ed
note, a very dear short note, which papa had written her only the day
before, when he had suddenly decided to go out to Cambridge and not come
back to the hotel for luncheon.

They talked a little longer, Betty and the grandaunts, until sensible
Aunt Barbara said, "Now run up-stairs to bed, my dear; I am sure that
you must be tired," and Betty, who usually begged to stay up as long as
the grown folks, was glad for once to be sent away like a small child.
Aunt Barbara marched up the stairway and led the way to the east
bedroom. It was an astonishing tribute of respect to Betty, the young
guest, and she admired such large-minded hospitality; but after all she
had expected a comfortable snug little room next Aunt Mary's, where she
had always slept years before. Aunt Barbara assured her that this one
was much cooler and pleasanter, and she must remember what a young lady
she had grown to be. "But you may change to some other room if you like,
my dear child," said the old lady kindly. "I wouldn't unpack to-night,
but just go to bed and get rested. I have my breakfast at half past
seven, but your Aunt Mary doesn't come down. I hope that you will be
ready as early as that, for I like company;" and then, after seeing that
everything was in order and comfortable, she kissed Betty twice most
kindly and told her that she was thankful to have her come to them, and
went away downstairs.

It was a solemn, big, best bedroom, with dark India-silk curtains to the
bed and windows, and dull coverings on the furniture. This all looked as
if there were pretty figures and touches of gay color by daylight, but
now by the light of the two candles on the dressing-table it seemed a
dim and dismal place that night. Betty was not a bit afraid; she only
felt lonely. She was but fifteen years old, and she did not know how to
get on by herself after all. But Betty was no coward. She had been
taught to show energy and to make light of difficulties. What could she
do? Why, unpack a little, and then go to bed and go to sleep; that would
be the best thing.

She knelt down before her trunk, and had an affectionate feeling toward
it as she turned the key and saw her familiar properties inside. She
took out her pictures of her father and mother and Mrs. Duncan, and
shook out a crumpled dress or two and left them to lie on the old couch
until morning. Deep down in the sea-chest, as Captain Beck had called
it, she felt the soft folds of a gay piece of I