside for a moment, and came back with a basin of water in her hand.
“What sort of water is this, Bessy—river water?” said Rotha languidly, with eyes riveted on an oak chest that stood at one side of the kitchen.
“Oh, no; spring water,” said the little one, with many protestations of her shaking head.
“Now, do you know, Bessy—you'll think it strange, won't you?—do you know, I never care for spring water.”
“I'll get you a cup of milk,” said Bessy.
“No, no; it's river water I like. Just slip away and get me a cup of it, there's a fine lass, and I'll show you how to tie the ribbon for yourself.”
The little one tripped off. Vanity reminded her that she could kill two birds with one stone. Instantly she had gone Rotha rose to her feet and drew out the keys. Taking the one with the tape on it, she stepped to the oak chest and tried it on the padlock that hung in front of it. No; that was not the lock it fitted. There was a corner cupboard that hung above the chest. But, no; neither had the cupboard the lock which fitted the key in Rotha's hand.